The Stained Floorboard

I was six when we moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of Pella, Iowa. My parents thought the creaking floors and peeling wallpaper had character, but I knew better. My room was at the end of a long hallway, a converted pantry with a single narrow window that looked out onto a dead oak tree. The walls were covered in a faded floral pattern that seemed to shift in the dim light. My brother had just moved to the attic, leaving me alone, and I hated it.

One night, I woke to the sound of something dragging across the floor above me. I lay still, listening to the slow, heavy scrape of what I thought was furniture being moved. But the sound came from directly over my bed, and I knew the attic was empty. I called out, but no one answered. The scraping stopped, and I felt a cold draft sweep over my face, even though the window was shut.

I sat up and looked around the room. The moonlight cast long shadows through the window, and I saw that a floorboard near the door was slightly raised. It hadn’t been like that before. I got out of bed, my bare feet cold on the wood, and knelt to examine it. The board was loose, and when I pushed down, it creaked and sank, revealing a dark gap beneath. I pried it up and saw a small, rusted key lying in the dust. It didn’t fit any lock I knew, but I took it anyway and hid it under my pillow.

That’s when I started hearing the scratching. At first, it was faint, like a mouse behind the walls. But it grew louder each night, always at 3:15 AM, always under my bed. I told my parents, but they said it was just the house settling. My brother said I was imagining things. But I knew better. The floorboard would rise slightly every time I looked at it, as if something was trying to push it up from below.

One night, I woke to find the key glowing faintly on my nightstand. I didn’t remember putting it there. I picked it up, and the scratching stopped. In the silence, I heard a voice, thin and dry like dead leaves, whispering, ‘Open the door.’ I looked around, but no one was there. The voice came again, and I realized it was coming from the floorboard.

I knelt and lifted the board again. This time, there was a small, dark hole beneath, and I could see a set of wooden stairs descending into blackness. I had no memory of a basement in this house. A cold, musty odor rose up, carrying the scent of earth and something decayed. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. The voice kept urging me, ‘Come down. We’re waiting.’

I don’t remember stepping onto the stairs, but suddenly I was descending. The steps were rough and uneven, and the air grew colder with each one. At the bottom, I found a room lit by a single lantern. In the center was a table, and on it lay a porcelain doll with cracked, painted eyes. The doll’s mouth moved, and the voice came from it: ‘You have the key. Now you must stay.’

I screamed and bolted up the stairs, slamming the board closed behind me. I locked my door and didn’t sleep the rest of the night. The next morning, I told my parents everything, but the floorboard was sealed shut, and when they pried it open, they found only solid earth. They thought I’d had a nightmare.

I moved out years ago, but I still have that key. I tried to throw it away, but it always reappears in my pocket. And sometimes, at night, I hear the scratching again, coming from below, and I know that somewhere in that house, the doll is still waiting, and the floorboard has never truly been sealed.