The Unseen Stairway

Three years ago, I was house-sitting for my aunt and uncle while they were on a cruise, and my cousin was away at university. I was staying in their old farmhouse, which was set on a few acres of overgrown land. The house had a peculiar layout where the living room was separated from the kitchen by a wide archway with no door, and the stairs leading up to the second floor were in a drawing-room that branched off from the living room. The drawing-room had a tall lamp, casting a warm pool of light at the base of the stairs.

I was curled up on the couch in the living room, my laptop balanced on my knees, working on a project. My cat, Marble, a fluffy white Maine Coon, was asleep beside me, her tail twitching in her dreams. In this position, I had a clear view of the kitchen directly ahead, and through the archway to my right, I could see the drawing-room and the bottom of the stairs. Anyone moving up or down would have to pass through that light, and I would see them.

It was a quiet, still night, so when Marble suddenly perked up, her ears swiveling toward the drawing-room, I glanced up from my screen. I looked at the stairs, half-expecting to see my aunt, but there was no one. The lamp cast its glow on the wooden steps, but the shadows at the top were deep. I shrugged it off, attributing it to a draft or a distant animal, and returned to my work.

A few minutes later, I heard it: a faint, rhythmic creaking from above. It sounded exactly like footsteps pacing in one of the bedrooms. Marble jumped off the couch, her fur bristling. I felt a prickling at the back of my neck. I called out a greeting, but only silence answered. I told myself it was the old house settling, but the creaks were too regular, too deliberate.

Curiosity and just a touch of fear got the better of me. I set my laptop aside and padded over to the drawing-room, standing at the base of the stairs. I peered up into the darkness above. The creaking continued, a slow, heavy tread on the floorboards. I realized the sound wasn’t coming from above the stairs directly, but from further down the hall, perhaps in the room they used as a study.

I flicked a light switch near the top of the stairs, but nothing happened. The bulb must have burned out. I called out again, my voice slightly tremulous, asking if someone was there. The creaking stopped. I felt a fool, but I decided to go upstairs, just to ensure no one had broken in. I took each step slowly, the wood groaning under my weight.

At the top, the hallway stretched before me, dimly lit by a nightlight in a wall socket. The study door was ajar, and I could see a sliver of dark wood floor. I pushed the door open, and a gust of cold air hit me. The window was open, curtains billowing. I crossed the room to close it, and as I did, I heard the distinct sound of a drawer being yanked open behind me. I spun around, my heart hammering.

But the room was empty. Yet, there was a strong smell of dust and something sweet, like old perfume. I noticed the desk drawer, once closed, was now open, and inside it, a small journal lay. It wasn’t mine. I moved to close it, but my name was written on the front cover in my aunt’s handwriting. I opened it, and the first page read, ‘To whomever finds this, run. The stairway is not safe.’

I slammed the journal shut and backed out of the room, my skin crawling. As I reached the stairs, I saw Marble sitting at the bottom, staring up at me with wide, unblinking eyes. Then, I heard the sound of bare feet on the floor above. Slowly, I turned my head. There, at the top of the stairs, stood a translucent figure, a woman in a long white dress. Her face was contorted in a silent scream. She raised a finger to her lips, as if to shush me, and then pointed at the stairway below.

The light in the drawing-room flickered and dimmed, and for a moment, the stairs seemed to stretch, impossibly long. The woman whispered, ‘They know you are here.’ Then she vanished, and I was left trembling on the landing. I didn’t stop running until I was outside, and I never entered that house again.

Later, my aunt told me that the farmhouse had a history. A girl had died at the bottom of those stairs over a century ago, and her spirit was said to be trapped in the house, warning visitors away. I didn’t tell her what I saw, but I could never shake the feeling that the woman wasn’t warning me about the stairs—she was pointing at something else, something in the shadows that had been watching me all along. And the journal, which I took with me, contained only one other entry: ‘The stairway is a path, not to the second floor, but to the dark that walks between.’