Voices Under the Floor

The rain had not stopped since Arav arrived.It pounded like war drums on the roof of the old lodge, soaking the world in a timeless rhythm that blurred day and night. Room Eleven had become more than a room. It had become a pulse in his mind, and every shadow in it breathed.

After the mirror shattered, something changed.

The silence wasn't empty anymore. It had texture. It had direction.

The kind of silence that carried whispers—so faint, they could be mistaken for wind—but they weren’t.

They were names.

Whispers of names Arav had never heard before. Yet they scratched at his bones like he was supposed to remember them.

That night, the electricity flickered again, but never fully went out.

It preferred to die slowly, as if teasing him. The lightbulb blinked in rapid spasms, throwing slices of shadow across the old wooden floor. That floor—he had started noticing it more. Its lines, its patterns, how they seemed to shift slightly each time he looked away.

He dropped a coin accidentally once. It rolled toward the center of the room, then tilted, and slowly disappeared under a narrow slit between the old planks.

He froze.That part of the floor was hollow.He got on his knees and pressed his ear to the floorboards.

Silence.

And then—faintly—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He sat up abruptly.He tried again. Slower this time.

And just when his breath steadied—A voice.

Muffled, distorted like it was underwater, but unmistakably human. A woman.

Calling.

Not screaming. Not crying.

Just calling.“Are you… there?”

He shot back from the floor like it burned him.He stared at the planks for hours. The rain refused to stop. Neither did the voice.

Each hour, it came again. Slightly louder. Slightly clearer.

Sometimes it was one voice. Sometimes two.By 3:00 a.m., they weren’t just calling anymore.

They were speaking to him.

"Why did you come back, Arav?"

"You know this place remembers."

"The floor never forgets who walks over it."

He tried blocking it out—covered his ears, put on the radio. But static replaced music.

He unplugged it. The static continued.He pulled his phone out. No signal.Of course.

The next morning—or what looked like morning—he confronted the old man at reception again.

“Hey. Room Eleven. What’s underneath it?”

The man blinked, chewing on nothing, as if filtering memories through broken teeth.

“Storage. Old tunnel maybe. Closed decades ago. Why?”

Arav leaned in. “I hear voices. Beneath the floor.”

The old man didn’t react at first. Then he chuckled.

“Voices, eh? Funny thing about storms. They make the house talk.”

“No. These voices know my name.”

Silence.

The old man’s eyes narrowed.“I suggest you check out early, son.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s under my floor.”The man shook his head slowly. “Then you’ll find something that doesn’t want to be found.”Back in the room, Arav found a crowbar in the janitor’s closet.

He locked the door behind him, shut the curtains, and started prying open the floor.The wood groaned like it didn’t want to let go.Splinters flew, dust spilled into the air like ancient breath.

Finally, the plank gave way, revealing an old hatch—a metal loop sunk into a square of wood, long rusted shut.His pulse raced. Something inside him screamed don’t open it.But he did.

The hatch led to a stone stairway descending into black.Cold, stale air rose from below—like a crypt.

He lit the flashlight on his phone and began to descend.Each step creaked, echoing like he was stepping into a cathedral of whispers.

The stairs ended in a narrow stone hallway—walls marked with names.

Dozens. Maybe hundreds.Carved by hand. Names. Dates. Some too faint to read.The voices returned. Clearer now. Surrounding him.

“He remembers…”

“It’s been so long.”

“Tell him the truth.”

At the end of the hallway, a door. Steel. Locked tight.Except it wasn’t.It swung open as he reached for it.

The room beyond was circular. Lit by a single overhead bulb swaying from a wire.

In the center—an old wooden chair. Chained to the floor.Straps hung from its arms. Dried red stains on the seat.

He walked in slowly.On the walls—photos.Black and white photos of children. Some smiling. Some not. All marked with the same number:11 Under one photograph, a name:Arav

His own face. As a child.He staggered back. Breath caught. Hands shaking.

“W-what is this?”

The voices swelled.

“You were here before.”

“We never left.”

“Remember what they did.”

He turned to leave, but something stood in the doorway.A woman. Pale. Hair soaked. Eyes dark, hollow.She didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

But her lips parted… just enough to whisper:

“You left us here.”

The light flickered.

And then—darkness.

When Arav woke, he was back in Room Eleven.Morning light, soft and golden, filtered through the curtains.His phone was on the table. Fully charged.No signs of the hatch. No broken floor.As if none of it had happened.Except for one thing.

The wooden chair was in the corner of the room.Still stained. Still real.And under it—etched into the floor in fresh marks:

“We remember.”

The Lonely Pen By Aj