The Stairwell Visitor

When I was seven, my family lived in a narrow, three-story house on Elm Street, where the creaks and groans of the old wood were like a second language. My parents’ bedroom was on the second floor, just a few steps from the top of the stairs, and I still slept in their room, on a small cot in the corner, because I was afraid of the dark. One night, I woke to a sound—a soft, rhythmic scraping, like nails on a chalkboard, coming from downstairs. I sat up in bed, my heart thumping, and listened. The sound stopped. I crept out of bed, my feet cold on the wooden floor, and made my way to the bedroom door. It was locked. I jiggled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. My parents must have locked it from the inside. I sighed and sat down on the floor, my back against the door, deciding to wait until they woke up to let me in.

That’s when I noticed the stairwell. It was dark, but there was a faint light from a nightlight in the hallway below, casting long shadows. As I looked down, I saw a shape at the bottom of the stairs—a dark silhouette, too small to be an adult, too still to be an animal. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was just a pile of clothes or a toy I’d left behind. But then I saw it again, this time higher up, on the third step from the bottom. It was shaped like a head and shoulders, like someone crouching. I stared at it, trying to make out details, but the darkness seemed to swallow it. I felt a chill run down my spine, but I forced myself to look away, telling myself I was being silly. I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep, sitting there on the cold floor.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, I was being woken by a sound—a soft, wet breathing, right in front of my face. I opened my eyes, and there, inches from me, was a face. It was the face of an old woman, with skin like wrinkled leather, gray and mottled. Her eyes were milky white, and her mouth was open in a silent scream, revealing blackened, broken teeth. She was crouched on the stairwell, her long, bony fingers wrapped around the banister, and she was staring at me with a hunger that made me freeze. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I scrambled to my feet, my hands shaking, and I pounded on the bedroom door, screaming for my parents.

The door swung open, and my father stood there, sleepy-eyed. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, but I couldn’t speak. I just pointed at the stairwell, but when I looked, the old woman was gone. My father walked to the top of the stairs and looked down, but there was nothing there. He sighed and said, ‘You probably had a nightmare.’ He led me back to my cot, and I lay there, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I never told anyone about the old woman, not even my parents.

Years later, after we moved away, I learned from a neighbor that a woman had died in that house, a recluse who had been found at the bottom of the stairs, her neck broken. They said she had been looking for someone, but no one knew who. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see her face, those milky eyes, and I wonder if she’s still there, waiting at the bottom of the stairwell, watching and waiting for another child to come.