The Stairwell Caster

It had been three weeks since the last time I saw him. I had started to believe that the unsettling presence in my apartment building’s corridor was just a figment of my overactive imagination, a trick of the dim, flickering fluorescent lights. But last night, he came back, and this time, it was different. I live on the fourth floor of an old, renovated factory building called The Millworks. The hallway outside my door is long, with exposed brick and iron beams, and at the far end, a narrow stairwell descends into a shadowy abyss that seems to swallow the light from the ground floor.

I’ve begun closing my door at dusk, not fully, just enough that I can’t see out of the gap. It’s a childish superstition, but it makes me feel safer, as if the thin line of oak and varnish can keep out whatever haunts that corridor. But yesterday, around four in the afternoon, I had to use the bathroom. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of old pipes. As I passed the stairwell, I glanced down and saw a shadow cast by the window on the ground floor. It wasn’t a stationary shadow; it was elongated, distorted, like a figure ascending. And it was moving, flickering with each step, though no one followed. My heart hammered. I hurried to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and when I came out, the shadow was gone, and the stairs were empty.

That night, I read a book to lull myself to sleep, as I always do. My bedside lamp cast a warm halo across the pages. But I couldn’t focus. Every creak of the old building made me tense. I eventually turned off the light, but sleep wouldn’t come. I lay in the dark, staring at the strip of light under my door. Around 2 AM, I heard it: a soft, rhythmic tapping, like knuckles dragging along the wall, moving from the stairwell toward my room. It stopped right outside my door. I held my breath, waiting for the click of the lock, but instead, the tapping resumed, slower, as if tracing the outline of the door. Then, a voice, low and gravelly, breathed through the crack: ‘You can’t hide from me.’

I didn’t sleep that night. I stayed frozen, clutching my sheets, until dawn. When the first gray light seeped through my curtains, I finally crept to the door and peered out. The hallway was empty, but on the floor, just outside my door, was a small, crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up. It was a photograph, old and faded, of the stairwell, and in the photograph, a dark shape was visible, ascending, its face obscured but its limbs impossibly long. On the back, in shaky handwriting, were the words: ‘We’ve been waiting.’

I don’t know what to do. I can’t leave; the rent is cheap, and I have nowhere else to go. I’ve started to notice things. The shadow seems to grow longer each day, and sometimes I catch it out of the corner of my eye, standing at the top of the stairs, watching me. Last night, I left my door open a crack, just to prove I wasn’t afraid, and I saw it: the shadow detached from the wall, took a step toward me, and whispered my name. I slammed the door shut and locked it, but the whispering continued, seeping through the keyhole. It said, ‘You will open the door.’

Now it’s 3 AM again. I’m writing this by the pale glow of my phone. The tapping has started, but it’s not outside my door. It’s inside my closet. And the shadow is at my window, pressing against the glass, its fingers leaving smudges that don’t wipe off. I know I should run, but my legs won’t move. The door to the closet is opening, inch by inch, and the shadow is stepping out. In the dark, it takes the form of a man, tall and gaunt, with hollow eyes. It points at me, and I feel a cold hand on my shoulder. It’s warm. It’s familiar. It’s the hand of the man who lived here before me, the one they found at the bottom of the stairwell, his neck broken. And I understand now: the shadow isn’t following me. It’s been waiting for me to take its place.