The Visitor at the Landing

In the autumn of 2019, my friend Dana and her two-year-old son, Leo, came to stay with me at my grandfather’s old farmhouse in rural Vermont. The house had been in our family for generations, and it always felt heavy with history, especially in the evenings when the creaking floorboards and the wind rattling the windows seemed to whisper secrets. I had a small terrier mix named Gus, who was usually full of energy and never met a stranger.

One chilly afternoon, Dana decided to drive into town to pick up some supplies, leaving me in charge of Leo. We were in the kitchen, Leo babbling happily in his high chair while I cleaned up from lunch. Gus was curled up on my lap, dozing. The house was quiet except for the occasional groan of the old wood settling.

Then, without warning, Leo fell silent. He stared intently at the staircase that led to the second floor, which was dark and shadowy as always. He raised his tiny finger and pointed, then whispered, ‘Look… he’s there.’ I asked, ‘Who, sweetie?’ But he just kept pointing, his eyes wide. ‘He’s on the steps. He’s coming down.’

A chill ran down my spine. I tried to laugh it off, but then Gus sprang to his feet, his hackles raised. He let out a low growl that built into frantic barking, his body trembling. I had never seen him so scared. He crouched low, tail tucked between his legs, still barking at the staircase. Leo began to cry, a high, panicked wail, and I grabbed him, clutching him to my chest, my heart pounding.

Gus wouldn’t stop. He barked and barked, backing away as if something was advancing. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt cold. I swear I saw a slight distortion in the shadows near the stairs, like a heat haze. Leo buried his face in my neck, sobbing, and I could feel his little body shaking. I wanted to run, but I was frozen, staring at that empty staircase.

After what felt like an eternity, I heard Dana’s car pull into the gravel drive. The moment the front door opened, Gus fell silent, slinking under the table. Leo’s crying subsided into hiccups. Dana rushed in, saw our faces, and asked what had happened. I told her, almost whispering, about Leo’s pointing and Gus’s frenzy. Dana’s face went pale. She told me that Leo had done this before, at their old apartment, always pointing to a corner and whispering about ‘the man in the dark.’ She said she’d thought it was just a phase.

That night, after Leo was tucked in and Dana slept, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I sat in the living room, Gus on my lap, staring at the staircase. I remembered my grandfather’s stories about his brother, who had died in this house as a child, falling down those very stairs in the late 1940s. They never spoke much about it. As the clock struck midnight, I heard a soft footstep on the landing. Gus whimpered, burying his head under my arm. I didn’t turn on the light. I just sat there, in the dark, listening to the old house breathe, wondering if the visitor was still waiting for us to acknowledge him. And I knew, in that moment, that Leo hadn’t been pointing at nothing. He had seen what we all refused to see—the one who had never left the house, watching from the shadows of the stairs, waiting for a new child to play with.

I never told Dana the full story of my grandfather’s brother. Some things are better left buried. But every time I see Leo staring at a dark corner, I catch my breath, and I wonder if the visitor will ever truly leave us alone. The stairs stand there, silent and patient, and I know that one day, Leo will be old enough to walk up them alone. And I fear what might greet him at the top.