PLEASE DON'T STEAL MY STORYYYYYY I WORKED HARD ON THIS SHIT.
The Thing Beneath The Floor
Weeks after my dear Aunt Bertha had been laid to rest in a cold mahogany coffin, I inherited her old house that no one else in my family had wanted. It was a poor excuse for a home, nearly a hundred years old and covered in moss, cobwebs, and mold of all kinds. It held only one room, which functioned as the bedroom, living room, and the study. The shingles on the roof were peeling upwards, pointing towards the dreary gray sky. It seemed that the sky was never blue and the sun never shone upon the ragged little house. The house possessed an ominous feeling that seemed to hang over every room like a thick curtain. Ever since I had entered the dark, dank little home, I had a lingering sense of unease in the back of my mind. However, I could not complain. I had recently been evicted from my townhouse and had nowhere else to stay.
As I unpacked my few belongings, my sense of unease seemed to grow with every passing second. I could feel piercing, lingering stares from every direction despite the fact that I was completely alone in the house. Several times that day I had been disturbed by a faint scratching noise coming from beneath the old, creaking floorboards. It sounded as if someone was trying to claw themselves straight out of hell. I passed it off as a rat or some other animal trying to escape from underneath the house.
I arranged my furniture in a similar fashion to how it had been placed in the townhouse. My oak table and chair found a home in the corner of the room, and my bed on the opposite side of the room. In the middle sat an old, handmade rug crafted from fine dyed wool. The rug had once been a rich, midnight blue color, but had faded over time. It had been the only belonging my Aunt Bertha left behind that ended up without a home, so I claimed it as my own. It brightened up the dull and dreary room, but had a thick coating of dust clinging to it like everything else in the house.
Once I had gotten settled I fixed myself a hot meal and took a seat on my little wooden chair. Upon finishing my meal, I picked out a book that I had recently purchased, but had not yet begun to read. I ignored the settling noises of the house, and the constant creaking and groaning of the foundation. I also ignored the muffled sound of footsteps, denying that I heard them at all.
After a while, my back began to ache from sitting on the stiff oak chair for so long. I marked my place and set the book on the table, realizing how late it had become. The sky had grown to a dark, velvety black. The stars did not shine and neither did the moon, for they had been draped in the same thick, gray clouds that muffled the sunlight during the day. There was nothing to be seen outside but blackness. I wrapped myself in a soft blanket and lay in my bed, waiting for sleep to claim me.
I must have been asleep for only a few hours when I was awoken by a noise. It was a subtle noise, soft and barely noticeable. I held my breath, listening intently for the noise to start up again so I could locate the source. The soft scratching noise started up again and grew in volume as each minute passed. Soon it was unbearably loud in the quiet room. It seemed to resonate throughout my body, shaking me to the very core. This went on for about an hour before the sound finally died down, leaving me stricken with fear.
Two weeks passed and it happened again. The scratching started softly and grew in volume more quickly this time, as if the thing beneath the floor was anxious to meet the new owner of the home. This time, the scratching was coming from directly beneath the wool carpet. As quietly as I could, I rolled over, wincing when the springs in my mattress groaned in protest. Primal fear swept through my entire being when I saw the lump.
There was a lump beneath the carpet, about the size of a watermelon and growing. It continued to grow until it reached about the size of a human, slightly lifting up the edges of the royal blue wool carpet off the floor. Black tendrils, slick with crimson blood, slithered out from beneath the carpet. I began to shake as the sound of a chilling death rattle reached my ears. The scratching became frantic, and the sickening gurgling of the death rattle grew in volume.
Too terrified to look away, I watched in fascinated horror as it slowly crawled out from beneath the carpet, revealing a twisted and broken version of myself. It had pure black eyes that were leaking crimson blood, and pale skin covered with lacerations and bruises. Its limbs were twisted and turned in unnatural ways that made me cringe and it was struggling to move, making low moaning sounds. It scraped and scratched its long, sharp, black nails against the floorboards as it slowly crept towards me. As it got closer, its mouth fell open, revealing rows of jagged, bloodstained teeth with shreds of flesh stuck between them. A strangled wail erupted from it; at this point its jaw had detached and was dangling beneath it, brushing against the floor. Saliva with a red tinge flowed out of the gaping hole in its face, pooling on the floor beside my bed. It had a pungent smell that made my stomach churn violently.
I found myself unable to move, and helpless to do anything but stare as it crept closer, and closer to my face. With every breath it blew hot, pungent air in my face that burned my skin and stank of blood. Then it spoke, it had a breathy voice that cracked constantly, making it nearly impossible to understand. It repeated itself over and over again until I finally understood what it was trying to tell me, “Run, it’s coming.” I nodded, and once it had been assured that I understood it, it collapsed in a crumpled heap beside my bed. It was leaking crimson liquid from every orifice. I stared down at it, fear-stricken and with no explanation to the words it had just uttered. I was still processing what had just occurred when I heard it. A soft scratching noise beneath the floor.