Something On The Stairs
There’s something on the stairs, she’d say.
There’s nothing on the stairs, he’d say.
The house settled and creaked and groaned.
There’s something on the stairs, she’d say.
He opened the door to their bedroom just off the second-floor landing.
There’s nothing on the stairs, he’d say as he gazed down the faintly lit steps into the darkness.
She watched him close the door, leaving it open a sliver.
She waited till he got back in bed.
Waited, while he wrapped his arms around her, before she fell asleep.
And so it was. And so it had been for him and her. 
Such traditions had been around since the yes-I-dos and death-do-us’s. 
And truth be told she knew nothing was on the stairs.
She said it just so he would wrap his arms around her each night. 
They loved these patterns which filled their lives and filled their hearts.
Every morning, they’d eat together. 
You want more coffee? she’d say.
No thank you, he’d say.
And in the evening they’d drink tea.
Earl Grey? she’d say.
Of course, he’d say.
And then they’d curl up on the sofa together.
Clicking on the boob-tube to see their favorite talk show. 
Sitting, sipping at their tea, they'd watch an overdressed charming man tell jokes. 
He’d quip, he paused, and adjusted his glasses to look smart. 
Isn't he funny? she’d say.
He really is, he’d say. 
And after the laughter, it was off to bed. 
Click, click, click.
They'd switch off the first-floor lights. 
Step up the wooden staircase. 
Always feeling the give and whimper of the fifth step. 
We should fix that, she’d want to say.
I'll do it tomorrow, he’d want to say. 
Instead to bed.
They’d close the door to their room just a sliver.  
And finally, it was time for their version of good night.
There’s something on the stairs, she’d say.
There’s nothing on the stairs, he’d say.
Then he'd checked and then wrapped her up in his arms. 
Until sleep.
Tradition and order and love. 
That was she and he. 
Till one-day, things changed. 
On that day, there was no coffee, no tea, no laughter. 
Instead, she wore black. 
Spent all day hearing ‘our condolence this,’ ‘our condolence that.’ 
And she did as the living do.
She thanked, wept, and watched as the wooden box went into the ground.
When she got home, she kept her tradition. 
Kept her daily routine. 
Kept all as it was.
Morning came.
You want more coffee? she’d say.
To which nothing would reply.
Evening came. 
Earl Grey? she’d say.
To which only silence would respond. 
The TVs on. 
Isn't he funny? she’d say.
To which her chuckle would be the only retort. 
Night came. 
The lights on the first floor would be turned off.
Click, click, click.
One by one. 
Then up the stairs.
The fifth step ensured the house was not silent. 
The door closed to a sliver.
Into a big empty bed.
Then waiting. 
There’s something on the stairs, she’d say.
Nothing would reply.
Sheets over her head, a single eye looking at the door’s sliver.
Listening, listening, and listening. 
There’s something on the stairs, she’d say.
To which only silence would respond. 
Day after day came and went.
You want more coffee? she’d say.
To which nothing would reply.
Evening came. 
Earl Grey? she’d say.
To which only silence would respond. 
The TVs on. 
Isn't he funny? she’d say.
To which her own chuckle would be the only retort. 
One day, she’d found herself tired of the nothing.
She didn’t make coffee.
She didn’t make tea.
Didn’t laugh at the funny man in the glasses. 
That evening she left the lights on. 
Walked up the stairs and just skipped the squeak of the fifth step. 
But kept the door open a sliver.
In bed she laid. 
Waited, waited, and waited.
Sleep came.
But not for long.
Click, click, click. 
One by one, she heard the lights turn off on the first floor. 
Then she heard it.
The clear press of weight on the first step. 
She sat up and listened. 
After a while hiding under the sheets.
Maybe I turned off the lights and forgot, she said.
Maybe my mind is tricking me, she said. 
Maybe I’m realizing I’m alone, she said. 
Such thoughts eased her mind.
Gave her comfort when the nothing would. 
And then the sound of a shifting house. 
An unnatural creaking.
There’s something on the stairs, she said.
It’s nothing, she said.
A haunting grown.
There’s something on the stairs, she said.
It’s nothing, she said.
The fifth stair cried out.
It cut through any doubt.
Made the shivers come without the cold.
She rose up, got out of bed, and waited. 
There’s something on the stairs, she said.
Opening the door to gaze into the darkness.
There’s nothing on the stairs, he said, as his jaw unhinged and fell to the floor. 
She screamed.
There’s nothing on the stairs, he said, as he dragged his decomposing legs into the room.
She screamed again.
There’s nothing on the stairs, he said, as he enveloped her. 
Morning came. 
She found herself in bed.
A dream, an aberration, an overactive imagination, she thought. 
For a moment she felt safe, felt cozy, felt warm. 
Then the smell came, the scent of horror.
The touch of death that wrapped around her.
There’s nothing on the stairs, he said.
He pulled her in tight. 
There’s nothing on the stairs, he said.
And he was right.
Nothing was on the stairs.
Back to Top