The Flat Below the Stairs

When my mother and I moved into the inherited apartment on the third floor of the old Monsoon Court building, we thought we were finally settling down. Dad was still working overseas, and after years of bouncing between countries and temporary rentals, this was meant to be our permanent home. The building itself was a relic from the 1970s, with peeling paint and creaky lifts, but it had a certain charm. Our flat, number 3B, faced the eastern courtyard, and the balcony offered a view of the city’s hazy skyline. Mom was thrilled to have a space of her own, and I was just glad to be done with moving boxes.

The evening we moved in, we had dinner at our family friend Ella’s place, just a few blocks away. Over cups of chai, Ella lowered her voice and said, ‘You know, the building you moved into? There used to be a lady in the flat right next to yours, 3A. She was a writer, kept to herself. One night, she called her sister in a panic, saying she heard scratching inside the walls. The sister found her a week later, locked in the bathroom, her fingers bloody from clawing at her own face. They never found a cause.’ Mom and I exchanged nervous glances, but we were devout, always praying, and we reasoned that such stories were just superstitious gossip. Ella added that the building had a high turnover because many claimed it was haunted, but we shrugged it off. We had lived in plenty of old places without trouble.

Later that night, after the long drive back, I decided to step onto our balcony for some fresh air. The balcony was narrow, with a rusted iron railing, and it overlooked the dark, looming trees of the neighboring park. The air was humid, thick with the smell of damp earth. As I leaned on the railing, my eyes adjusted to the dimness, and I noticed something strange: the window of the adjacent flat, 3A, was slightly ajar, even though it was supposed to be empty. I could see a faint, bluish glow from inside, like a television left on. I told myself it was just a neighbor’s light reflecting, but a chill ran down my spine. I went back inside, locking the balcony door, and tried to shake off the unease.

The next morning, I decided to investigate. I asked the building’s old caretaker, Mr. Pinto, about the flat next door. He was a wiry man with a perpetual scowl, and he spat on the ground when I mentioned 3A. ‘That place? No one stays there. The last tenant, she were a teacher. One day, she stopped coming out. They found her body in the bathroom, her neck broken, but there was no sign of a fall. The police ruled it an accident, but I know better. That flat is cursed. People hear things, see things. You stay away from it.’ I tried to press for more, but he just shook his head and walked away. Mom told me not to dwell on it, that we should just focus on making the flat our home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the building was watching us.

That night, I woke up to a strange sound. It was a low, rhythmic scraping, like nails on a chalkboard, coming from the wall between our flat and 3A. I lay in bed, heart pounding, and it seemed to be moving, slowly, from the head of my bed toward the window. I turned on the lamp, and the sound stopped. I waited, holding my breath, and it started again, now behind the wardrobe. I grabbed a flashlight and pressed my ear to the wall, but all was silent. I called my mom’s room, but she was asleep. I told myself it was just the building settling, but I knew I was lying.

The next day, I tried to enter 3A. The door was unlocked, which was odd. I pushed it open, and the inside was covered in a thick layer of dust, but it was clearly lived in. There were stacks of notebooks on the table, a bed with tangled sheets, and a faint, acrid smell like burnt hair. I walked to the bathroom, and the mirror was cracked, and on the floor were scratch marks, deep grooves in the tile, as if someone had dragged their fingers across it. A chill ran through me, and I heard a whisper behind me, barely audible, like breathing. I spun around, but there was no one. I fled back to our flat, slamming the door, and I didn’t tell Mom about the scratch marks.

The strangeness escalated. One evening, I was in the kitchen, and the gas stove suddenly turned on by itself, the flame flickering blue. I turned it off, but it clicked back on. I unplugged the stove, and it stopped. Another night, I found my mother standing in the hallway, staring at the wall, muttering, ‘It’s in the walls,’ over and over. She snapped out of it when I touched her, and she claimed she had seen a shadow slide across the wall. I tried to rationalize it: maybe she had a fever, maybe it was stress. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.

One afternoon, I was on the balcony again, and I saw a woman in the window of 3A. She was old, with long, matted hair, and she was staring at me with hollow eyes. She pressed her palm against the glass, and I saw blood trickling from her fingers. I blinked, and she was gone. The window was shut. I ran to the door of 3A, but now it was locked. I pounded on it, but no one answered. I called Mr. Pinto, and he yelled at me, ‘I told you to stay away! That’s not a friend you want!’ He said he’d call the police, but he never did.

That night, I had a dream. I was in 3A, walking through the dusty rooms, and a voice whispered, ‘It’s my turn to write.’ I saw a figure sitting at the table, hunched over a notebook, but its face was a blur. It turned to me, and it had no eyes, only dark hollows. It said, ‘You’ll join me.’ I woke up screaming, and my mom rushed in. She held me, and I told her about the dream. She tried to calm me, but her eyes were wide, and she whispered, ‘Ella called. She said the lady in 3A, her name was Maya. She was a writer too. She went mad because she could hear the scratching in the walls, and it never stopped.’

We decided to leave, to stay at a hotel for a few nights. But as we packed, I heard the scratching again, louder now, coming from everywhere—from the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It was rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I looked at the key in my hand, and I noticed it was trembling. Mom grabbed my arm, and her grip was cold, and she said, ‘It’s already inside.’ I turned to look at her, and her eyes were black, and her smile was too wide. I screamed, and I woke up.

I was in my bed, covered in sweat, and the sun was streaming through the curtains. Mom was knocking on my door, asking if I was okay. I stumbled to the door, and she looked normal, worried. I told her about the dream, and she said, ‘You’ve been dreaming a lot lately. Maybe it’s the stress of moving.’ But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. That night, I decided to face it. I took a flashlight and a kitchen knife, and I went to 3A. The door was unlocked again. I stepped inside, and the air was cold, unlike the rest of the building. I moved through the rooms, and the scratching grew louder, until it was deafening. I felt a presence behind me, and I turned.

It was the woman from the window, but she was not human. Her skin was cracked, and her mouth opened too wide, and she spoke in a voice that was not a voice, but a vibration in my skull. ‘I’ve been waiting for someone to finish my story,’ she said. ‘You have the soul of a writer. You will take my place.’ I tried to run, but my feet were rooted. Her hand reached out, and it was cold, like ice, and it touched my forehead. I felt a searing pain, and then nothing.

I woke up on my balcony, the sun in my eyes. My mom was shaking me, crying, ‘You were asleep for three days! I was so scared!’ I tried to explain, but I couldn’t find the words. Since then, I’ve tried to live normally, but I’ve noticed changes. I sometimes find myself writing in a notebook I don’t remember buying, and the handwriting is not mine. The scratching has become a constant companion, a low hum in the back of my mind. Last week, I looked in the mirror, and for a split second, I saw her face instead of mine. My mom has started avoiding me, saying I scare her. And last night, I heard my own voice coming from the walls, saying, ‘It’s my turn now.’ I know now that the flat below the stairs is not a place; it’s a legacy, and I am its new keeper.