31 Frights of October

The Ghost Under the Floor

The house had always felt too still. Like an old thought, trapped in a moment of hesitation, forever too afraid to move forward. When Elara first stepped through the door, she could feel it—the weight of time that lingered in the air, thick as dust and forgotten whispers. Her footsteps echoed in the hollow space, far too loud for something so empty.

But it was not the silence that unnerved her; no, it was the peculiar absence of life. The house did not speak. It did not hum with the quiet life of wood and stone, the subtle shifts of a building that had once known people—laughter, tears, heat. This place was frozen. And the only thing colder than the silence was the feeling that something watched her from the dark corners, something that had never left.

She had always known she was drawn to this house. Her grandmother's letters, cryptic and evasive, had never explained why she had chosen this particular mansion on the edge of town, with its high windows and forgotten rooms. But Elara had inherited it, the house a curious gift of legacy. The strange inheritance, buried beneath layers of old secrets, was all she had left of her lineage. So she had come, packing only what she could carry, intending to find peace or perhaps answers.

Her fingers brushed over the dusty banister as she ascended the stairs. The wood creaked beneath her like a child waking from a nightmare. The hallway was long, each door slightly ajar as if daring her to peek inside. But one door stood closed—its heavy wooden frame darkened by years of neglect. The brass knob was cool in her palm, like a warning, but she turned it anyway.

Inside, the room was unnaturally cold, the air thick and stale. She saw nothing unusual, nothing out of place, except for the floor—where the boards did not quite align, where the subtle ridge of a seam ran through the center of the room like a scar. And beneath it, something seemed to pulse.

She knelt down, running her hand along the uneven wood, until the sensation grew too distinct to ignore. There was a presence, a weight pressing upward, a quiet movement beneath her fingers. Her heartbeat quickened.

Then came the voice.

"Leave."

It was faint, like the breath of a dying man, but unmistakable. She jerked her hand away, heart in her throat, staring at the floor as if it might open up and swallow her whole. The house groaned, as though displeased with her sudden withdrawal. The air grew heavier, like the very walls themselves were closing in on her.

But she was not afraid. Not of the house. Not of the whisper. She had come to confront something older than fear.

Her grandmother had warned her—never open the floor. Yet, she had always been curious, always drawn to things she was not meant to understand. The warning had been given with the kind of urgency that made it seem more like a command than advice. And yet, Elara, so foolish in her unyielding pursuit of the truth, could not turn away now.

She fetched the small hammer from her bag and, with trembling hands, pried the boards apart.

The smell hit her first—a stale, moldy odor that made her gag. But beneath the rot was something worse, something metallic, like the scent of blood left too long in the dark. And then, there it was: a small, blackened stone, smooth to the touch, like obsidian, but cold in a way that made her skin crawl. And then—the eyes.

A face. A face that was not a face. It was a shape, a reflection twisted out of time, the edges of it warping, blinking at her as though it could see her just as well as she could see it. Its eyes—empty black holes—stared at her with a hunger that was more than hunger. It was ancient. It was death. It was everything that had ever been lost in the cracks of history.

In that moment, she understood. The spirit had been here before her. It had never left.

Her breath caught as the floor beneath her seemed to tremble, the walls whispering now—not words, but a low, bone-deep growl that curled around her like an iron chain. The room closed in, suffocating her with the weight of its evil. She had been right to come. She had known it all along, deep in her bones: the house was not haunted. The spirit had not been confined to the house. It was the house. It was the walls, the floorboards, the very foundation.

It was a thing of hunger, of endless waiting. And now, it had found her.

Her fingers twisted around the stone, and she brought it close to her chest, unable to stop herself. The cold seeped through her skin, down her veins, filling her body with an unbearable chill. It was as if the darkness inside the stone was expanding, spreading across her limbs, cutting off the warmth of her blood. Her breath began to tremble, shallow and thin, as though her lungs were filling with ice.

A shriek erupted from her throat, raw and primal, but it was swallowed almost instantly by the thick, oppressive air. The growl of the house—no, the spirit—grew louder, and the walls began to bend, the corners twisting as though they had come alive, reaching for her. Then, the floor beneath her feet gave way.

Her legs buckled, and she fell, crashing to the ground. As she struggled to push herself back up, the unseen hands closed around her, icy and relentless, sinking into her skin like needles, dragging her back down. She tried to scream, but her throat was closing, choked by the weight of something far too heavy to bear.

And then, it was as though the house itself tore open. The wood split around her, splitting her skin as it burst through her body, sharp and jagged. Her hands grasped at the floor, nails scraping desperately, but there was nothing left to hold on to. The pressure intensified, the house pressing against her from every side, until her ribs cracked, a sickening snap echoing through the room.

Elara's breath became ragged, the world spinning as her vision blurred. The last thing she saw was the blackness in the stone, swirling like a void, drawing her into it, swallowing her whole.

And as her chest heaved for the final time, the air finally went still, the whispers fading into nothingness.




Written by frailsituation