The Staircase Listener

My exam prep had driven me to the attic room, the one with the private balcony that overlooked the city’s jagged skyline. It was a recent addition to our otherwise ordinary flat, a boxy extension with a spiral staircase that moaned with every footfall. My parents had never liked it, calling it ‘the tomb’ because of how the shadows pooled in its corners. But for me, it was a sanctuary, a place where I could spread my books under the yellowish glow of a desk lamp and recite chemical formulas while the city hummed below.

It was past two in the morning when I first heard it. The staircase, with its old wooden steps, let out a long, slow creak. I froze, pen hovering over a page. My mother had a habit of checking on me, but she would be in bed by now. I forced a smile, imagining her in her robe, shuffling up to scold me for staying up so late. I called out, ‘Mum?’ But the creak came again, more deliberate this time, as if someone was testing the weight of the steps.

I pushed back my chair and walked to the door. The corridor was dark, lit only by a sliver of moonlight from the balcony. The staircase was empty. I stood there, listening to the silence, and then I noticed something: a faint, rhythmic tapping from the other side of the wall, as if something was tapping back in response to the creaks. I dismissed it as the building settling, but my heart hammered anyway. I went back to my desk, but the silence was no longer comforting; it was expectant.

The next night, the creaks started again, at exactly the same time. But this time, they were accompanied by a soft, scratchy sound, like fingernails dragging across wood. I crept to the door and peered out. The staircase was still empty, but I saw a faint shadow at the top of the stairs, just at the edge of the light. It was there for a second, then gone. I ran to the steps, but there was no one.

I decided to set a trap. I sprinkled flour on the stairs before going to bed, and I waited. When the creaking began, I heard a footstep on the flour, and then a pause. I swung open the door, but the staircase was bare. The flour was disturbed, though, showing a clear footprint. It was too small to be an adult’s, and it was barefoot. It pointed upward, toward the attic.

The next morning, I examined the footprint. It was childlike, with toes spread wide, and there was a faint smell of damp earth and old dust. My parents assured me it was probably a trick of the light, a rat, or my imagination. But I knew better. That night, I decided to stay awake, sitting in the dark at the foot of the stairs, headphones on to muffle any sound, and I waited.

At 2:30, the creak came, and this time I felt it through the floorboards. The sound was not just a creak; it was a groan, as if the wood itself was being stressed beyond its limit. I held my breath, and then I heard a voice, barely a whisper, but clear as day: ‘Let me in.’ It was a child’s voice, high and thin, and it came from the direction of the attic room.

The hair on my arms stood up. I switched on my flashlight and trained it on the stairs. There, at the top, stood a small figure, no more than three feet tall, with a pale, waxy face and dark, hollow eyes. It wore a tattered nightgown, and its skin glistened as if wet. It took a step down, and the wood beneath it creaked, but the sound was wrong, as if the step was breaking under its weight. Then it spoke again, louder: ‘I’m cold. Let me in.’

I scrambled backward, tripping over my own feet, and slammed the door to my room. I locked it, my back against it, panting. The figure did not try the door; instead, I heard it shuffle back up the stairs, and then a long, drawn-out creak, like a door closing. For the rest of the night, I heard a faint sobbing from the attic.

In the morning, I told my parents everything. They exchanged looks of concern and told me I was overworked. But when I showed them the footprint in the flour, they grew pale. My father examined it and said, ‘That’s not a child’s print. It’s something else.’ He refused to say more.

I could not concentrate on my exams after that. The house began to feel wrong. The air in the attic room grew cold, and my books would scatter at night as if someone had blown on them. One night, I saw the figure again, but this time it was not alone. It stood at the foot of my bed, and behind it, a woman in white with a cracked porcelain face. The child pointed at me and said, ‘You took my bed.’ The woman smiled, and her lips didn’t move.

I fled the house that night, but I couldn’t stay away. The attic room called to me. I went back, determined to solve the mystery. I found an old photo album in the attic. Among the dusty pages, I found a photograph of a family standing in front of this very flat. The child was a boy, maybe five years old, with the same pale face and hollow eyes. The photo was dated March 2008. The caption read: ‘Our last day at home.’

The next night, I sat in the attic room, the photo in my hand. The staircase creaked, and the child appeared at the door. This time, I didn’t move. The child said, ‘You’re in my room now.’ I asked, ‘What do you want?’ The child tilted its head, and its mouth opened, but the words came out as a whisper: ‘I want your bed back. You took my bed. My bed is in the ground. Let me in.’

I looked at the floorboards. There was a faint outline of a trapdoor, hidden under the rug. I had never noticed it before. My heart pounded as I lifted the rug, and there it was, a small, square door. I pulled it open, and a cold draft rushed up, carrying the smell of damp earth and decay. The child’s voice rose from below: ‘I’m here. Let me in.’ I slammed the trapdoor shut and slid the bolt.

The next day, I told my parents about the trapdoor. They admitted they had discovered it when they bought the flat, but the realtor told them it just led to a shallow crawlspace. They had never opened it. When we finally opened it with the help of a locksmith, we found a small, empty room, barely three feet high. In the corner, there was a child’s bed, covered in dust, and a toy truck. On the wall, scratched into the plaster, were the words: ‘They left me.’

I never slept in the attic again. My exams were ruined, but I didn’t care. We moved out a month later. But even now, in my new home, I sometimes hear a creak on the stairs at 2:30, and a whisper from the dark: ‘Let me in.’ I never answer. Some doors are meant to stay closed.