I didn't sleep the night after I found the message.
I tried. God knows I tried. I lay there in the stale darkness, staring at the ceiling while the clock on my phone crept past midnight. I turned the lamp off, then on again. I paced. I sat at the desk and stared at the blank screen. Not a single word came. Just a feeling… like I wasn't alone.
The house made no sound. But somehow, that was worse.
The silence felt loaded. Pressurized. Like it was waiting.
I held off until 3:10 AM. At 3:11, I heard it.
Creak.
A slow, shuddering groan from directly beneath my feet.
I stayed still. Not out of bravery—out of something far more ancient. Some survival instinct I couldn't name. Like a deer freezing when it hears the rustle of something sharp in the grass.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three knocks. From under the floor, right beneath the edge of the bed.
I waited for the laughter.
But this time, it was silent.
Just… waiting.
---
I moved slowly. My fingers brushed the edge of the loose board. It was just wide enough to grip with both hands. The wood felt damp, though the air was bone dry. The rusted nails were already halfway out—like someone had opened this before. Recently.
The board lifted with a groan, and beneath it, I found… darkness.
No light. No stone. Just a gaping, empty void that shouldn't have been there.
The space was only about three feet wide, barely enough to fit a body. Dust clung to every surface. Cobwebs drifted in the stagnant air. It was a tight crawl space, but deeper than I expected. At first I thought it was just dirt at the bottom—but when I lowered the lamp into the hole, something glinted back at me.
A metal box. Square. Maybe the size of a toaster oven.
I hesitated, then reached down and lifted it out.
It was heavier than I thought. Cold. I set it on the floor and brushed away the dust. No lock. Just a latch that clicked open with a soft metallic pop.
Inside were a few things.
A tangle of cassette tapes, all labeled in careful handwriting. Dates ranging from 1979 to 2003. Some had names. Others just said things like:
"Don't rewind."
"Second voice begins at 3:11."
"He lied."
There was also a small tape recorder, old but intact, and a stained photograph of the house as it once was—newer, brighter, with two people on the porch. A man and a woman. Both smiling. I don't know why, but my gut twisted the moment I looked at it.
The woman's smile didn't reach her eyes. The man's head was tilted just enough to look wrong.
I closed the box. My hands were trembling.
I should have left it there.
I should have closed the board, nailed it shut, packed my things, and driven until the trees gave way to highways.
But I didn't.
---
It was just after 4:00 AM when I played the first tape.
I chose one labeled "Nov 18, 1986 – Third Night".
The recorder crackled, then hissed. Static bled through the old speaker, followed by a man's voice—tired, shaken.
> "This is Night Three. Same time. Same sound. Something is under the floor again."
He paused.
> "I haven't told her yet. She wouldn't believe me. Or worse… maybe she would."
A long silence. Then a soft creak—not from the tape, but from the floor beneath me.
I paused the recording.
The house was still.
I pressed play again.
> "It knocks three times. And if I listen closely… I can hear it breathing."
Then came a sound. A wet, scratching drag, like fingers pulling across splintered wood.
I paused the tape again. My hand hovered over the stop button.
I was about to turn it off when the man's voice returned, frantic now:
> "I made a mistake. I let it talk. I shouldn't have—"
Click.
The tape stopped.
I didn't hit stop.
The recorder shut off by itself.
---
I stared at it, frozen. My breath was shallow, like my lungs were afraid to make noise.
Then—three taps.
Not on the floor. Not on the walls.
On the window.
I spun around, nearly tripping over the rug. The lamp swayed, throwing jagged shadows across the cabin walls. I approached the window cautiously, every step heavier than the last.
Nothing outside. Just the woods. Still. Black. Endless.
I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, clutching the recorder like a weapon. My breath fogged in the air.
There were no footprints.
No animals. No people.
But on the window glass… a smear.
Like someone had run their fingers across it.
From the inside.
---
I didn't sleep that night.
I watched the recorder until the sun rose, waiting for it to speak again. But it stayed silent. As if it had said enough.
The house didn't creak. No whispers. No taps.
Almost like it was satisfied.
Or… waiting for what I'd do next.
---
Later that morning, I dug deeper into the box.
There were seven tapes total. All from different years. Different voices. Some with dates decades apart. All seemingly unrelated.
But they had one thing in common:
Each person recorded their own descent.
And I was next.
The second tape I played was dated 2003. Female voice. Shaky. Desperate.
> "Don't trust the voice that sounds like you."
That's all she said before screaming.
---
I haven't left the cabin. I don't know if I can.
Because last night, something changed.
When I passed by the mirror in the hallway, I saw something I couldn't explain.
For a split second, my reflection… didn't move with me.
It stared.
Then smiled.
And kept smiling long after I walked away.
---