The Listener Beneath
In the town of Greywell, everyone’s floors creaked. Not because the houses were old — but because something listened from below.
No one remembered when the sounds began. Sometimes at night, a faint rhythmic knock… knock… knock… echoed up through the wood. Always three knocks. Always after someone spoke.
A new tenant named Isla moved into 17 Birch Lane. She laughed off the stories — until her first night. While unpacking, she spoke to herself:
> “Guess I’ll sleep in the living room tonight.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
From beneath the floorboards.
She froze. She hadn’t stepped, hadn’t dropped anything. Just her voice… answered.
The next night, she whispered,
> “Who’s down there?”
Silence.
Then the softest creak.
And a faint whisper that seemed to come through the wood grain itself:
> “I am The Listener. You called.”
She backed away. The whisper followed, traveling under the floor as if crawling closer.
> “Every word you speak… feeds me.”
In terror, she fled the house — but the next day, her neighbor stopped her.
> “Did you hear it too?” he asked. “The knocking when you talk?”
She nodded. He lifted his pant leg. A thin black line, like roots or veins, crawled up from his ankle.
> “It starts when you answer it,” he said. “The voice. The knocking.”
Isla ran. She drove out of Greywell, never looking back.
But two nights later, in her new apartment miles away, she dropped her phone. It hit the floor with a soft thud.
And from beneath — not from the building, not from the pipes — came a slow, familiar knock. knock. knock.
Then, a whisper that made her blood run cold:
> “You took your voice with you.”
My stake id is thenouman