The Second Floor Always Watches

It began on a Tuesday, in the old farmhouse my aunt had left me, a place I’d inherited but never truly felt was mine. The house sat on a lonely stretch of prairie, its clapboard sides bleached by sun and wind, and the only sound for miles was the creak of the porch swing and the constant rustle of dry grass. I’d moved in a month ago, hoping the isolation would help me write, but the quiet felt less like peace and more like a held breath.

That morning, I was in the upstairs bathroom, running the tap to warm the water for my shave. The mirror was fogged from the steam, and I was scraping the razor along my jaw when I heard it: three deliberate knocks, not on the outer door, but on the bathroom door itself. The wood was thin, and the knock was polite, almost civil. I paused, razor mid-stroke. ‘Who’s there?’ I called, but no one answered. I cracked the door open, expecting to see the silhouette of my neighbor, old Mr. Harlow, who sometimes came by to borrow tools. But the hallway was empty, dust motes floating in the slanted light from the stairwell window.

I shrugged, blaming the wind, and went back to my shaving. But a minute later, the knocks came again, sharper this time, more insistent. I swung the door open, ready to snap at whatever prankster was lurking, but again, nothing. The hallway stretched before me, the stairs at the end leading down to the living room. I could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hall below, a sound that had always seemed harmless, but now felt like a countdown.

I left the bathroom door open this time, determined to ignore the disturbance, but as I turned back to the sink, I saw the door swing slowly shut by itself, the latch clicking with a soft finality. My heart began to thud against my ribs. I reached for the knob, but my hand hesitated. The air had turned cold, and I could see my breath ghosting in front of me. I told myself it was just a draft, an old house settling, but I knew better. I stepped out anyway, and the hallway was silent, the only sound the ticking of the clock, which seemed to be growing louder, each tick a hammer on my nerves.

I descended the stairs, my bare feet cold on the worn wood, and found my aunt’s old cat, Mabel, hissing at the bottom step, her fur standing on end. She never hissed at anything. I called my mother, who lived a few towns over, but she said no one had come by, and she asked why I sounded so strange. I lied and said the wind was playing tricks. After I hung up, I decided to go back upstairs and pack my things for a trip into town, just to escape the feeling that I was being watched. Halfway up the stairs, I heard the knocks again, coming from inside the bathroom, and this time I saw the door handle turn, slowly, as if someone was trying to get out.

I froze. The door wasn’t locked from the outside; anyone could open it. But the handle turned with a deliberate slowness, then stopped. A moment later, the door flew open with a bang, slamming against the wall. I stumbled backward, almost falling down the stairs. There was no one there, but the shower curtain was billowing as if caught in a breeze, even though the window was shut. I ran down the rest of the stairs and out the front door, not stopping until I was in my truck, the engine roaring to life.

I drove to the nearest diner, a place called The Rusty Spur, where I tried to calm my shaking hands with coffee. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed me. The waitress, a woman named Elsie who knew my aunt, looked at me with concern. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, dear,’ she said. I laughed nervously and told her about the knocks. She grew pale and said, ‘That old house… your aunt always said there was a presence in the upstairs hallway. She never liked to talk about it, but she had a cross above every door frame on that floor, except the bathroom. She said the bathroom is where the door to the other side is thinnest.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. But she just shook her head and walked away.

That night, I didn’t go back to the house. I stayed at a motel on the edge of town, but I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the knocks, and I saw the door handle turning. By morning, I was exhausted, but I knew I had to face it. I drove back, the prairie seeming to stretch endlessly, the house looming on the horizon like a dark tooth.

I entered through the front door, the floorboards groaning under my weight. I went straight up the stairs, my heart pounding, and stood in front of the bathroom. The door was closed again. I took a deep breath, reached out, and pushed it open. The room was exactly as I’d left it: the razor on the sink, the towel on the floor, the shower curtain still. But the mirror was no longer fogged. Written in the condensation was a message: ‘I see you.’ My blood ran cold. I backed out of the room, my eyes scanning the hallway, and I noticed something I hadn’t seen before: at the end of the hall, a thin crack of light coming from under the door of what I had assumed was a linen closet. I never used that room. I walked toward it, my footsteps echoing, and as I got closer, I could hear a faint whispering sound, like a voice saying ‘come closer.’

I put my hand on the knob. It was warm, almost feverish. I turned it and pushed. The door opened onto a small, empty room with a single bare bulb hanging from a wire. In the center of the floor was a trapdoor, and on it was written, in the same condensation handwriting, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ I fell to my knees, my breath hitching, and the trapdoor began to bulge upward, as if something beneath was pressing against it. The wood creaked, and a foul, sweet smell, like rotting flowers, filled the room. I scrambled backward, across the hall, down the stairs, and out of the house, not stopping until I reached my truck.

I called a realtor that afternoon and put the house up for sale. I stayed in town for a week, trying to forget, but the dream never stops. Every night, I dream I’m in that house, and the trapdoor is opening, and something is climbing out, and I hear the knocks again, only this time they’re coming from inside the walls. And when I wake, I see the words on my bedroom mirror, written in condensation: ‘I see you.’ I don’t know what it was, but I know it’s still there, waiting. And I know I’ll never be free of it, because it’s not the house it wants. It’s me. And it’s been watching me all along.