The Creaking of the Stairwell

When my sister Mira and I first saw the flat on the top floor of a converted Victorian house in the old port district of Bristol, we were charmed by the high ceilings and the view of the river. The building had once been a warehouse for tea and spices, and the musty smell of old wood and dust clung to every corner. Our landlord, a gaunt man with a nervous twitch, assured us the place was sound, but he warned us never to use the back stairwell. ‘It’s not safe,’ he said, his eyes darting to the wall as if expecting something to emerge. We dismissed it as the eccentricity of an old man, but from the first night, we heard a rhythmic creaking from behind the wall, like a heavy door swinging on rusted hinges.

Our flat was at the top of three flights of stairs, and the back stairwell, which ran parallel to the main staircase, was blocked by a wooden door painted over with thick black paint. The creaking came from that direction, always at 3 a.m. sharp, as if someone were slowly climbing the steps, pausing at each landing. Mira, a light sleeper, would often wake me, her face pale in the dim light. ‘It’s just the building settling,’ I’d say, but I didn’t believe it. One night, I decided to investigate. I went to the door and pressed my ear against the cold wood. The creaking stopped, replaced by a faint, wet breathing. I pulled back, my heart hammering, and when I looked down, I saw a thin trail of water seeping from under the door, leaving a dark stain on the floorboards.

We learned from a neighbor that the building had a dark history. A century ago, a night watchman had been found dead at the bottom of that stairwell, his neck broken. The official verdict was an accident, but locals whispered that he had been murdered, and his ghost still paced the steps, counting the living who dared to enter. The neighbor, an old woman named Mrs. Hargrove, told us to sprinkle salt along the threshold and hang a sprig of rowan above the door. ‘It keeps the restless ones at bay,’ she said, her voice trembling. We did as she suggested, but the creaking only grew louder, and the water stains spread up the walls like veins.

One evening, I returned home late to find Mira sitting on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest, staring at the black door. ‘I saw something,’ she whispered. ‘A hand, pale and thin, reaching out from under the door. It held a key, an old brass key with a tarnished head.’ She described it in detail, and I felt a chill run down my spine. We searched the flat but found no such key. The next morning, the door was ajar, and the black paint had peeled away in large flakes, revealing a dark, narrow passage. We peered inside, seeing only a few steps leading down to a turn. A foul smell of decay wafted up, and we slammed the door shut, but it wouldn’t latch. We had to prop a chair against it.

That night, the creaking was relentless. It came from inside the flat, from the walls, from the ceiling. We heard a child’s laughter, then a woman’s sob. Our lamps flickered, and the shadows seemed to writhe. We tried to leave, but the front door was stuck, as if something held it from the other side. In desperation, we opened the back stairwell door, and a gust of cold air rushed out, extinguishing our flashlights. We descended the steps, our hands trailing along the damp walls, our feet squelching on something wet. At the bottom, we found a small, windowless room with a single chair in the center. On the chair sat a porcelain doll, its eyes painted shut. As we approached, the doll’s mouth opened, and a key fell out onto the floor.

We picked up the key, and the creaking stopped. The silence was deafening. Then, from the chair, a voice, dry as autumn leaves, said, ‘You found it. Now you must take my place.’ The walls began to close in, and we ran, but the stairwell twisted and turned in impossible ways. We emerged, hours later, in the main corridor of the ground floor, the black door closed behind us, indistinguishable from the others. We moved out the next week, but the creaking followed us. Now, in our new home, I still hear it at 3 a.m., and if I listen closely, I can hear Mira’s voice, faint and forlorn, calling from the other side of the wall.