The Creak of the Stair

Three nights ago, my father and I went to see an old gothic film at the Majestic, a run-down theater on the edge of town that still smelled of stale popcorn and dust. The movie was decent, nothing special. We drove home in silence, the streetlights flickering like dying candles. It was past one in the morning when we pulled into our driveway, and the house loomed before us, its windows black and unblinking. Dad mumbled that he was tired and went straight down to the basement, where he had set up an old cot among the boxes of forgotten Christmas decorations. I climbed the stairs to my mother’s room, where I’ve been sleeping since my treatments for Hodgkin’s lymphoma began. The cancer has left me weak, and my mother gives me injections in my thigh every few hours, usually in the dead of night. That night, she had just finished a shot and I drifted into a restless sleep.

About half an hour later, my brother Marcus, a high school athlete with a stubborn streak, woke up with a sharp pain in his side. He came to our mother’s room, and I heard him mumble about a cramp that wouldn’t let him rest. I remember him leaving, and the soft click of the door. I must have dozed off again, but around three-thirty in the morning, I woke with a start. I was lying on my side, facing the wall, and I felt a heavy pressure on my chest, like a slab of concrete. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and when I tried to call out, only a low moan escaped my throat. My eyes were open, but I could only see the floral pattern of the wallpaper, the same pattern I’d stared at since childhood. I tried to turn my head, but it was glued to the pillow. The pressure intensified, and I felt something cold brush against my ear.

I managed to get out the words ‘Mom, Mom, I can’t move,’ but my voice was thin, barely a whisper. My mother stirred beside me, her hand reaching out in the dark. ‘It’s just sleep paralysis, honey,’ she said, her voice groggy. ‘Go back to sleep.’ But I knew it wasn’t that. The pressure was too precise, like fingers pressing into my chest. I strained to look toward the door, and in the dim light from the hallway, I saw a shape—a tall, gaunt figure standing just outside the room, its head tilted as if listening. It had no face, just a smooth, pale surface where features should be. It took a step forward, and I heard the floorboards creak. Then it was gone.

I fell into a fitful sleep, and when I woke in the morning, the sun was shining through the curtains. I felt a sharp pain in my leg where my mother had given me the injection, but it was nothing compared to the lingering dread in my stomach. I tried to tell my mother what I had seen, but she dismissed it as a nightmare. My father came up from the basement, looking pale and haggard. He said he hadn’t slept well, that he kept hearing footsteps on the stairs, but every time he went to look, no one was there. Marcus was quiet, rubbing his side, and for a moment, I saw a look of terror in his eyes that he quickly masked.

That evening, I was sitting in the living room, trying to read, when I heard it—a low creak from the staircase, like a heavy weight settling on the wood. I froze. The sound was unmistakable. I got up and walked to the foot of the stairs, my heart pounding. The house was silent. I called out, ‘Dad? Marcus?’ No answer. I took a step onto the first stair, and the creak came again, closer now, as if it was coming down toward me. I ran back to the living room and locked the door behind me. I sat there, shaking, until my mother came home from the pharmacy.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my mother’s bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for any sound. Around two in the morning, I felt the pressure again, but this time it was different—it was on my ankles, like cold hands wrapping around them. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I looked down, and through the blanket, I could see the impression of two hands gripping my legs, pulling them toward the foot of the bed. I kicked with all my might, and the pressure vanished. I scrambled to turn on the lamp, and the room was empty. But on the floor, near the bed, there was a wet footprint, too large for any of us.

I called my father, who came up from the basement, his face ashen. He said he had been having dreams too, dreams of a woman with no eyes, standing at the foot of his cot, whispering something he couldn’t understand. He had been too afraid to come upstairs. Marcus appeared in the doorway, holding his side, and he told us that the pain had moved to his back, and that he kept seeing a shadow out of the corner of his eye, moving just out of sight.

We decided to spend the night together in the living room, huddled on the couch with all the lights on. But as the night wore on, one by one, we fell asleep. I was the last to drift off, and as I closed my eyes, I saw the figure again, standing at the top of the stairs, its head cocked. It raised a hand, and pointed at me. Then it began to descend, slowly, deliberately, each step accompanied by that same creak. I tried to wake my mother, but I couldn’t move. The figure reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed the room, stopping inches from my face. It leaned in, and I felt a cold breath on my cheek. A voice, like the rustle of dead leaves, whispered in my ear: ‘I have been waiting for you.’

I woke with a scream, but no one heard me. The house was silent, and the lights were off. My family was gone. I stumbled to the stairs, and I heard the creak again, but this time it was above me, in the hallway. I climbed the stairs, my legs numb, and saw my mother, father, and brother standing in a row, facing the wall, their heads bowed. They were whispering in unison, ‘She is here. She is here.’ I turned to run, but the front door was gone, replaced by a solid wall. The last thing I saw was the figure emerging from the basement, its face now a perfect mirror, reflecting my own terrified expression. And then the lights went out, and I heard the creak of the stair, forever descending.