The Floor Joint

The smell of dampness wakes me up at three in the morning. It’s not a strong stench, but that musty odor of a wet rag that gathers under the kitchen sink. I get up barefoot. The tiles in the hallway are cold, but on my third step I feel something different: the floor gives way. It’s not a loose board; it’s a soft, warm texture, like stepping on raw meat wrapped in rubber. I turn on the flashlight on my phone. At the seam between two tiles, there’s a black crack that wasn’t there yesterday.

I crouch down, my knees grazing the floor. As I shine the light closer, I see something thin and shiny protruding from the crack. It’s sewing thread. A thick black thread, sewn through the floor in tight stitches.

I run my fingers to the starting knot. I pull gently. The invisible needle holding the fabric together creaks beneath the subfloor, and the crack widens by another millimeter. The smell changes suddenly: now it smells of sulfur and hot breath. From the dim light of the crack, a pair of dry lips part to take a breath, stretching the thread that still holds up half of my house. I reach for the scissors in the drawer without taking my eyes off them, but I hesitate. The knot is so tight that, if I cut it, I don’t know which of the two sides will give way first.