The Long Stairwell

I was nine, in Mrs. Kendrick’s class, when the new school year started at Hollow Creek Elementary. The building was old, with long, dim hallways and a stairwell that smelled of floor wax and something musty. I was a shy kid, always trying to blend in, but a full bladder on a cold November morning forced me to raise my hand.

‘May I go to the bathroom?’ I asked, my voice small. Mrs. Kendrick nodded, her eyes never leaving the chalkboard. I slipped out of the room, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The bathroom was at the bottom of the stairwell, past a row of lockers that seemed to lean in as I passed. I pushed open the heavy door, and the fluorescent light flickered on, humming a low, droning note.

I walked past the row of stalls, my eyes fixed on the cracked tile floor. Halfway down, a flicker of movement caught my eye. I turned sharply, expecting to see a classmate, but there was nothing. Just the empty space between the stalls. A chill ran up my spine, and I hurried into the first stall, locking the door with a shaky hand.

When I was done, I washed my hands, avoiding my reflection in the grimy mirror. But as I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of a dark shape in the corner of my eye, crouched low near the last stall. I snapped my head around, but again, nothing. My heart pounded as I ran out of there, not stopping until I reached the safety of the classroom.

A few weeks later, we were lined up at the sinks, washing our hands before lunch. The teacher was overseeing the chaos at the door, and I slipped into the first stall to pee quickly. As I sat there, I heard the faucets stop, and the sounds of my classmates fading as they headed down the hall to the cafeteria. I was alone.

I was about to leave when I noticed something under the partition of the next stall: a pair of white sneakers and the cuffed hem of jeans. I grinned, thinking it was my buddy, Danny, playing a prank. I stretched out my foot, trying to tap his shoe, but my leg wasn’t long enough. I pushed harder, my heel scraping the floor, but the shoes didn’t move. I bent down, peering under the gap, and saw that the shoes were just… there. No legs above them, no body. Just sneakers and the faint outline of jeans, as if someone was standing there, but invisible. I scrambled out of the stall, my hands trembling, and the shoes were gone. I was definitely alone.

After that, the incidents escalated. I’d see a dark silhouette in the hallway, always just at the edge of my vision. I’d hear soft footsteps following me on the long stairwell, but when I turned, no one was there. One afternoon, I was sent to the supply closet for more paper, and as I reached for a ream on the top shelf, I saw a face in the window of the door—pale, with hollow eyes, but it vanished the moment I looked directly. My sleep became riddled with nightmares, and I began to dread school.

I told my friend, Emma, about it one recess, but she laughed, calling it my ‘imagination.’ So I decided to confront it. I stayed after school, hiding in the bathroom until the halls went quiet. I crept out, my flashlight cutting through the gloom. The stairwell was dark, the only light spilling from the main office far down the hall. I started down, my footsteps loud in the silence.

Halfway down, a faint, rhythmic sound reached my ears—like a child’s jump rope slapping the floor. It grew louder, mixed with a low, gurgling whisper. I froze on the steps, my flashlight beam trembling. The sound came from the bottom, near the door of the girls’ bathroom. I took a step back, but my heel hit the edge, and I stumbled, tumbling down the last few steps. My flashlight clattered away, and in the darkness, I saw it.

It was a black shape, about my size, crouched in the corner of the landing. It raised a featureless head, and two pinprick points of red glowed where eyes might be. It spoke in a voice that was both a child’s and not, emitting a string of syllables that sounded like ‘miiine.’ I screamed, scrambling to my feet and racing up the stairs, not looking back until I burst through the school’s main doors into the cold afternoon light.

I never went to the basement bathroom again. I took to holding it all day, until the bus ride home. But even now, as an adult, I hear that gurgling voice on quiet nights, and sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see a black shape waiting at the top of a stairwell, waiting for me to come down.