The Unplugged

We moved the old farmhouse onto the barren plot in late October, a week before the frost settled. The previous structure, a rotting Victorian that had stood for a century, was condemned and demolished, its history a local legend of misery and unexplained disappearances. My family, oblivious to the tales, saw only the cracked foundation and the overgrown weeds. We bought the lot cheap, had a crew haul our prefabricated modular home from the storage yard, and spent the first month painting the walls eggshell white and buffing the linoleum floors to a dull shine.

I’m Alex, a high school junior with a fondness for late-night reading and a brand-new iPod. My sister, Maya, is a sophomore, obsessed with her own music library. Our parents, pragmatic and tired, dismissed the house’s quirks as the normal settling of a new structure. The creaking started immediately: a low groan from the floorboards under my desk, a sharp crack from the attic stairs, and the peculiar pop of the bedroom doors—the sound of the old hinges releasing pressure when the temperature shifted. I’d be in my room, headphones on, engrossed in a thriller, and I’d hear: creeeeak, creeeeak, pop, creeeak. It was rhythmic, almost intentional.

A month passed. The creaks didn’t subside; they seemed to follow me. The doors would pop open while I was brushing my teeth, the bathroom door drifting ajar. The floor would creak in the hallway right as I passed, as if someone were walking beside me. I laughed it off, told Maya it was the house ‘settling.’ But then the battery drain began. I’d plug my iPod into the wall charger overnight, wake to a blinking full battery, and unplug it. Within ten minutes of listening to music, the battery would plummet, thirty percent in five minutes. I thought it was a defect. Maya found hers doing the same. We swapped chargers, reset the devices, even took them to the Apple Store. The tech said the batteries were fine.

The exhaustion was worse. Every morning, I’d hoist my backpack—full of textbooks and binders—and suddenly feel as if I’d run a marathon. My legs would resist, my eyelids heavy. One day, I lifted my bag from the floor to the table and nearly collapsed into a chair, gasping for air. Maya confessed the same: she’d carry her violin case and feel drained for hours. Our parents noticed, blamed the dreary weather and lack of exercise. But I knew something was wrong.

One Saturday, while Mom and Dad were out shopping, Maya and I sat in the living room. The heater kicked on, and the familiar pop of a door came from upstairs. I looked at Maya. She was pale, her iPod in her hand, the screen dim. ‘I’m not imagining it,’ she whispered. ‘Every time I get near the back bedroom, my battery drops like a stone.’ I frowned. The back bedroom was the smallest, the one we used for storage. It had been the site of the old house’s chimney, now bricked up. I decided to investigate.

I took my iPod with me, fully charged. I stood in the doorway of the spare room. The air was cold, stale. I glanced at my iPod—it was at 98%. I stepped inside. The room was cluttered with boxes and old furniture. I looked down—the battery had dropped to 90%. I took a step deeper. 75%. I felt a tug, like an invisible hand pressing on my chest. For the first time, I noticed a faint, sickly sweet odor, like rotting flowers. I backed out. The battery steadied, climbing back to 91%.

Maya, who had been watching from the hallway, stepped forward. ‘I think it’s the floor,’ she said. I looked down. The spot where I’d stood had a faint dark stain, nearly invisible against the beige linoleum. It was shaped vaguely like a person. I crouched, touched it—the floor was warm, warmer than the rest of the house. A memory surfaced from a fragment of local lore I’d heard at the hardware store: the old Victorian had a back room where a man had hidden his wife’s body after a quarrel. He’d buried her beneath the floorboards, and the hearse that took him away was the last time anyone saw him. The house was torn down because it ‘couldn’t be cleaned,’—stains kept reappearing.

I stood, a chill running down my spine. My iPod was at 2%, even though I hadn’t used it. I ran out of the room, yanked the door shut. The door popped open again. Behind me, I heard a low, creeping laugh—not from Maya, but from the room itself. Maya’s eyes were wide. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered. I nodded. The sun was setting, casting long shadows.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The creaking was louder, more insistent. At 2 AM, my iPod, dead, suddenly powered on. The screen glowed, showing the battery at 100%. But then it began to drain—1% every second. I watched it hit 0%, and the screen went black. A second later, it powered on again, the battery resurging, then draining. It was a cycle, a heartbeat. I realized the house was feeding on the battery, on my energy. The exhaustion, the battery drain—it was all the same. The floor where the stain was—that was where the energy was being siphoned.

I woke Maya. We went to the spare room. In the dark, the stain glowed faintly, like a patch of bioluminescent mold. The air was colder. I held my iPod—it was draining rapidly. I threw it onto the stain. The battery hit 0% instantly, but the drain continued—the light flickered, then brightened. The room began to vibrate. The door slammed shut on its own. We were trapped. The creaking was no longer random—it was a concert, a symphony of groans and pops, emanating from the floor itself.

I looked at Maya. ‘It’s not the house,’ I said. ‘It’s the old one underneath. It’s still here. The stain is a doorway.’ I knelt, pressed my hand to the floor. It was burning hot. I pulled back—my skin was red, tingling. The floor began to bulge, as if something beneath were pressing upward. We scrambled to the door, yanked it open, and ran out of the house. In the yard, we stood panting, looking back. From the spare room window, a pale, handprint appeared on the glass, then faded.

We never went back inside. We stayed at a neighbor’s. The next morning, our parents found the house empty, the spare room door sealed with a fresh layer of cement—the contractor had hired that day to ‘fix the foundation.’ That was three weeks ago. We still live there, but we don’t charge our devices. The creaking continues, but now it follows us around the house. And sometimes, when I lift my backpack, I feel a cold dread, as if something in the floor is tugging at my very life. The spare room is sealed, but I know the stain is still there, growing, and the house is still hungry.

I look at my iPod, sitting on the desk, dead. Sometimes, it lights up on its own, the battery jumping from 0 to 100, and I hear a faint, rhythmic creaking from the sealed room. It’s not settling. It’s waiting. And I’m tired—so tired—all the time. Maybe one day, I won’t get up. But I’m more scared of what happens when I don’t.