The Stained Floorboards

It was well past midnight, and the last of the thunder had rolled away, leaving a heavy, wet silence over the old Greer house. My roommate, Lila, and I had just stepped out of the two cramped showers in the upstairs bathroom, our skin still prickling with cold despite the steam. The house was a rambling Victorian relic that my aunt had left to me in her will, and it had a tendency to settle and groan in ways that made you question your sanity. My parents were off on a cruise in Alaska, and the prospect of a weekend alone in that creaking place was unbearable. So, naturally, Lila and I decided to throw a housewarming party for the entire junior class.

But a party isn’t a party without booze, and my aunt’s well-stocked wine cellar was off-limits, labeled with a note: “For emergencies only.” This, in my mind, was an emergency. I handed Lila the brass key to the cellar door, which was in the back hallway leading to the garage. She took it with a grin, her red hair bouncing as she skipped out. A minute later, I heard a scream that cut through the house’s old bones, followed by the crash of glass. Lila burst back in, her face white as the bathroom tiles, clutching the key so hard her knuckles were pale. She stammered, “There’s something down there. A man, all in black, but… you could see through him.”

I tried to calm her down, blaming it on the storm and the house’s creaks. I told her to stay put while I investigated. I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and made my way down the dim hallway. The cellar door was ajar, and a draft of cold air crawled over my skin. I shone the light down the wooden stairs. Nothing. Only the faded wine racks and a few broken bottles on the concrete floor, their contents pooling like dark blood. I shook my head, grabbed a case of beer, and lugged it upstairs, deciding Lila needed a drink more than anyone.

By ten, the house was pulsing with music and laughter. Kids spilled through the living room, the kitchen, and the wraparound porch. Lila had recovered, though she kept glancing toward the back hallway. I was in the kitchen refilling a bowl of chips when a girl named Jessie stumbled down the back stairs, her face ashen. I’d seen her go up there to find a quieter spot. She grabbed my arm, her grip like ice, and whispered, “There’s something in the attic. I was in the hallway, and the door was open. I saw a girl, but she was… wrong. She kept tilting her head, and her mouth was full of teeth, like a shark’s.”

I laughed it off, told her it was probably a mannequin left by the previous owners, but a cold knot was tightening in my stomach. I told her to go outside and get some air. But as she turned, I noticed a thin line of dark liquid trailing from her bare foot, like she’d stepped in something. She didn’t seem to notice. I followed the trail with my eyes; it led up the stairs, leaving a glistening path on the carpet.

I decided to check the attic myself, my heart hammering against my ribs. The attic door was at the end of the hall, and it was now closed, but a faint scratching sound came from within, like nails on wood. I pushed the door open. The space was cluttered with dust-covered furniture and old trunks. In the far corner, a full-length mirror stood propped against the wall. And in the mirror, I saw my own reflection—but it was smiling a grin that was too wide, exposing a double row of needle-like teeth. I stumbled back, and the reflection did not. It lifted a hand and pressed it against the glass as if pushing out. And beneath the mirror, a dark stain spread across the floorboards, growing wider.

I turned to run, and the scratching grew louder, a cacophony of scraping from every wall. Downstairs, the music cut off, replaced by a high-pitched whine. I rushed down to the living room. Everyone was frozen, staring up at the ceiling. A dark liquid was seeping through the old wooden floor, dripping down in thick, viscous drops onto the furniture and the dance floor. People started screaming, pushing toward the front door. But the door wouldn’t open. It was as if it had been sealed from the outside.

Lila appeared beside me, her face streaked with the dark liquid. She pointed to the back hallway. The cellar door was wide open, and from the blackness below, a shape was rising—a tall, thin man, all in black, his skin the color of rotten wood, his eyes like voids. He walked into the room, and behind him, Jess and the others who had gone upstairs emerged from the hallway, their heads tilted at impossible angles, their mouths now harboring the double rows of teeth. They moved in unison, circling us.

The smell of iron filled the room, and the ceiling began to sag under the weight of the dark liquid. The house had always been a gateway, I realized. My aunt hadn’t just left me a house; she had left me a prison, and now the prisoners were free. I closed my eyes as the first tooth sank into my neck, and the last thing I heard was the sound of floorboards groaning, like the house was laughing.

When the police arrived the next morning, the house was empty. The party guests were gone, but the floorboards were stained a deep crimson, and on the attic mirror, someone had written in smeared red letters: “They were invited.” The officers never found a body. But if you pass by that old house on a stormy night, you might see a light flicker in the attic, and if you press your ear to the front door, you’ll hear a faint, high-pitched whine, and the scratching of things that were once your friends.