The Empty Step

At seven, I was a creature of habit. Every afternoon, I’d burst through the front door of our split-level, dump my backpack in the hall, and thunder up the stairs to my room, two at a time. The house was always quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old wooden bones settling. But that day, there was something else – a sound that didn’t belong. It was a whisper, not quite a voice, more like the rustle of dry leaves skittering across pavement. It said, ‘Step over the hollow.’ I froze, my hand on the banister, my heart a frantic drum. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard such things. Lately, there had been murmurs: ‘Mind the crack in the ceiling,’ ‘Don’t trust the dark at the landing.’ I dismissed them as the fancies of a child with too much imagination, but the words clung to me like cobwebs.

I resumed my climb, but as I reached the top, that voice returned, clearer this time, like a crackle of static articulating into speech: ‘Step over the hollow.’ I didn’t understand. The hallway looked the same as ever – worn carpet, pale walls, the door to my parents’ room slightly ajar. I shook my head and stepped onto the landing. The moment my foot made contact, the floor gave way beneath it, as if it had turned to sponge. I pitched forward, flailing, and tumbled down the stairs in a cacophony of thuds and the sharp snap of my ankle. I lay at the bottom, gasping, pain searing up my leg, and stared back up the stairs. There was nothing there – no loose board, no misstep, no missing carpet. Just the stairs, looking as solid as they always had. My mother rushed in, her face ashen, and called an ambulance. I spent the night in the ER, my leg set and cast, while questions churned in my mind. What had I tripped on? Why had I heard that voice?

For years, I couldn’t shake the habit. Every staircase, every step, became a trial. I’d pause at the top, look down at the landing, and step over it, even if there was someone behind me, even if it meant an awkward hop. My family thought it a quirk, a nervous tic from the accident. But I knew better. The voice had warned me, and I had not listened. I had felt something solid, something that shouldn’t be there, and it had broken my leg.

When I was twenty-three, I moved to the city, leaving the house and its memories behind. My new apartment was a fifth-floor walk-up, and I savored the ritual of climbing the stairs, each step a small victory. For a long time, nothing happened. I began to relax, to think that the whole thing had been a one-time fluke, a childish delusion. Then, one evening, as I climbed carrying a bag of groceries, I reached the fourth-floor landing. The fluorescent light above flickered, and in that strobing darkness, I heard it again – the whisper, faint but unmistakable: ‘Step over the hollow.’ I stumbled, nearly dropping the bags, and froze. The landing looked normal, the concrete floor unbroken. But I remembered the voice, and I obeyed. I hopped from the last stair over the landing and onto the beginning of the next flight, landing awkwardly but safely.

I stood there, trembling, and stared at the empty space. There was nothing on the floor, no reason to be afraid. But as I turned to continue, I felt a cold draft curling around my ankles, and a faint, sweet smell, like rotting leaves, wafted past. I hurried up the remaining stairs, fumbling for my keys, and slammed the door behind me. My heart raced, and I swore I heard, just for a moment, a soft laugh from the stairwell. Since then, I have never taken a landing without stepping over the hollow. I do it at home, at work, at friends’ places, always with a sick feeling in my gut. I don’t know what it is – a trick of the air, a ghost of a step, a space between spaces where something waits to make you fall. I only know that I must step over it, or it will take me down, and next time, I might not get up. The voice has been quiet since, but I know it’s biding its time. And every floor I cross, I feel its gaze, waiting for the day I forget to step over the hollow.