The Footsteps in the Hall

I hadn’t been at the new job long, but already the rhythm of the graveyard shift felt like a second skin. The old place had been a dead end, but this one came with the hours I craved and a pay raise that finally let me breathe. Living in the same trailer, though, meant the walls still spoke in whispers and creaks, and the hallway still held its own kind of shadows.

That night, I was gearing up for my shift. The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower, and I was pulling my wet hair into a ponytail, my mind already on the tasks ahead. The door was ajar to let out the steam, and the trailer was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge. Then, a thundering of small feet – pat, pat, pat – coming down the hall. I knew that rhythm. It was my son’s, the way he would run to my room when he had a nightmare. A shadow flickered across the wall outside, unmistakable in its shape.

‘Hey, Ty,’ I called out, using his nickname, not turning from the mirror. ‘You okay, sweetheart?’ No answer. Just the fading echo of steps. I shrugged it off, thinking he’d gone to the bathroom. But a minute later, the sound came again, faster this time, and the shadow passed again, this time closer to the bathroom door. I turned, but the doorway was empty. The trailer was still.

I finished my hair and stepped into the hall, expecting to see him, but nothing. The lights were dim, and the far end of the hall was dark. I called his name again, softer, and heard a faint rustle from his room. I walked past the bathroom, the door now closed, and pushed open his door. He was fast asleep, covers pulled up to his chin, his chest rising and falling in rhythm. I stood there, a chill running down my spine that had nothing to do with the cool air.

Back in my room, I grabbed my keys and headed for the front door. But as I passed the bathroom, I heard it again – the patter of feet, but this time behind me, in the living room. I spun around, heart pounding. The living room was empty, but the curtains swayed as if someone had just brushed past them. I rushed to the door, the feeling of being watched crawling up my neck.

Later that week, I asked my son if he’d been running around that night. He looked at me, puzzled. ‘I was asleep, Mom.’ I laughed it off, but I couldn’t shake the memory. A few nights later, I was coming home from work, and as I unlocked the door, I heard the same running sound from inside. This time, I froze, key in hand, listening. It stopped as soon as I entered.

That’s when I noticed the tape I had placed on the bathroom door hinge to mark its position – it was slightly ajar. I had closed it before I left. I walked down the hall, my own footsteps loud in the silence. I pushed open the bathroom door, and there, in the bathtub, was a wet footprint. Not my son’s – too large. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next day, I told my son to stay at a friend’s house. I came home alone, determined to find the source. I set up a camera in the hallway, aimed at the bathroom. I watched the footage the next morning. At 3 AM, the exact time I had heard it before, the hallway was empty. But then, the bathroom door slowly creaked open, and a shadow, humanoid but warped, slid out and ran down the hall, disappearing into my son’s room. The door to his room creaked open on its own, and then closed.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t call the police – what would I say? So, I burned sage, I prayed, I even put salt lines across the thresholds. But the footsteps continued, always at 3 AM, always running from the bathroom to my son’s room. My son claimed he never heard a thing, but I saw the dark circles under his eyes.

One night, I decided to stay up, to confront it. I sat in the living room, lights off, waiting. At 3 AM, I heard the water in the tub turn on for a split second, then off. The bathroom door creaked. I stood, my heart a drum. The shadow emerged, and this time it didn’t run – it walked, toward me. I backed away, but the shadow grew, filling the hallway, blocking my escape. I screamed, and the shadow paused, then it dissipated into the walls, leaving me trembling against the front door.

I knew then it wasn’t my son. It was something older, something that had been in the walls of this trailer long before us. I called the landlord, a gruff old man, and asked about the trailer’s history. He went silent for a long moment, then said, ‘There was a boy who drowned in that bathtub in the 80s. He never really left.’

I moved out the next week. But sometimes, in my new place, when the house is quiet, I still hear it – the pounding of small feet, and a child’s voice calling out, echoing in my mind: ‘Hey, bubbs, wait for me.’