The Letter Under the Floorboards
When 16-year-old Riley Anderson moved into the old house on Sycamore Street with her father, she didn’t expect anything to change. Her mother had passed two years ago, and her father—once a jovial English teacher—had become a man of silence and whiskey. The new house was supposed to be a “fresh start,” but it felt more like a storage unit for grief.
It was their third week in the house when Riley discovered the loose floorboard in the attic.
She’d been searching for a quiet spot to draw—something she used to do with her mom. A shaft of light filtered through the attic window, illuminating the corner. Her foot caught on something uneven. Curious, she pulled the wood back.
Beneath it lay a faded envelope, brittle with age.
On the front, in elegant cursive, were the words:
“To the one who finds this, please read.”
She hesitated, then opened it.
Dear Stranger,
If you’ve found this, I may already be gone. My name is Benjamin Turner. I am—or was—twelve years old. I live in this house. Or I used to. I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but I need someone to know the truth.
They say I disappeared. That I ran away. But I didn’t. I was taken.
Riley sat frozen. She looked around the dusty attic, her heart thudding.
It happened in 1972. One night, I saw lights outside. I thought it was lightning, but then I heard voices—low, strange, humming. My parents were downstairs. I went to the window… and then, everything changed.
The letter detailed strange noises, bright lights, a strange man who visited days before, warning him not to “tell anyone about the lights.” It sounded insane. Riley almost laughed.
Until she saw the photograph folded inside.
A black-and-white photo of a boy—wide-eyed, standing next to a mailbox with the number 1840. Their address.
She ran downstairs, letter in hand.
“Dad! Look at this!”
Her father blinked slowly. “What?”
“This house. There was a boy named Benjamin Turner. He disappeared in 1972. He left a letter in the attic—he said he was taken!”
He rubbed his temple. “Riley, people write things all the time. Could be a prank.”
“There’s a photo!”
He frowned, suddenly more alert. “Show me.”
He examined the photo. His eyes narrowed.
“I… I think I remember something,” he muttered. “When I was a kid, there were stories. A kid went missing in this neighborhood. They searched for weeks.”
“And no one found anything?”
“No.” He paused. “I thought it was just an urban legend.”
Riley spent the next week obsessively researching. Local archives confirmed it: Benjamin Turner, age 12, disappeared June 5, 1972. Case unsolved. Parents moved away in 1975. The official theory was “ran away.”
But Riley couldn’t shake the feeling it was more.
One night, thunder rolled over the neighborhood. Riley sat in the attic, the letter in her lap. “If you’re out there,” she whispered, “I believe you.”
The lights flickered. A low hum filled the room.
She sat up straight.
Then—footsteps. Behind her. She turned—
No one.
But the letter was gone.
In its place was a new one.
The envelope was newer. Same cursive.
“Thank you for listening. You helped me go home.”
No signature.
But that night, Riley’s father found her asleep in the attic, smiling for the first time in months.
And in the morning, when she returned to the spot under the floorboard, it was sealed shut. No matter how she pried, it wouldn’t move again.
Years later, Riley would become a writer.
Her first novel?
“The Boy in the Attic.”
Dedicated: “To all the voices waiting to be heard.”
