The Lily on the Landing

The first time I saw her, I was six, standing in the hallway of my grandmother’s farmhouse in the hills of Appalachia, the bathroom door ajar behind me. The house had a smell of damp wood and dried herbs, and the hallway was lit by a single bulb that cast long, wavering shadows. She sat on the third step of the staircase, just above the landing, her hands folded in her lap, holding a single white lily. Her dress was a high-collared, long-sleeved affair of black crepe, buttoned to the throat, and she wore black lace gloves that reached her elbows. Her hair was a stark white, pulled into a tight bun, and a small black hat sat perched on her head, a short veil just brushing her forehead. She smiled at me, a gentle, knowing smile, and I remember thinking she was beautiful, like a grandmother I’d never met. I didn’t feel fear, only curiosity. I asked if she was waiting for someone. She didn’t answer, just tilted her head and nodded toward the bathroom. I shrugged and went back inside, and when I came out, she was gone.

I saw her many times over the years, always in that same spot on the landing, always with that lily, always smiling. I told my mother once when I was eight, describing her in detail. My mother’s face went pale, and she said, ‘Don’t talk about her. She’s the lady of the house. She likes the lilies.’ I didn’t understand, but I learned not to mention her. By the time I was a teenager, I convinced myself she was a trick of the light, a childhood fantasy, a shadow cast by the tree outside the window. I went off to college, moved to the city, and rarely thought of her.

But last autumn, I returned to the farmhouse to help my mother sort through my grandmother’s belongings after she passed. The house was quiet, dust motes dancing in the slanted afternoon light. My mother was in the kitchen, and I was in the hallway, looking at old photographs that lined the wall. I felt a chill, and I looked up. She was there, on the same step, same dress, same lily, but this time her smile was not gentle. It was a thin, tight line, and her eyes, which had once been kind, now seemed to hold a deep, ancient sorrow. She pointed a gloved finger at the bathroom door, then at me, then at the floor, as if telling me to kneel. I shook my head, backing away, and she vanished.

I told my mother, expecting her to dismiss it as I once had. But her face crumpled, and she whispered, ‘She’s been waiting for you. She’s the one who planted the lilies in the garden. She was my great-grandmother, and she died in this house, in that bathroom, on a night like this, a hundred years ago. She was a midwife, and she delivered my grandmother in that very room. They say she made a deal with the mountain spirits to protect the women of this family, but she never told anyone the terms. When she died, she was found on that landing, holding a lily, her face frozen in a smile.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the room that was once my grandmother’s, listening to the wind moan through the cracks. Around 3 AM, I heard a sound from downstairs, a soft creak, like someone stepping on the stairs. I got up, my heart pounding, and crept to the top of the staircase. She was there, sitting on the third step, but this time the lily was a deep, withered black. She was weeping, silent tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. She looked up at me and spoke, her voice like dry leaves rustling, ‘I kept my promise. I kept them safe. But now the last one is gone, and I am released. Come with me, child. There is peace in the garden.’ I wanted to run, but my legs felt leaden. She stood, and as she did, the house began to creak and groan, and the floorboards beneath me started to splinter. I saw the bathroom door at the end of the hall swing open, revealing a darkness that seemed to breathe.

I understood then. The deal she had made was to watch over the women of our family, to guide them through childbirth and death, but her spirit was bound to the house until the last of her bloodline left. I was the last, and she was asking me to join her in death. I took a step back, and she sighed, ‘You have my blood. You must take my place or end the line. Choose, child, or I will have to reap you.’ I stumbled, and I saw the lily in her hand begin to drip a black liquid that pooled on the step. I turned and ran, out of the house, into the cold night. I drove away without looking back, leaving my mother behind—but I know she didn’t make it out. The house claimed her.

Now I live in a small apartment in a city far from those hills. But every time I walk down a hallway, every time I pass a staircase, I catch a glimpse of white and black in the corner of my eye. Last week, I found a single white lily on my doorstep, its petals fresh and clean. And last night, I heard a creak on the stairs outside my door. She’s found me. And I know that soon, I will have to go back, or she will come for me, and the lily will be for my own funeral.