The Floor Above

I work in the city, and during the week I stay at my grandmother’s old house, the one she left to my mother. It’s a two-story structure with four rooms, two on each floor. I sleep in one upstairs room, and my cousins share the other. We don’t go up there much, just to sleep or grab something. It’s plain, just a fan in each room. I’ve always hated the sound of doors slamming and heavy footsteps dragging across the floor.

My uncle stayed here with his wife a few years back. One night, he was coming up the stairs when he heard slow, deliberate footsteps above him, pacing the hallway. He stopped, and the footsteps stopped. He took another step, and they started again, but heavier. He rushed up, thinking it was one of us, but found the hallway empty. The doors were all closed. He and his wife left the next week, never saying why.

My cousin Anna, who’s stayed here the longest besides me, told me about the first time she brought a friend over. Her friend, a girl named Lily, was in the living room when she felt a presence behind her. She turned around and saw a tall figure in the hallway, just standing there, black and featureless. Lily screamed, and Anna ran in, but there was no one. Anna told me she felt a sudden chill, and the air smelled of old dust. Since then, Anna never brings anyone over.

As for me, I’ve heard the footsteps at night. I’ll be in my room, trying to sleep, and I’ll hear a heavy tread going up the stairs, then down the hall, stopping outside my door. The door handle will jiggle, once, twice, then silence. I’ve never opened the door. I’ve never dared.

One Tuesday, I came home late, exhausted. I climbed the stairs, and at the top, I saw a shadow—a black, human-shaped silhouette—standing at the end of the hall, right where my room is. It didn’t move, but it felt like it was looking at me. My heart slammed. I took a step back, and it vanished, like a candle being snuffed out. I stood there, frozen, I don’t know how long. Then I forced myself to walk to my room, keeping my eyes forward. That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening, but only the hum of the fan.

The next day, I told my mother. She said, ‘Oh, that’s just the house. It’s always been like that. It doesn’t hurt anyone.’ But I couldn’t shake it. That shadow felt different. It wasn’t just a presence; it was something that watched, and waited.

That weekend, I went home to our house, and I told my brother Mark. He scoffed, ‘It’s your imagination. Old houses make noises.’ But something in his eyes told me he didn’t believe his own words. On Sunday evening, as I was packing to return, I felt a sudden urge to bring a book I’d forgotten, so I drove to the old house. I let myself in, and the air was still. I went upstairs, and as I reached the top step, I heard it again: the heavy step of a foot, right behind me. I spun around, but there was nothing. The door to my cousins’ room was open, and inside, the fan was spinning, though no one had been there for days.

I grabbed the book from my room and hurried out. As I went down the stairs, I heard a floorboard creak above, and then a soft, deliberate closing of a door. I didn’t look back. I got in my car and drove off, my hands shaking on the wheel. I haven’t been back to the old house since. I’ve been staying with a coworker, telling her it’s because of the distance. But the truth is, I’m afraid of what I’ll find if I go back. The shadow didn’t just watch that night; it moved. And I have the feeling it’s been waiting for me to acknowledge it, to accept it as part of the house. But I can’t. I won’t. Because if I do, I might stay, and then I might never leave.