The Last Stairs

It was a Tuesday, or maybe a Wednesday, I lose track of those days. I was 16 then, living with my uncle in a drafty old house at the end of a cul-de-sac. My room was in the attic, a converted space with slanted ceilings and a single window that looked out onto a dead oak tree. I had a thing for collecting old tools, not guns, but hammers, hatchets, and a vintage straight razor I’d found in a flea market. I wasn’t afraid of much, not then. Uncle Ray taught me that fear is a choice, and I chose not to feel it.

That night, I was up late as usual, reading a tattered copy of Moby Dick by the light of a flickering desk lamp. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Around 1 AM, I heard it: heavy footsteps in the hallway below, slow and deliberate, like someone carrying a sack of potatoes. I assumed it was Uncle Ray, maybe getting a snack. But then I heard them again, and again. Three or four times, pacing back and forth, from the front of the house to the back. I put down my book and listened. The footsteps stopped just below my door, which led to a narrow staircase down to the main hallway.

I grabbed my favorite hatchet from under my pillow. It had a worn wooden handle and a blade that caught the lamplight. I crept to the door and pressed my ear against the cool wood. Nothing. But then I heard a soft, wet sound, like a cloth being wrung out. And a voice, low and gravelly, whispering, ‘The stairs remember.’ I didn’t know what that meant, but I felt a cold knot in my stomach.

I opened the door slowly, expecting to find my uncle, but the hallway was empty. The stairs down were dark, and the air smelled of rust and damp earth. I stepped onto the top stair, and it creaked under my weight. That’s when I noticed something odd: the stairs were covered in a thin layer of dust, and there were footprints, but they were going up, not down. And they were barefoot, with six toes.

I should have gone back to my room, but I didn’t. I followed the prints down, one step at a time, hatchet raised. The house had never felt so large. At the bottom, the footprints led toward the kitchen, then stopped at the back door. The door was closed, but the handle was stained with something dark. I touched it, and my finger came away sticky. That’s when I heard a sound from the attic, above me now. A scraping, like something being dragged across the floor.

I ran back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I burst into my room, and the window was wide open, the curtains billowing. On the floor, in the dust, was a message written in what looked like red paint: ‘YOU SHOULD HAVE LOST.’ I spun around, but the room was empty. I sat on my bed, gripping the hatchet, until dawn broke. When Uncle Ray came up, he found me staring at the message. He didn’t say a word, just looked at the window and then at me.

He asked, ‘Did you see it?’ I shook my head. He muttered, ‘It’s been here since I was a boy. It only acts when someone tries to be brave.’ He then took a rag and wiped the message clean, revealing the wood beneath, which was scarred with old scratches, like claw marks. I never slept in that room again, and we moved out a month later. But sometimes, at night, I still hear stairs creaking, and that voice whispering, ‘The stairs remember.’ And I know it’s not my imagination, because last week, I found a footprint in the dust of my new apartment, leading from the door to my bed, and it had six toes. I’ve decided that fear is a choice, and I choose to run.