The Landing at Chasm House

My grandmother’s house, Chasm House, sat on a cliff overlooking the sea, its foundations sunk deep into the rock. For years, my siblings and I had felt something there—a presence that pressed down on us when we climbed the creaking stairs, a weight in the air in the library, a cold breath on the back of our necks in the hallway. I dismissed it as imagination, the stories we told ourselves to feel brave. But my older brother, Elias, swore he saw a figure standing at the top of the landing one night, and my cousin, Mara, heard her name whispered in the attic. I wanted proof. So I invited my friend, June—who was a skeptic, a believer in logic—to help me investigate. We brought an old digital recorder and a flashlight, and we planned a walkthrough at midnight.

We started in the entrance hall, the floorboards groaning under our feet. The house smelled of salt and old wood. I saw June’s hand tremble slightly as she held the recorder, but she put on a brave smile. We began our trek, moving toward the wide staircase that led to the second floor. The stairs were worn, carpeted with a faded red runner. The house was silent except for our breathing and the faint hum of the ocean below. I asked the first question, my voice echoing: ‘Is anybody there?’ The recorder flashed, but we heard nothing in response. June shook her head. ‘I don’t think anything’s here,’ she said, and as the words left her mouth, she stumbled. It wasn’t a graceful slip—her foot twisted awkwardly, and she tumbled down three steps, hitting her elbow against the banister, letting out a sharp cry. I caught her before she fell further, my heart pounding. She looked pale, her eyes wide, but she insisted it was just loose carpet. We continued, but the atmosphere had thickened. I asked a second question: ‘What do you want?’ Nothing. Third question, as we reached the landing: ‘Do you live here?’ And then, distinctly, from the recorder, a voice—deep, hollow, male—replied, ‘Do you?’ The smile on June’s face vanished. She looked at me, and I saw fear in her eyes for the first time.

We continued through the upstairs rooms, but I could feel that something had changed. The air grew colder, and there was a faint smell of pipe tobacco, though no one in the house smoked. I asked more questions—’Are you friendly?’ and ‘Why are you here?’—but the recorder only picked up our own nervous whispers. Finally, we returned to the sitting room on the ground floor, the place I always felt safest. We plugged the recorder into a small speaker and replayed the tape. My blood ran cold when I heard it: the first question, ‘Is anybody there?’ was answered by a voice saying, ‘Yes.’ A male voice, not mine or June’s, but a stranger’s, seeming to come from deep inside the house. And when I asked ‘Do you live here?’ the same voice shot back, ‘Do you?’ It was the third question that made my skin prickle. June and I stared at each other, and I felt my stomach drop.

We sat in silence for a long moment. Then June whispered, ‘That wasn’t there before.’ I replayed it again, and again, and each time I heard the voice more clearly, as if it were standing right behind me. I looked up at the ceiling, and I saw a shadow move across the far wall, though nothing was there. And then the house itself seemed to settle, a deep groan that vibrated through the floorboards. I knew then that the thing was not a superstition, but a presence—something that had been waiting, watching, and that it had pushed June not merely to frighten her, but to announce its existence. I never returned to Chasm House after that night. But sometimes, in my dreams, I stand on that landing again, and I hear that voice ask, ‘Do you live here?’ And in the dream, I always answer, ‘No.’ But the thing in the house only laughs, and I feel the stairs shift beneath me, as if they are about to give way, and I wake up gasping.