The Fourth Stair

I was six when we moved into the old farmhouse on Cedar Lane, a place my parents called ‘a fixer-upper with charm.’ I called it ‘the house that creaked,’ but not in the way houses usually creak. Our previous home had been a neat suburban box, and I had a blue rabbit named Barnaby. He was my constant companion, his fur worn to a soft gray in patches, his one button eye loose but always present.

The morning of the move, as the van pulled away with our furniture, I realized Barnaby was missing. I searched my room, but the boxes were still sealed. I remember the hollow feeling, the first real loss I’d ever known. I asked my mother, who was directing the movers, ‘Where’s Barnaby?’ She frowned, said he’d probably turn up in one of the boxes. I didn’t believe her.

The farmhouse was different. It had a wide, creaking staircase that split into two landings, each with a small alcove that held a tall, narrow closet. The doors were old, with brass handles that didn’t match. My room was at the top of the left stairs, and the closet door in the alcove at the bottom of that stair always stood ajar, just a crack, as if someone had left in a hurry.

A week passed. My father was often away on business, and my older brother, Leo, spent his time exploring the barn. My mother, trying to make the house a home, busied herself with unpacking. I felt the absence of Barnaby like a weight in my chest. I asked everyone, searched everywhere, but nothing.

One afternoon, I was hunting through a box of old toys when I heard a soft thump from the alcove. It was a heavy sound, like a book falling, but the only thing there was the closet. I crept to the bottom of the stairs, looked up. The closet door was open wider now, a dark slit. And inside, I saw a small shape.

I knew it was Barnaby. I climbed the stairs, my heart pounding not with fear, but with hope. The door was just high enough that I had to reach. It was closed now? No, it was ajar. I pushed it open. The closet was dust-filled, empty except for a single shelf. On that shelf, Barnaby sat, facing me, his button eye reflecting a sliver of light. He was placed perfectly, as if he’d been waiting.

I snatched him, hugged him, and ran to my mother. ‘Look, Mom! Barnaby!’ She smiled, puzzled. ‘Where did you find him?’ I said, ‘In the closet on the stairs.’ Her face went pale. She said, ‘Honey, that closet has been locked since we moved in. The key is lost.’ She walked to the stairs and looked up. The door was closed. She opened it, but it was empty.

I didn’t care. I had Barnaby back. But that night, I placed Barnaby on my nightstand, facing the door. I woke up to the sound of a whisper, not words, but a rustling, like fabric against wood. The moon cast a pale light. I looked at Barnaby. His head was turned. Not toward the door, but toward the closet in my room, which I always kept shut. But it was open now, a finger’s width.

I called out, ‘Mom?’ No answer. I was frozen. I watched as Barnaby’s head slowly turned back to face me. His button eye caught the light, and for a moment, I saw not the familiar glint, but something else—a deep, wet darkness, as if the eye had become a pupil, endless and hungry.

The next morning, I told my mother, but she dismissed it as a dream. I decided to put Barnaby away, in a box in the attic. I was done with him. But as I carried the box up to the attic, I passed the alcove on the stairs. The closet door was open. I froze. A voice, small and clear, like a child’s, emanated from within, not through words, but through a feeling—a desperate plea. ‘Don’t leave me.’

I looked into the closet. It was empty, but I felt a presence, a chill that seemed to emanate from the floorboards. I tried to close the door, but it wouldn’t budge, as if someone on the other side was pushing back. I shoved with all my might, and the door slammed shut, the echo reverberating through the house.

I ran down the stairs, and in my haste, I tripped. I tumbled, landing on the landing, and saw that the closet door was open again. And there, in the shadows, stood a figure—a girl, about my age, with a pale face and black eyes like voids. She wasn’t looking at me; she was looking at the box in my hands, at Barnaby. She whispered, ‘He’s mine.’

I screamed, dropped the box, and Barnaby tumbled out. The girl smiled, but it was not a smile of joy. It was a smile of possession. She reached for him. I grabbed Barnaby, clutched him to my chest, and fled down the stairs, out of the house, into the yard.

I never went back inside that farmhouse alone again. We moved out a month later. But even in our new home, I would sometimes find Barnaby in strange places: in the bathtub, facing the wall; under my bed, facing me; on the highest shelf of my closet, staring down at me. Each time I put him away, he would return, his single button eye somehow closer to becoming a real eye, a moist, human eye with a pupil that followed me.

My parents thought I was being a child, that I was moving him myself. I knew better. That little girl had followed, and she wasn’t giving him back. The last time I saw Barnaby, he was on my dresser, and beside him was a small note, written in a childish scrawl: ‘The fourth stair is where I wait. Come play with me, and I’ll give him back.’ I burned the note, but I could still hear her whisper, late at night, coming from my closet: ‘He’s mine. He’s mine. He’s mine.’ And even now, as an adult, I sometimes see a flash of a stuffed ear in a mirror, and I feel that pull, that invitation to the fourth stair, where she still waits for a friend.