User blog comment:Witnessme/Creepypasta Short Story Contest/@comment-27078470-20151015015916

Every time someone new comes over, they compliment my dad on the hardwood floor. The boards are straight and perfectly placed. The dark color catches highlights from the lamps in every room, from the bathrooms to the den to the kitchen. Dad always grins and thanks them. He says his grandfather laid it in by hand. That we stain it every year and keep it polished best we can.

It’s a real legacy, Dad says, a memory from the past and something that will stick around for way longer than he will. All we have to do is take care of it.

And we do.

It’s a big deal. Every Memorial Day, we move the furniture out and spend days hand-coating each board. It takes a lot of stain, and the whole house reeks for a week afterward, but it really does make a difference, especially with the fresh wax on top. It gleams when we’re done, and Dad always claps my brother and I on the shoulder and tells us how proud his granddad would be to see us taking an interest in a family tradition.

This year, I’m in charge of going to get the stain while everyone else gets the house ready. I have to go a couple states over and it’s tricky to find the right area. You have to be so careful to pick the ones no one will miss. It’s not as hard to string them upside down and slit their throats, as long as you have the buckets ready. It takes gallons and gallons to get that rich color just right through the whole house. Every drop counts.

An old man’s voice whispers advice as I pick up a knife. My hands don’t shake. It is, after all, a family tradition.



