The Stairwell’s Second Tenant

In the autumn of 2011, I was living in a cramped studio apartment in a converted Victorian house in Portland, Maine. My boyfriend at the time, Marcus, was a graduate student, and our place was a haven of mismatched furniture and stacks of books. One foggy October night, a few of his colleagues from the lab came over for drinks. The air was thick with the smell of cheap red wine and the low hum of conversation about thesis deadlines and grant applications.

Around midnight, after several glasses, I excused myself to the bathroom and accidentally saw a notification on Marcus’s phone from an old flame, a woman named Elena. The message was innocuous, but it brought back a flood of insecurities. Without thinking, I stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me, and ran down the hall to the service stairwell. The building had a grand main staircase, but the back stairwell was narrow, dimly lit, and smelled of dust and old paint. I sat on the top step, hugging my knees, and let the tears come.

A few minutes later, I heard footsteps. It was Dana, one of Marcus’s friends, a kind woman with a gentle voice. She sat beside me, rubbed my back, and whispered reassurances. After a while, I sniffled and wiped my eyes. ‘Thanks, Dana. I think I’m okay now,’ I said, forcing a smile. She nodded and headed back down the stairs to rejoin the party. I lingered a moment longer, composing myself.

As I stood to leave, I heard a soft click from below—the door to the stairwell on the ground floor shutting. I assumed it was Dana, but then I realized she had gone back up to the apartment. Curious, I peered down the stairwell. The ground floor landing was shrouded in shadow, but I could make out a silhouette that seemed to be moving in a strange, shuffling way, as if it were climbing without bending its knees. A prickle ran down my spine. I called out, ‘Hello? Is someone there?’

There was no answer, but the shape stopped moving. My heart began to pound. I backed up against the wall, trying to convince myself it was just a trick of the light. But then the shape started to ascend, slowly, deliberately, its footsteps landing with a wet, sticky sound, like something damp and heavy. I turned and dashed back to the apartment, slamming the door and locking it.

Inside, the party was still going. Marcus, Dana, and the others looked up, startled by my sudden return. ‘You okay?’ Marcus asked, his brow furrowed. I nodded, not wanting to ruin the evening with my paranoid fears. I took a deep breath, and we continued to chat and laugh, though I kept glancing at the stairwell door.

Later that night, after the guests had left and Marcus was asleep, I found myself wide awake, haunted by that image. I told myself it was just my imagination, fueled by stress and alcohol. But something nagged at me. The next morning, as I walked down the stairs to get the mail, I noticed a faint, dark stain on the step where I had been sitting. It looked like dried blood, but when I touched it, it was cold and slick, like oil. I quickly wiped it away with my shoe and hurried back upstairs.

Over the following weeks, I started to notice small changes. The stairwell light flickered even after the bulb was replaced. Sometimes, when I passed the stairwell door, I would hear soft, rhythmic breathing on the other side. The landlord, an old man named Mr. Ellison, grew increasingly agitated when I mentioned the stairwell. He dismissed it as ‘old pipes’ and ‘drafts,’ but his eyes betrayed a deep unease.

One night, unable to sleep, I decided to investigate. Armed with a flashlight, I crept down to the stairwell. The air was colder than usual, and I could see my breath. As I descended, I noticed that the walls were covered in a fine layer of dust, but there were fresh prints on the steps—barefoot, but with an odd, elongated shape, as if the feet had too many toes. I followed them down to the basement, and there, in the corner, I found a small, rusted locket. Inside was a faded photograph of a young woman with a sad smile.

I brought the locket upstairs and showed it to Marcus. He was pale. ‘That was Elena’s,’ he whispered. ‘She lived in this building a few years ago. She… she died in a fire in the basement. They never found her remains, they said.’ I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. ‘Marcus, why didn’t you ever tell me?’ He looked away. ‘I didn’t think it would affect you. I’m sorry, I should have said something.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the silhouette, the wet footsteps, the locket. I realized that the woman in the photo, Elena, was the same woman whose message had triggered my argument with Marcus. It was as if she had been drawn to my pain, to the tears I shed on that very stairwell. Had she been trying to comfort me? Or had she been warning me to leave?

I never found out. A month later, Marcus and I broke up—our relationship was too strained by the secrets we kept. I moved out of the apartment, but I never forgot that stairwell. Sometimes, in my dreams, I still see that silhouette, and I hear a voice, soft and distant, calling out my name, as if it were the only thing that could put her soul to rest.