The Stairwell at Six

I live in a sprawling apartment block on the outskirts of Kraków, a gray concrete monolith that houses mostly retirees. On a Saturday morning in late autumn, I found myself in the elevator at six in the morning, heading down to grab a coffee and a newspaper from the kiosk across the street. The building was still, the air thick with the scent of stale cooking and dust. The elevator doors slid open with a tired sigh, and I stepped into the lobby, a bleak space with fluorescent lights that buzzed like trapped flies. To my right, a concrete stairwell spiraled upward into darkness, its steps worn by decades of feet.

As I reached for the heavy front door, a sound froze me mid-motion: footsteps on the stairs. They were deliberate, shuffling, like someone wearing worn-down sandals. The rhythm was steady, descending from the upper floors. I turned, expecting to see old Mrs. Nowak or maybe the janitor, but there was no one. The stairwell was empty, the silence pressing in after the last footfall faded. The sound had been too distinct, too close, and yet nothing was there. My heart began to pound, and a cold dread coiled in my stomach.

I stood there, staring at the gaping stairwell, my mind racing. It was impossible. I had heard those steps clearly, syncopated against the concrete, coming down. But the stairs were bare. The feeling of being watched crawled over my skin like ants. Then, without any conscious thought, I bolted. I shoved the door open and ran out into the morning, the cold air hitting my face, but the fear didn’t recede. It clung to me like a second skin.

When I reached the kiosk, I was shaking. I bought my coffee, but I couldn’t stop glancing back at my building. The windows were dark, but I imagined a figure looking down from the fifth floor, where the stairs ended. I walked back slowly, my dread growing with each step. I avoided the elevator and took the outside stairs to my apartment, my legs trembling. I vowed never to look at that stairwell again.

But I couldn’t shake it. Over the following weeks, I started using the stairs instead of the elevator, thinking it would be different. Yet every time I passed the stairwell, I heard it again: the shuffle of sandals, descending. Sometimes it was faint, like an echo, but always present. I would stop, my breath catching, and wait. But no one ever appeared.

One night, I decided to investigate. I waited until the building was silent, then I crept to the stairwell door. I opened it slowly, the hinges groaning. The stairs were bathed in a sickly yellow light from a single bulb. I stepped inside and began to climb, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness. At the first landing, I paused. There, on the concrete floor, was a single sandal print in the dust. It was small, almost childlike, but something was off. The print was too deep, as if the foot had pressed down with immense weight.

I followed the prints up, landing after landing. At the third floor, they stopped abruptly. In front of me, the air shimmered like heat haze, and a cold draft blew down from above. A voice, barely a whisper, brushed past my ear. ‘Go back down,’ it said. I didn’t wait. I ran down, my heart hammering, and burst out of the stairwell into the lobby. The front door was ajar, though I had locked it. I ran out into the night and didn’t stop until I reached the all-night convenience store at the corner.

I haven’t gone back. I moved out two weeks later. But sometimes, late at night, I hear those footsteps in my new apartment, even though I live on the top floor of a building with no stairs. And I know that whatever it was, it followed me. The stairwell at six will always be with me, and the sandals are always walking down.