The Floor Above the Landing

The coastal town of Marrow’s Reach wasn’t what I’d call a holiday destination. It was a place of grey skies, salt-bitten wood, and a particular smell of low tide that clung to everything. My company had sent me to manage the refurbishment of the old lighthouse keeper’s cottage, a project that was supposed to take three months. For accommodation, they’d rented me a unit on the top floor of a Victorian house that had been converted into apartments. It overlooked the harbour, but the view was mostly of the fishing boats and the ever-present gulls.

My family came every other weekend, driving the long coastal road to see me. My wife, Elara, and our two boys, Finn, five, and Rowan, three. The unit was small: a kitchen and living area downstairs, and upstairs two bedrooms bridged by a narrow bathroom. I took the larger bedroom, which had a queen bed and a single cot, so the boys could sleep in with me. Elara took the smaller room at the end of the hall, right at the top of the stairs. She never complained, but I knew she felt uneasy there. The door was always slightly ajar, and the room was colder than the rest of the flat.

It was on a Tuesday, two weeks in, that I first felt it. I was coming up the stairs with a box of files, and as I reached the top, a sensation of being watched prickled the back of my neck. I turned, but the landing was empty. The feeling persisted, though, a subtle pressure between my shoulder blades, as if someone stood just behind me, studying me. It happened in the kitchen while I made coffee, in the living room while I watched TV. I’d find myself glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see something, but there was nothing.

Elara dismissed it as stress and the creaks of an old house. But Finn, who had an imagination that rivaled the sea, started talking about the ‘lady in the hallway.’ He said she stood by the door of the room where Elara slept, and she didn’t like that we were there. I told him it was a dream, but the unease grew. One evening, as I walked past that door, I heard a faint, rhythmic scratching, like nails on wood, coming from inside. I pushed the door open, and the room was empty, but the window was open, the curtain billowing. I closed it, telling myself the wind had caused it.

The next weekend, Elara and the boys arrived. We had dinner, and as dusk fell, the atmosphere in the house seemed to thicken. I noticed Elara looking up at the ceiling more than usual. That night, after the boys were asleep, Elara and I were reading in the living room when we both heard it: a soft thud from upstairs, like a door closing. Elara went to check, and as she reached the top of the stairs, she froze. ‘The door to my room is open,’ she called down. ‘But I closed it before we came down.’ We went up together and stood in the hallway. The door was wide open, and the room beyond was dark, but we could see the faint outline of a figure in the corner, a darker shape against the shadows. It was the size of a child.

My heart hammered. I flicked on the hall light, and the figure vanished. But we were both shaken. That night, we all slept in the big bedroom, the boys between us. In the middle of the night, I woke to find Rowan standing at the foot of the bed, staring at the door. He whispered, ‘She’s singing,’ and sure enough, from the hallway, I heard a faint, high-pitched hum, like a lullaby, but off-key. I switched on the lamp, and the singing stopped. The door was open a crack.

Over the next week, the presence grew stronger. I started finding the bathroom door locked from the inside, even when no one was in there. The kitchen taps would turn on by themselves. I grew paranoid, checking every corner, but the feeling of being watched was constant. I knew it centered around that top bedroom. I called the rental agency, asking for the history of the building. The woman on the phone hesitated before telling me that a young girl had lived in that apartment with her mother, and that she had died there, falling down the stairs, many years ago. She’d been about Finn’s age.

I told Elara, and we decided to leave early, to stay in a hotel for the rest of the project. As we packed our things, we heard a crash from upstairs, and a child’s giggle, high and clear. We ran up, and the door to the bedroom was closed. I forced it open, and inside, the window was wide open, and the curtains were ripped. But what sent chills down my spine was the single bed I’d moved into the corner—it had been neatly remade, with the sheets smoothed and the pillow fluffed, even though we’d stripped the beds that morning.

As we loaded the car, I saw Finn looking up at the windows of the flat. He pointed and said, ‘She’s waving goodbye.’ I looked up, and in the window of that bedroom, I saw a small hand, pale and delicate, press against the glass. Then it was gone. We drove away, and I never looked back. But to this day, I still feel a presence behind me, just over my shoulder, and I can’t help but glance into every mirror, expecting to see a child’s face staring back at me. Marrow’s Reach stayed in my nightmares, and I never finished that project—I quit and moved my family inland, far from the sea, but the feeling never fully left. It’s a reminder that some places keep their ghosts, and they don’t easily let go.