The Sound in the Old House

My father and I were recalling old times yesterday, and I brought up a strange noise I had been hearing in my apartment. This started a longer conversation about the odd events we all experienced when we lived in a worn-down house in a northern town. We left that place when I was six, and have been in a sunny city for a long time since. I have permission to tell these stories, though I will not use real names.

One memory is from when I was about five. I recall it clearly because it was so frustrating. This event only happened to me. I had a tall bed when I was small and always chose the top part because the shapes in the corner of the room at night seemed to move. I was always worried I might roll out of the high bed, even with a safety bar, so I pressed myself against the wall while I slept. One night, I was woken by a soft, rhythmic tapping sound. It was coming from the space under my bed. Tap. Tap. Tap. It was a steady, maddening noise.

I was too scared to look over the edge. I pulled the blanket over my head, hoping it would stop. It didn’t. The tapping went on and on, like a tiny hammer on the wooden floor. I finally started to cry, which brought my mother into the room. The moment she turned on the light, the sound stopped. Of course, when she looked, there was nothing there at all. She told me it was just a dream and to go back to sleep. But I knew it wasn’t.