The Face In The Floor

Thriller Stories | Sep 23, 2012 | 6 min read
24 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Thriller Stories

The Face In The Floor

The Face in the floor

Just seven days. Seven days to turn a perfectly rational level headed man into a quivering, broken minded wreck. He held his head in his hands, and slumped to the ground on his haunches, sliding down the oak counter. A low, pained whine came from within him as he looked at it. The face in the floor. The face looked back impassively. it was supposed to be the home of their dreams. A fresh start after a tough period of their marriage. But now it had all changed. His Susan, his beautiful blonde haired, green eyed Susan with the smile that used to be both playful and seductive at the same time. Susan who had a way of bringing the best out of him, and who had made him a better man. Susan who had gushed over each and every room in the house as the estate agent had shown them around the Victorian townhouse. Alex had followed behind, momentarily forgotten as his wife proclaimed her love for the beautiful property, and the agent, smelling a sale as surely as a shark smells blood, proceeded to sell it to them with aplomb. Where he saw wood rot and damp, Susan saw original features and fittings. Where he saw gutters and window frames in need of replacement, she saw a restoration project. But it didn't now because Susan was dead. Dead and rolled up in the cheap red rug that used to be in this very kitchen. The rug that hid the face. The face in the floor. When they first discovered it, they were curious bot unafraid, after all how could they be. It was more a suggestive thing at the time, the swirls and knots in the wood forming a vague female open mouthed face. Depending on the angle that you looked at it, it looked to be either laughing or screaming. And that in itself was an unsettling sight.

Susan had said she found it charming, but he had never liked it. Within a week the vague shape of the face had changed. Now the knots in the wood had changed. The face was less vague, and details could be seen, the shape of an ear, the pained glare of the eyes which stared out of the floorboards accusingly and the suggestion of smile or scream was gone—the face plainly in the middle of what looked to be a pained wail.
They had decided to get rid of it. So they had hired one of those huge industrial sanding machines, one that you push around like a vacuum cleaner. For the best part of the day he sanded the floor, and when he had done the wood that was once dirty and tired was now bright and clean, and more importantly the face had gone, sanded away.
That should have been the end of it, but only a week later it reappeared, just a ghost of the eyes and the vague outline of the mouth, but definitely there. For the first time they realised why perhaps they had been able to buy the place so cheaply. Susan had leaned close and peered at the wood up close, and when he did the same they were in agreement. It was cold to the touch, and gave them both the urge to wash their hands as if they had been soiled somehow. It was at this point that the atmosphere changed, and they started to argue, and day by day, slowly but surely the face reappeared. Once again, the floors were sanded back, and the face was gone, and again it came back. The face had changed, and this time its anguished scream looked to be a roar of rage directed towards them, brow furrowed, eyes narrow and glaring, mouth turned down at the corners. They noticed with dismay that other faces were starting to appear, ghostly forms swimming out of the wood, growing more and more visible with each day. And still, the pair of them argued. Susan wanted to leave the faces to come through, certain that they were trying to convey some kind of message, but he wanted rid of them. Because he had never believed. He had never believed in Bigfoot or aliens or things that creep around in the dark and wait until the lights go out before they come to get you. And as a sceptic with no rational explanation for what was happening, he decided that eradication was easier to deal with than believing in the possibility that there could be something out there that he didn't understand, that modern science could not explain away by blaming temperature fluctuations, or mass hysteria or anything of the like. And even if they could, he wouldn't believe them, because the face in the floor was looking at them, and they could see that it was angry.

And still, the faces grew more and more detailed, and they found that they became more and more afraid. Afraid to tell anyone what was happening, afraid to sleep, the slightest noise— simple creaking and settling sounds that all old houses made, would cause them to panic, and as their nerves became more and more frayed, so their arguments increased and became violent. He had never laid a hand on her before but on more than one occasion he had beaten her. Pounding her through sobs of rage and fear and wondering what the hell was happening to them.
And still the face in the floor glared.
Deciding that they had to do something, and with a wife sitting opposite him bruised and hurting and unable to look him in the eye, he had applied for permission to replace the wooden floor with concrete, hoping that it would at least be an end to the whole thing, but planning permission was denied—the building was listed and as a result its original features must not be destroyed.
They did it anyway, and he spent a week tearing up the old wood, tearing up the faces which by now were so clear to see that they could have been paintings delicately penned onto the wood. The floorboards were burned and a new floor re-laid. Now their period house had an out of place bare concrete floor, but they were both happy, because it was cool and smooth and grey and more importantly free of those horrific screaming faces. For a few weeks, they were almost back to normal, the arguments were forgotten and they set about repairing the burned bridges of their relationship.

The faces had started to reform a week ago.

First they had started as vague impressions in the concrete, just a smudge, but as they pair of them felt terror— true pure terror they knew that there was no fixing it. The faces came back, and this time they were clearer, horrific in their detail as they melted themselves into the concrete. The screaming woman was now smiling smugly, the wrinkles on her skin, the crooked, ugly set of her grin, the knowing glare in her eyes disgustingly visible, freakishly clear. He imagined it in his head, speaking to him, telling him what he had to do to make them go away. For six days he lay awake at night listening to the old house creaking, and moaning, and imagining that old hag faced woman in the floor pulling herself out of the concrete and coming to him, touching him with her cold, leathery fingertips, whispering in his ear with hot breath smelling of rot and earth.

Fear.

Sleep deprivation.

Insanity.
All viable excuses, but whatever spin he would be able to put on it, the end result was the same. Their argument had gone too far and he had strangled her, tendons bulging out of his neck like steel cables, hands clenching down hard on his windpipe as he glared at her through gritted teeth and imagining the old hag's corpse breath in his ear.

And now she was dead. Dead and rolled in carpet in the garage. But now she was back. She was there in the floor with the old woman, and she too was glaring at him, one accusing face amongst the thirty or so others that now covered the concrete. Some were no more than fleshy skulls, others were young and vibrant, and others like the old woman were ancient and knowing and decrepit.
The human mind is a funny thing, he thought to himself as he wedged the barrel of the handgun into its mouth, the taste of oil and steel making it all so suddenly real.
After all what is love, what is guilt, what is life?
He needed to be with her, needed to explain. He looked at her glaring, furious face in the floor, now blurred through his tears, and then he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

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Reviews

Velma golden Oct 5, 2012

right on, thought the same, I have read several stories on here that reminded me of some on T-Zone. To all of the authers, young or a little older, what ever your age, keep up the good work, enjoy the stories immensely. what ever the topic, hope to hear g

Mick bray Oct 4, 2012

Thanks for the comments everyone. i appreciate it :)

Stephen Oct 3, 2012

Excellent concept and chilingly atmospheric. It can be read as a psychological thriller as well as a horror/supernatural short story.You can feel the subject's sense of isolation and resignation to fate as the energy of the face/faces takes control. Remin

Velma golden Sep 23, 2012

I have heard that some haunted houses are like that, till you do something you don'twant to. sad, but true, good story great read!!

Michael Sep 23, 2012

Great story, very gritty and real.

Andreea Sep 23, 2012

Nice story ;) Enjoyed it a lot.:D

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