The Hollow Staircase

Three nights have passed since I first heard them. I live in a rented ground-floor flat in an old Victorian house that has been divided into apartments. My bedroom is at the back, overlooking a small courtyard, and the only stairs in the building are the creaking wooden ones that lead up to the other units. I usually don’t mind the sounds of the other tenants—footsteps above, muffled conversations, the occasional slamming door—but that night was different.

It was just past midnight. I had been lying in bed, reading by the dim glow of my bedside lamp, when I heard the steps. Not from above, but from the stairwell itself. The sound was crisp, as if someone was walking on bare oak, and it descended with deliberate slowness. I froze, listening. The steps stopped at the bottom, then turned and ascended again, only to come back down. This went on for several minutes, like someone pacing, unsure whether to approach or retreat. I had never heard footsteps during the night before; the upstairs neighbors were a quiet elderly couple who went to bed early.

I tried to convince myself it was just the old house settling, or maybe a raccoon that had gotten in through the basement window. But then I heard voices—children’s voices, giggling and murmuring, as if they were playing in the hallway outside my door. My blood ran cold. There are no children in this building; the couple upstairs are in their seventies. I crept to the door and peeked through the peephole, but the hallway was empty, lit by the weak, flickering bulb at the far end. The voices stopped as I looked.

Shaken, I decided to watch some television to distract myself. I lay on the couch, the remote in my hand, but before I could find anything, I heard the footsteps again. This time they were in my living room, padding across the linoleum toward me. I could hear the soft shuffle of bare feet, like a child walking on tiptoes. The sound stopped inches from the couch. I didn’t dare move. The air grew thick, and I felt a presence looming over me, breathing. I slowly turned my head, and for a split second, I saw a pale, indistinct shape standing in the darkness by the window, but when I blinked, it was gone.

I didn’t sleep that night. I kept the lights on, the TV blaring, and my eyes fixed on the shadows in the corners. When dawn finally broke, I told myself it had been my imagination, heightened by an old house and too much stress. But last night, it happened again. At the same hour, I heard the stairs creak as something came down, and this time, I heard a child’s whisper right outside my bedroom door. It said, ‘Why won’t you open?’ My heart nearly stopped. I pulled the covers over my head, shaking, and I prayed for the morning to come.

Today, I called the landlord to ask about the history of the building. He hesitated, then told me that in the seventies, a family had lived in this flat. They had two young girls who used to play on the stairs. One night, the mother found them at the bottom of the staircase, at the exact spot where I now keep my shoe rack, their necks twisted at impossible angles. They had fallen, the landlord said, but everyone knew the father had done it. He was never convicted. I want to move, but my lease doesn’t end for another month. So tonight, I’m not going to sleep. I’m going to sit in the middle of the room, with every light on, and I’m going to watch the stairs. I know they’re coming again. And this time, I have a feeling they won’t just whisper. They’ll want me to join them at the bottom.