The Suitcase Under the Floorboards

I know this sounds insane, but every word is true. I’m writing this from a motel room sixty miles from home, my hands still shaking, the taste of dust and rat poison on my tongue. It happened last week, in the old farmhouse my uncle left me when he died – the one with the creaky stairs and the wallpaper peeling like dead skin. I’d moved in only three days prior, still unpacking boxes, my sanity already frayed by the constant ticking of a grandfather clock that wasn’t there.

It was a Tuesday, just past eleven at night. I was heading to the bathroom down the hall when a cold draft slithered over my ankles, and I felt a presence behind me – not a presence, a sound. Soft footsteps, deliberate, pacing my own. I spun around, and there was nothing but the dim hallway, dust motes dancing in the weak light from my bedroom. ‘Dad? Is that you?’ I called out, my voice cracking. No answer. I chalked it up to the old house settling, my own exhaustion from unpacking all day.

Back in my room, I climbed under the heavy quilt my aunt had sewn, the one with the faded pattern of wild roses. I was just drifting off when a distinct zzzzzip sliced through the silence. It came from under my bed. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I knew I had a suitcase down there, a scuffed leather thing that had belonged to my grandfather. I’d shoved it under the bed, empty, just to get it out of the way.

I told myself it was my imagination, that the zipper had been stuck and popped loose. But then a knock came from under the bed – three sharp raps, like someone tapping on the floorboards. I held my breath. Nothing. I forced my eyes closed, whispering a mantra: ‘You’re just tired, you’re just tired.’ The door to my room creaked open. I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to sleep, my whole body rigid. The door closed with a soft click. Then a heavy thud, like something heavy dropping onto the rug. I waited, ears straining, and then I heard it – the sound of my own suitcase being dragged across the floor, its buckles clinking.

I don’t know how I fell asleep, but I did. When I woke, the suitcase was in the middle of the room, its latches undone. Inside, nestled on a bed of yellowed newspapers, was a porcelain doll – a Victorian thing with cracked cheeks and hair the color of straw. Its eyes were sewn shut, but stitched across its mouth were the words: ‘He’s still here.’ I nearly threw up. I grabbed the doll and shoved it in the trash outside, thinking it was some prank, some leftover from my uncle’s morbid collections.

The next night, the footsteps returned, heavier this time, and the knocking was louder, more desperate. I didn’t leave my bed. I pulled the covers over my head and sang to myself, anything to drown out the sound of something breathing in the corner. At 3 AM, a voice, thin and high like a child’s, whispered near my ear: ‘You didn’t hurt him, did you?’ I shot up, and the room was empty. But on the floor, in the dust, were tiny footprints – bare feet, but they were too small, like a toddler’s, and they led from the window to the bed, and then back.

I tried to leave, but my car wouldn’t start. The battery was dead, and the wiring had been chewed through – something had been at it, leaving gnaw marks like teeth. I called a tow truck, but the line kept going dead, and through the static I heard a lullaby. That night, I locked my bedroom door and pushed the dresser against it. I sat in the corner, clutching a cross from my grandmother, watching the shadows stretch. The knocking came again, but this time from inside the closet. The door rattled on its hinges, and then a child’s voice, sing-song, came through the keyhole: ‘Let me out, let me see the moon.’

I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed a flashlight and, against every instinct, I pulled the suitcase out from under the bed. The doll was back inside, and I felt a rage building in me. I took a hammer from my toolbox and smashed the doll to pieces, cursing whatever was haunting this house. When I was done, a deep silence settled. I stood there, panting, the broken porcelain at my feet. Then the floorboards underneath the bed began to bulge and crack, as if something was pushing up from below. The cracking grew, and a foul smell – like rotted meat and mothballs – filled the room. A section of the floor splintered upward, revealing a dark crawlspace.

I leaned down, my flashlight beam trembling. Inside, I saw the skeleton of a small child, wrapped in a burlap sack, and next to it, a tarnished locket. I picked it up, wiping away the grime. Inside was a faded photograph of my uncle as a young man, and a girl with braids – his sister, who had ‘gone missing’ decades ago, according to family stories. Written on the back of the photo was a date, my birthday, and the words: ‘She’s still waiting.’

I ran. I didn’t stop until I reached this motel, but the doll – or what’s left of it – is in my duffel bag. I don’t remember packing it. And tonight, I heard a zipper from beneath my bed again, followed by three soft knocks. The parking lot is empty, but I see a shadow under the door, shaped like a small person. I don’t think I’ll make it to morning.

I’m not sure I want to.