The Fifth Stair

The old farmhouse on Cedar Lane had a peculiar quirk: the fifth stair from the top always creaked, no matter how gently you stepped. I remember that sound like a heartbeat, a slow groan that echoed through the hall. My sister, Ellie, was three, small enough to be carried up to the bath, but she insisted on walking, one hand on the railing, her tiny feet pattering. That night, our mother was helping her out of the tub, wrapping her in a towel, when Ellie froze.

I was at the door, mid-sentence, asking about dinner. Ellie looked over my shoulder, past the doorway, into the dim hallway beyond. Her face split into a wide, gummy smile, the kind she reserved for the family dog. ‘Nana!’ she shouted, her voice high and thrilled. Mom and I turned, expecting to see Dad or the neighbor, but the hallway was empty. The only light came from the bathroom, casting our long shadows on the wall. ‘Who, sweetheart?’ Mom asked, her voice tight. Ellie pointed a wet finger toward the staircase. ‘Nana! She’s on the stairs!’

I felt a cold draft, and the fifth stair creaked. But no one was there. Ellie kept waving, her little hand fluttering. ‘Hi, Nana! Look, I’m all clean!’ Mom laughed nervously, said it was probably a shadow, and carried Ellie to her room. But I couldn’t shake the name. Nana. That’s what we called my great-grandmother, Josephine, but Ellie had never met her. She died five years before I was born, and I was seven now. I had only known her through photos and stories.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I crept to the top of the stairs, listening. The house was old, full of settling noises, but I heard something else: a soft humming, like a lullaby my mother used to sing. It came from below, from the living room. I tiptoed down, skipping the fifth stair out of habit. The living room was dark, but the moonlight through the window fell on the rocking chair. It was moving, gently, as if someone had just stood up. On the seat lay a small, green-and-white cat plush, the one my grandmother gave me before she passed. I had lost it months ago, and I knew it was in the attic.

I picked it up, and the humming stopped. A whisper, like dry leaves, brushed my ear: ‘Hello, sweet pea.’ I spun, but no one was there. The air smelled of lavender and mothballs—Grandma’s room. My heart hammered. I ran back upstairs, holding the cat, and dove under my covers. Ellie was already asleep, her face peaceful.

The next morning, I told Mom. She paled. ‘That cat was in the attic, sealed in a box,’ she said. She checked, but the box was open, the cat gone. Ellie came down, dragging the cat by its tail. ‘Nana gave it to me,’ she said, matter-of-fact. Mom sat down heavily. ‘Nana? What Nana?’ Ellie shrugged. ‘The lady with the soft hands. She lives in the wall. She says hi.’

We never saw her, but we felt her. The fifth stair creaked at odd hours. The cat would move, appearing in different rooms. Ellie would have conversations with the air, laughing and clapping. It might have been sweet, but it terrified me. One evening, as I tucked Ellie in, she patted the spot next to her. ‘Nana says you’re scared. Don’t be. She’s just lonely. She likes the cat.’ I swallowed. ‘Where is she now?’ Ellie pointed to the closet, its door slightly ajar. ‘In there. She’s watching.’

The closet door creaked open on its own. Inside, on the shelf, sat a photograph from my grandmother’s funeral, a picture I had never seen. In it, she was holding the green cat. I screamed, and the door slammed shut. Ellie giggled. ‘She likes you too.’

That was years ago. We moved, the house was sold, and I haven’t felt her since. But last week, my daughter, Lucy, now three, was in the bathtub. She stopped, smiled, and pointed over my shoulder. ‘Mimi!’ she said. I turned, and for a split second, I saw a shimmering shape in the doorway, the faint outline of a woman holding a green cat. Then it was gone. Lucy looked at me, confused. ‘She said the cat is for me.’ I couldn’t breathe. On the bath mat, there it was: the old green-and-white cat, worn but intact. I had packed it away in a box in the attic of our new house, sealed with tape.

I don’t know how it got there. But now, when I pass the attic door, I hear a faint hum, and the stairs creak, even though no one is there. And I know she’s not done. She’s still watching, waiting for the next one to call her name.