The Third-Floor Light

My brother Theo and I had an eleven-year gap. When I was fourteen and he was only three, he was just learning to master the rickety wooden staircase of our old farmhouse. That night, I came back from my after-school job at the feed store with a skull-splitting migraine, the kind that made every sound feel like a hammer blow. Mom forced me to eat a plate of cold stew, and I stumbled up to my room on the third floor, flicking off every switch on my way up, plunging the house into a dim, creaking darkness.

I collapsed onto my bed, face down, and pulled the pillow over my head. The house settled around me, groaning in the wind. I could hear Theo playing with his wooden blocks down in the parlor, the soft clacks echoing up the stairs. The TV was off, thank God. I was just starting to drift into a fuzzy half-sleep when a sudden, glaring rectangle of light blazed from the hallway. My parents’ room door had swung open, spilling a sickly yellow glow into the dark corridor. I groaned, my head pounding in protest.

A small, dragging sound came from the hallway. I turned my head just enough to see a tiny silhouette thrown against the wall—not a child’s shape, but something hunched and limping. It paused at my doorway, and I felt a cold draft. I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart hammering. The light was unbearable, a searing beacon through my eyelids. I forced myself up, my legs heavy like lead, and shuffled to the door. The silhouette was gone.

I was furious, cursing under my breath about my parents letting Theo climb the stairs in the dark. I stomped across the landing, my bare feet slapping the cold wood, and reached into my parents’ room to slap the light switch. The light died, plunging the hallway back into blackness. As I turned, I saw the bathroom door at the far end of the hall slowly creak open, revealing a pitch-black interior. I froze. The door hadn’t been open before.

From the gap, a sliver of pale face peered out—not Theo’s face, too gaunt, too pale, with eyes that were dark hollows. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, and the door clicked shut. A wave of nausea hit me, and I knew I had to get out. I stumbled down the stairs, my hands gripping the railing for support, my head splitting with every creak. The parlor was dark, lit only by the dim amber of a streetlight outside.

I found my mother dozing in her chair by the cold fireplace, the radio murmuring static. ‘Why did you let Theo up the stairs?’ I demanded, my voice tight. She blinked awake, confused. ‘Theo’s been asleep for hours,’ she said. ‘I just tucked him in. And I’ve been right here, the lights were never on up there.’ The static on the radio grew louder, and I heard a child’s giggle from the second floor. Not Theo’s giggle—too high, too fast.

I ran up the stairs, two at a time, ignoring the pounding in my skull. Theo’s room was at the end of the hall. His door was closed, but from beneath it, a faint, flickering light pulsed. I threw the door open. Theo was sitting up in his crib, his face lit by the dancing glow of a candle that had not been there before. He was staring at the ceiling, pointing upward. ‘Third floor,’ he whispered, his small hand trembling. My blood turned cold. There was no third floor in this house.

I looked up, and the ceiling had begun to sweat, dark stains spreading like roots. A smell of damp earth and rot filled the room. The candle guttered, and Theo turned to me, his eyes suddenly too wide, too dark. ‘She’s been living up there,’ he said, ‘with the light on.’ And then the light above us flickered on, a bare bulb in the attic, and I saw the shadow of a woman standing at the top of a narrow staircase that I knew had never been there. She was holding a small, rusted lantern, and she was descending, step by step, toward us. I grabbed Theo and ran, but no matter how many stairs I took, I never reached the bottom.