The Gown in the Stairwell

During my junior year at Ashford University, I rented a small, drafty apartment on the top floor of an old Victorian house that had been converted into separate units. The landlord, a wiry man named Mr. Henderson, warned me about the building’s quirks: the radiator clanked, the floorboards shifted, and the staircase creaked in odd places. I didn’t mind; I was young and eager for independence. My apartment was at the top of those stairs, and every night I’d climb them feeling like I was ascending into another world.

It was the fall semester when my friend Lena dared me to try a Ouija board. She said it was a thrill, a way to pass the time between exams. I had never touched one before, but I was curious. I ordered it online, and when it arrived in a nondescript box, I felt a mix of excitement and unease. That night, alone in my cramped living room, I lit a few candles and placed my fingers on the planchette. I didn’t follow any rules, I didn’t say any prayers, and I didn’t have a partner. It was just me and the board, and I thought I was in control.

The first session was uneventful. The planchette barely moved, and I felt foolish. But I persisted. Every night, after classes and homework, I’d sit with the board, asking questions to the ‘spirits,’ hoping for a sign. The planchette began to move more deliberately, spelling out words that seemed too coherent to be random. ‘HELP’, ‘WATCH’, ‘STAIRS.’ I dismissed it as my own subconscious guiding the pointer. But then things started to change.

At first, it was small things: the lights in my apartment would flicker and then die, only to flicker back on when I approached. The old TV, which I kept on for background noise, would cut to static at random intervals, even when I wasn’t watching it. My cat, a skittish Siamese named Jasper, began to hiss and dart around the hallway that led to the stairs, chasing something invisible. I chalked it up to old wiring and a hyperactive pet, but a knot of fear tightened in my stomach.

One night, I was lying in bed, the door to my room wide open as usual, the hallway beyond bathed in the amber glow of a nightlight. I was just drifting off when I felt it—a prickle on the back of my neck, the sensation of being watched. My eyes snapped open, and I turned to the doorway. There, on the top step, stood a woman. She was tall, wearing a long, old-fashioned gown, white and delicately embroidered, like something from a century-old photograph. Her hair was dark and pinned in an elaborate updo, and she stood on her tiptoes, as if trying to be silent. But what froze me was her face—it was hidden in shadow, but I could see the suggestion of hollow eyes and a mouth that was too wide. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Then, as quickly as she appeared, she was gone.

I told myself it was sleep paralysis, a trick of my tired mind. But the next morning, I found scratch marks on the wooden floor at the top of the stairs, fresh and deep, as if something with claws had scraped against them. Jasper refused to go near that spot, and he spent the day under my bed, growling low in his throat.

I stopped using the board, but it was too late. The presence remained. The lights continued their erratic dance, the TV turned on by itself in the middle of the night, and Jasper’s frantic chases became nightly occurrences. One evening, I came home to find the board in the middle of my living room floor, the planchette missing. I searched everywhere but couldn’t find it. That’s when I realized I had never moved it from my closet.

A week later, I was in the kitchen making tea when I heard a soft rustling from the stairway. I crept to the doorway and looked up. She was there again, standing on the stairs, but this time she was closer, her toes barely touching the edge of the top step, leaning forward as if to descend. Her form was indistinct, a flickering like static on a screen. A cold draft swept past me, and I heard a whisper that sounded like my name, but distorted, drawn out.

I knew I had to do something. I called my aunt, who was into spiritual stuff, and she told me to salt the doorways and burn sage. I did as she said, but the following night, the smell of smoke was overwhelming, and I found my bedroom door covered in soot and scratch marks, as if she had been trying to get in. The board was back in its box, the planchette now in the center of the board, pointing to the word ‘YES’.

I couldn’t stay. I packed a bag, grabbed Jasper, and drove to a friend’s place on the other side of town. The next day, I returned to collect the rest of my things. As I climbed the stairs, the air grew heavy, and I could feel her presence pressing down on me. I reached the landing and froze. The hallway was lined with old photographs that I had never seen before, all of the same woman in the white gown, but in each one, she was closer to the camera, her face more distinct, her expression more anguished. In the last photo, she was right in front of the lens, her fingers reaching out, and I realized with horror that the background was my apartment.

I grabbed my boxes and fled. Mr. Henderson didn’t ask questions when I broke my lease. I never went back. I still dream of her sometimes, standing at the top of the stairs, her head tilted as if she’s listening. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear the creak of a step outside my bedroom door, and I know she followed me. But now I know the rules—never play alone, never ignore the signs, and never, ever leave your door open when you sleep.