“The Crawlspace”

“The Crawlspace”

When my sister vanished, we tore the house apart looking for her.
Every room. Every cupboard. Every locked box.

Police searched, dogs sniffed, neighbours joined in — nothing. She was gone.

Months later, my parents moved away, unable to stand the emptiness. The house sat unsold, abandoned, until I returned this year to collect some of my childhood things before it was demolished.

The place smelled of rot and dust.
Paint peeled in sheets from the walls.
It felt smaller somehow, like the air itself was pressing in.

I made my way to my old bedroom. That’s when I noticed it — a rectangular outline in the ceiling I’d never seen before. A crawlspace.

There was no ladder, so I dragged over a chair and pushed it open. The smell hit me first — sweet, sickly, wet.

I shone my phone’s flashlight inside.

It wasn’t empty.

There was a mattress pushed against one wall, worn thin in the middle. A child’s drawings covered the beams — stick figures, big red smiling faces, and crude shapes that might have been houses. One drawing had my sister’s name written in shaky letters.

I climbed in, heart hammering, and crawled toward the back. That’s when I saw something glint in the dust — a small silver bracelet. Hers.

I was shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone. I turned to get out — but then I noticed something in the far corner.

It was a small, square hole in the floorboards.
Just big enough for someone to crawl through.

And from deep, deep below that hole…
I heard breathing.

Slow.
Wet.
Deliberate.

It stopped.

Then, in a voice that was hoarse but still recognisable, I heard:

“I wondered when you’d come back.”