The Fifth Stair’s Visitor

In the autumn of that year, my father bought an old farmhouse at the edge of a town that seemed to have forgotten itself. The house had stood empty for decades, its bones aching with age. The stairs to the second floor had a peculiar trait: the fifth step from the bottom groaned like a dying animal, a sound that cut through the night. We all knew to avoid it if we were sneaking around, but that warning became a habit, not a rule.

One night, my mother woke to that exact groan. It was a single, deliberate step, as if someone had placed their full weight on the wailing board. She sat up, heart thumping, and listened. The house was still. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet cold on the floor, and peered into the dim hallway. The stairs were empty, the light from the moon casting long shadows. She waited, but nothing moved. She chided herself for being jumpy and returned to bed.

Half an hour later, a prickling sensation crawled up her spine. She felt eyes on her, a weight of presence in the dark. She snapped open her eyes and found a figure standing at the foot of her bed. A woman, young-faced, with hair pulled into a severe bun, wore a black cotton nightdress that seemed to soak in the darkness. The woman’s eyes were fixed on my mother, unblinking. My mother gasped and pulled back, her hand flying to her chest. But the woman didn’t move, didn’t blink.

Thinking it was one of us children, my mother relaxed for a breath. But then she saw the details: the dress was old-fashioned, the skin too smooth, the stillness unnatural. This was no child of hers. Panic surged, and she scrambled out of bed, reaching for the lamp. The click of the switch did nothing, and in the sudden darkness, she heard the soft pad of bare feet retreating down the hallway.

She followed, her heart in her throat, checking each room. The hallway was empty, the doors closed. She descended the stairs, careful to skip the fifth step, and searched the ground floor. Nothing. She called out, her voice trembling, ‘Who’s there?’ but the house only answered with silence. Finally, she convinced herself she had imagined it, a trick of the old house.

The next morning, she told my father, who laughed and said old houses play tricks. But that night, I heard it too. I was in my room, reading by flashlight, when the fifth step groaned. I froze. Then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps ascending, one after another, each step a creak except the fifth, which they avoided. I held my breath as the footsteps reached the top of the landing and paused outside my door.

I thought I saw a shadow slide under the crack, but it was just the moonlight shifting. The footsteps continued past my door to my parents’ room, and I heard my mother’s sharp gasp. I crept out and saw my mother standing in her doorway, staring at the empty hallway, her face pale. She whispered to me, ‘She’s back.’ Then she went to the window and pointed outside.

In the garden, beneath the old oak tree, a woman in a black nightdress stood motionless, her face tilted up toward our window. Even from that distance, I could see her young face and the severe bun. She raised a hand and pointed directly at my mother. Then she vanished, as if the shadows swallowed her.

We learned from a neighbor that a girl had died in that house many years ago. She was a maid who had been found at the bottom of the stairs, her neck broken. They said she had been trying to sneak out to meet her lover, and the fifth step betrayed her. Ever since, her spirit walks the house, trapped in a midnight loop, seeking release.

But that’s not the whole truth. The woman wasn’t trying to escape. She was returning. Each night, she ascends the stairs, and each night, she stands before someone in the house, pointing. She is not lost; she is searching. She is looking for the one who pushed her, the one who still lives in this town, and she will not rest until she finds them.

My mother recognized her. She had seen her before, in a dream when she was a child. And now, the woman has found my mother again. The visits continue, growing more frequent. The woman no longer just points. She speaks, her voice like dry leaves, ‘You know where he is.’

Last night, my mother woke me up, her eyes wild. ‘She told me his name,’ she said. ‘It’s your father.’