The Shadow on the Stairs

Every winter, Nora stayed with her grandmother in her creaky, old house perched on the edge of the woods. The house had been in their family for generations, and each winter, it seemed to grow colder, as though it soaked in the chill from the snow-covered forest.

This winter, her grandmother was acting stranger than usual. She would lock every door and window each night, leaving salt across the thresholds and murmuring under her breath before bed.

“Why do you do all that?” Nora asked one night, watching her grandmother pour a line of salt in front of the basement door.

Her grandmother’s face was pale. “It keeps the shadows away,” she whispered, glancing toward the stairs. “But you must remember, Nora—never go to the basement. No matter what you hear.”

Nora brushed it off as old superstitions, but that night, she lay awake, her grandmother’s warning echoing in her mind.

Just past midnight, Nora was jolted awake by a strange noise. It sounded like whispering, coming from somewhere below. She sat up, straining to listen. The whispers grew louder, soft and insistent, almost like a voice calling her name.

“Nora…”

The voice was faint, drifting up from the darkness at the foot of the stairs. She wrapped her blanket around herself, goosebumps prickling her skin.

It’s just the house settling, she told herself. But the whispers continued, clearer now, almost pleading.

“Nora… come downstairs…”

She glanced toward her grandmother’s room down the hall. The door was shut, and she could hear soft snoring from inside. Trembling, Nora slid out of bed and crept toward the stairs, drawn by the strange pull of the voice.

She peered down the dark stairwell, squinting. The basement door stood open, even though she remembered seeing her grandmother lock it. The whispers seemed to seep up from below, curling around her like a cold mist.

Ignoring the pounding in her chest, she took a step down, then another, her feet moving almost as if they weren’t her own. Shadows flickered along the walls, twisting in the dim light, almost like figures shifting in and out of sight.

At the bottom of the stairs, the basement was pitch-black, colder than the rest of the house. She reached for the light switch, but it did nothing. The shadows thickened, gathering in the corners, moving as though they were alive.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Then, out of the darkness, she saw something—a shape emerging, slowly. It was a figure, hunched and ragged, its face hidden in shadow. But she could feel its gaze on her, sharp and unblinking.

“Nora…” it whispered again, and this time, she recognized the voice. It was her mother’s voice, but her mother had died years ago.

“M-Mom?” she stammered, taking a step back, her hand covering her mouth. The figure tilted its head, a twisted grin spreading across its face.

“You left me here… all alone,” it rasped, reaching out a hand that was pale and thin, as if it had been drained of all warmth.

Nora’s heart pounded as she backed up the stairs, desperate to escape, but her feet felt heavy, as though something was holding her back.

“You can’t leave… not now,” the figure hissed, stepping closer, its shadowy fingers stretching toward her. “Stay… stay with me…”

She stumbled, gripping the banister, forcing herself up the steps, finally tearing her gaze from the figure in the dark. She ran up the stairs, slamming the basement door behind her and locking it with shaking hands.

The whispers faded, but she could still feel the icy chill clinging to her skin. When she looked down, she noticed faint, dark fingerprints on her wrist, as if something had tried to pull her back.

The next morning, Nora tried to tell her grandmother about what she had seen, but her grandmother simply shook her head.

“Now you understand,” she said quietly. “The shadows… they remember. And they never want to be alone.”

That winter, Nora never went near the basement again, but every night, she could hear the whispers drifting up the stairs, waiting for the day someone might answer them.