The Shadow on the Staircase

My grandmother insists this story is true, and I have no reason to doubt her. We lived in an old building split into several apartments, and ours was the most cramped one on the top floor. I was just a boy then, maybe nine, and mostly unaware of the building’s history.

Even a child, however, could sense something off about the long, narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. It was always colder there, no matter the season. The light from the single bulb never seemed to reach the corners properly.

My grandmother and her friend, Mrs. Anya from next door, were the ones who saw her. They were coming up the main staircase one evening when they both stopped. On the landing between floors stood a young woman. She wore a dress from a much older time, plain and faded. She was there for just a moment, a silent figure looking out the dusty window, before she was gone.