The Blonde at the Railing

I never knew what to call her, but I saw her again last night, standing at the end of the hall, her hand resting on the dark oak banister of the staircase. The old house on Bramble Lane had been my refuge ever since I ran from the state of things back east, but she followed me there, or perhaps she was always waiting. I’ve come to accept that some stains never wash out, no matter the number of coats of paint.

It started when I was seven, in the cramped duplex off Route 9, where the walls were thin and my stepfather’s temper was thinner. That bathroom was a tiny, tile-lined tomb with a yellowed sink and a bulb that flickered like a nervous heartbeat. My room faced it across a narrow corridor, just six steps from the bed to the toilet. My mother, a woman with hair the color of beach sand, had a habit of padding around in her pale blue terrycloth robe, making coffee before I was even awake.

One afternoon, I went to use the toilet while she went downstairs. I remember the house was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator. I finished, flushed, and stepped out. The hallway stretched before me, my bedroom door open, sunlight spilling across the worn carpet. But there was a prickling at the back of my neck, the kind that tells you something is off. I stopped mid-stride, my toes hovering just above the threshold of my room.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure by the banister at the top of the stairs. She was tall, with hair much paler than my mother’s, almost white like dried wheat, and she wore a robe that was not blue but a clean, sterile white, like a shroud. She stood perfectly still, her head tilted at an angle that made my stomach drop because I knew no living person could tilt their neck that way. She was staring at me, her face a blank mask that I couldn’t quite make out, but I knew she was smiling.

I did the only thing a terrified child can do. I walked backwards, never taking my eyes off her, my hand searching behind me for the doorknob to my room. I felt the cool metal, twisted it, and slipped inside, slamming the door shut. I pressed my back against it, my heart hammering, expecting to hear footsteps, but there was only silence. When my mother came up later, I told her I saw a woman by the stairs. She laughed, said it was probably just her reflection in the hall mirror. But I knew better. The mirror was at the opposite end of the hall, and the woman had been too solid, too real.

Years passed. My stepfather got worse, and my mother left him, but the image never left me. Sometimes, in dreams, I would see her standing by an open door, her white robe billowing slightly as if caught in a draft that wasn’t there. When I reached adulthood, I moved away, trying to outrun the memory, but the memory of that hallway was like a splinter under my skin. I bought the house on Bramble Lane because it was old and cheap, and it had a staircase with a railing that looked similar to the one in that duplex. Maybe I was asking for it.

Last week, I was up late, reading in the living room, when I heard a creak above me. I walked to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. She was there, at the top, her shape ghostly in the dim light from the street. Her hand was on the banister, just like before. Her hair was longer now, hanging past her shoulders, and her robe was still white, stark against the darkness. She didn’t move, but I felt her gaze boring into me. I backed away, my throat tightening.

I haven’t slept since. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Last night, I summoned the courage to walk halfway up the stairs, to see if she was still there. She was, but closer. She was on the landing, her face turned to me. This time, I saw her eyes. They were dark, like bottomless pits, and they held a hunger that made my blood run cold. And she spoke, or rather, I heard her voice in my head, a dry rustle like dead leaves. She said, ‘You didn’t run away, did you?’

I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know if she’s a ghost, or a memory, or something that latched onto me from that earlier house. All I know is that she’s here, in this house, on this railing, waiting. And I suspect she’s not going to let me leave. I’m writing this from the corner of my bedroom, the door barricaded with a dresser, my phone in my pocket, but she’s standing at the top of the stairs right now, her hand stroking the wood. She’s humming, a tune I don’t recognize, and I feel a pull, as if she’s calling me.

If you read this, maybe you’ll understand that some steps lead to places you can’t return from. The house has a smell of rot and bleach, and I can see her reflection in the window, and her hair is turning darker, like my mother’s. But it’s not my mother. My mother is long gone. This is something else, something that wears a borrowed face. And I think it’s been waiting for me all along, to take me by the hand and lead me down that long, dark hall, where the door at the end is ajar, and there’s no bathroom, just an empty room with a cold, wet floor.

I’m so sorry I didn’t run. I’m so sorry I stayed. But I was always taught to face my fears. And now I’m facing her, and she’s smiling, and she says, ‘Come, child, it’s time.’