The Endless Stairs

Callum had heard of the old Bellamy Building for years—a forgotten office complex deep in the city’s industrial zone. Abandoned in the 80s, it was rumored to be haunted, cursed even, with a strange architectural anomaly: a staircase that supposedly had no end.

According to urban legend, those who went looking for the bottom floor never returned.

It was a cold, misty evening when Callum decided to see it for himself. He loved the thrill of unraveling old mysteries, but this time was different. Something about the endless staircase felt… wrong. Perhaps it was the whispered stories or the eerie silence that had claimed the building, but as he stood outside, peering up at the structure's dark windows, a faint unease settled over him. Still, curiosity won.

The entrance door creaked open, revealing an eerie, dusty lobby. Callum clicked on his flashlight and moved deeper, the faint crunch of glass under his boots breaking the silence. An old directory on the wall read: Floors 1–15. But what lay beneath wasn’t listed.

There, in the center of the lobby, was the staircase. The steps spiraled down, disappearing into the darkness below. It seemed ordinary at first glance, if a little worn and weathered. But something about the way the stairs spiraled down was strange, as if the depths went on and on, unfathomable.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself, and began his descent.

With each step down, the air grew colder and thicker. The stale scent of mildew filled the stairwell, but something else was there, too—a metallic, almost sweet smell that clung to the walls. His flashlight flickered, the beam barely cutting through the darkness. He tried to count the floors as he went, but somewhere around the fifteenth landing, the numbers stopped appearing. Instead, the walls grew rougher, the plaster replaced by damp, cold stone.

An uneasy sense of time passing crept over him. He checked his watch, only to realize he couldn’t recall how long he’d been walking. Thirty minutes? An hour? His thoughts were scattered, almost as if the stairwell itself was clouding his mind.

Then, he noticed something on the steps ahead—a shoe. Just one, scuffed and worn, lying on its side as if abandoned in haste. He picked it up, studying it in the dim light. It looked old, outdated, but there was no sign of its owner.

As he set it down, he noticed more objects strewn about on the steps below: a rusted pocket watch, a leather wallet, an empty purse, each one telling a story of someone else who had ventured too far. Unease swelled into dread as he descended further, past scattered remnants of lives long forgotten.

Then he saw the writing. Scratched into the wall in jagged letters was a single word: LEAVE.

Callum’s skin prickled, but he swallowed his fear, curiosity driving him deeper. The silence of the stairwell grew oppressive, pressing in on him from every side. He began to hear faint sounds—whispers, footsteps behind him that vanished whenever he turned.

At last, he reached a floor that seemed different. The landing was darker, and the door to this level was slightly ajar, as if inviting him in. He pushed it open slowly, revealing a darkened corridor lined with old, empty offices. His flashlight revealed a row of doorframes, each one leading to a dim, decaying room.

As he entered, he noticed an eerie sense of familiarity. A coat was hanging on a hook by the door—a coat just like his. On the dusty desk, a notepad lay open, covered in messy handwriting.

He picked it up, his breath catching as he read the words written on the page: Don’t turn around.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, but before he could stop himself, he turned. There, standing at the far end of the corridor, was a figure, shadowed and indistinct. It didn’t move, didn’t speak. But something about its presence felt cold, hollow—a reflection of his own silhouette, but twisted, wrong.

Callum stepped backward, his heart pounding as he stumbled back into the stairwell. He practically flew down the steps, hoping to find an exit, but the stairs seemed endless, twisting down and down. The air grew heavier, suffocating, the walls closing in until he felt trapped within a dark, sinking tunnel.

He lost track of time entirely, his thoughts slipping into a haze. Was he dreaming? Was he lost in some endless maze? Panic clawed at him as he realized he might never find his way out.

Just when he thought he could go no further, he saw it—a faint light below, a glimmer of hope. With the last of his strength, he staggered toward it, his legs shaking. The light grew brighter as he approached, and he felt the weight of the darkness lifting, the whispers fading.

Finally, he reached the bottom landing. There, at the end of the corridor, was an open door, spilling warm light into the gloom. Callum stepped through, feeling a sense of relief as he passed the threshold… only to realize he was back in the lobby where he’d started. The main doors were right there, open and inviting.

But as he made to leave, he glanced over his shoulder, and his blood ran cold.

There, in the dim light, stood his own figure, motionless, peering out at him from the shadowed stairwell. His reflection… or a piece of him, trapped forever in the endless spiral.

Shaken, he ran for the exit, desperate to escape the cold gaze that followed him. And as he stepped back into the misty night, the last thing he heard was a faint whisper, echoing up from the depths:

"We’re still here. We always will be."

Thank you for reading The Endless Stairs. If this story gave you chills, hit the like button and share it with someone who loves a good mystery. And remember… sometimes, the stairs never end.