The Second Rung

I’m turning nineteen next week, but I want you to know that my age doesn’t make my experience any less real. I’ve always been a rational person. Even as a kid, I never believed in monsters under the bed or ghosts in the closet. I was the one who told my friends to calm down during sleepovers when they heard creaks in the old house. But what happened when I was fifteen still makes my skin crawl, and I still check the top of my wardrobe every night before I go to sleep.

We lived in a small town in the middle of nowhere, in a house that had been in our family for generations. My room was on the second floor, with a window that overlooked the overgrown backyard. Inside, near the closet, there was a tall cabinet my grandmother had left behind. It was old, with a mirror on the front that always seemed to be slightly ajar, reflecting the room in a distorted way. I didn’t like that mirror. It made me feel like I was being watched.

One night, I woke up to the sound of creaking. Not the normal house settling, but a rhythmic sound, like someone slowly climbing the stairs. I lay still in bed, my heart hammering. I heard the steps pass my door and stop in the hallway. Then I heard my mother’s voice, soft and calm, calling from the kitchen downstairs, ‘I’m just getting some water.’ I let out a breath, trying to convince myself I was just being silly.

But then I saw it. Across the room, by the cabinet, there was a figure. It was solid black, like a silhouette against the dim light from the hallway. It had the shape of my mother, but it was taller, and it stood perfectly still, as if it were watching me. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a shadow made by the moon. But the next night, it was there again, closer to my bed. And it stayed longer.

This went on for weeks. Every night, I’d wake up to see that figure standing by the cabinet, watching me. It never moved, never made a sound, but I could feel its gaze on my skin, like ice. I wanted to tell my parents, but I was afraid they’d think I was crazy. Then one night, my little sister, who was five at the time, came into my room, rubbing her eyes. She said, ‘Why do you stand on the top of the ladder and watch me at night?’ I felt my blood run cold. ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked. ‘I don’t do that.’ She looked at me confused and said, ‘But I saw you. Your shadow was on the wall, looking at me.’

I didn’t sleep that night. I knew I wasn’t the one standing there. The next night, I decided to stay up and watch my room. I left a small lamp on, and I sat with my back against the headboard, my knees pulled up. At around 2 AM, I heard a creak on the stairs. Then the door to my room slowly opened. There was no one there. But the room grew cold, and the mirror on the cabinet started to fog up in the middle, as if someone was breathing on it. I could see a faint outline in the glass, a tall dark shape. It was as if the figure from the hallway was now inside the mirror, watching me from within.

I screamed for my mother. She burst in, her face pale with worry. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. I pointed at the mirror, but the fog was gone. She looked at me, concerned, and said, ‘You’re having nightmares. It’s just stress from school.’ I wanted to believe her, but I knew what I had seen. The next day, I searched my memories, trying to find any reason for this. Then I remembered something from my own childhood. When I was very young, I used to see a similar figure at the foot of my bed. I thought it was my mother, but she never admitted to being there. Now, I wondered, was it the same thing?

I decided to investigate the cabinet. I felt an irrational fear, but I opened it. Inside, there were old photo albums, my grandmother’s clothes, and at the very back, a small wooden box with a lock. I broke the lock, and inside was a journal. It was my grandmother’s. I started reading, and in one entry, she wrote about a ‘presence’ in the house, a black shape that she believed was a guardian spirit that protected the family. But she also wrote that it fed on fear, and if you gave in to it, it would grow stronger. She wrote that the only way to make it go away was to ignore it, to never let it know you were afraid.

I tried to follow her advice. I started closing my eyes whenever I felt the presence, and I told myself it wasn’t real. But it was hard. The fear was like a living thing, clawing at me. The figure started appearing during the day, not just at night. I’d catch it out of the corner of my eye, lurking in the hallway, or standing in the garden. I could feel it getting closer, and I knew it was feeding on my terror.

Then, one afternoon, I was home alone. My parents had taken my sister to the doctor. I was sitting in the living room, trying to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I felt a cold draft, and I looked up. In the doorway, the figure was standing, not black this time, but translucent, like a shimmering heat haze. It was tall, and I could see its face now, but it was featureless, just a smooth dark surface. I felt a pull, as if it was inviting me to step closer. I felt my body start to move against my will. I was walking toward it, my hands trembling. I stopped at the edge of the doorway, and the figure reached out a long arm. Its hand was cold, like a corpse’s hand, and it touched my cheek. I felt a jolt of energy, and I knew it was trying to take something from me.

I remembered my grandmother’s words: ‘Ignore it.’ But I couldn’t. I was so scared. And in that moment, I did the only thing I could think of. I screamed, a primal scream that came from the depths of my soul. And the figure recoiled, as if burned. It seemed to shrink, and then it vanished. I was left trembling, alone.

After that, it never appeared again. I don’t know if I banished it or if it moved on. But I will never forget that cold touch and that faceless presence. To this day, I still look at the top of my wardrobe, and I think I see a shadow that doesn’t belong. And I know that when I have children, I will burn that journal and that cabinet, because some things are better left forgotten.