Don’t Feed the Thing Under the Stairs

I was eight years old the first time I heard the knock—two soft taps, then silence.

It came from under the wooden staircase in my grandmother’s old Victorian house. The kind of knock that made you freeze in the hallway, your heart thudding louder than the sound itself. But what made it worse wasn’t the knock. It was what Grandma said when I asked her about it.

“Don’t feed it,” she whispered, eyes darting toward the stairs. “Never feed the thing under the stairs.”

I thought she was joking. Adults said strange things sometimes. But Grandma wasn’t the joking type. She was kind and careful—always knitting, always humming—but never smiling when the stairs were mentioned.

The First Rule

We moved in with Grandma after Dad lost his job and Mom needed help. The house was creaky but cozy. I loved it, mostly because it smelled like cinnamon and old books.

But there were rules—Grandma was big on rules.

No running in the hallway.

No loud voices in the evening.

And never, ever leave food near the stair closet.

That last rule was strange. But I listened. Until I didn’t.

The Temptation

It started with curiosity. Isn’t that how most scary stories begin? You hear a sound, a whisper, or a riddle—and your brain can’t let it go.

That’s how it was with me.

I’d walk past the stairs slowly, trying to catch the sound again. Sometimes I did. Two knocks, like knuckles on old wood. They didn’t sound angry or scary. Just... lonely.

One night, I brought down a cookie from the kitchen. Grandma had made a batch and said I could have one after dinner. I snuck down, tiptoed toward the door under the stairs, and placed the cookie on a saucer in front of it.

Nothing happened. No knock. No growl. No movement. I waited five minutes before I got scared and ran back to bed.

In the morning, the plate was empty.

The Whispers Begin

Over the next few days, I left more things. A cracker. A slice of apple. Even a sugar cube from the tea jar. Every time, the offering vanished overnight.

Then came the whispers.

“Thank you,” they said—soft and breathy. “So hungry. So long.”

It didn’t sound mean. It sounded sad. I started talking to it. Asking it questions.

“Who are you?”

“Why are you under the stairs?”

“What do you eat?”

It never answered that last one.

The Change

That’s when things began to shift.

The lights flickered more. Cold spots formed around the staircase. I had nightmares of staircases that went nowhere, of hands reaching from shadows.

One morning, Grandma caught me kneeling by the stair door with a muffin in hand.

Her face turned pale. She dropped her teacup.

“You fed it,” she whispered.

I nodded, suddenly unsure if I had done something wrong—or something terribly right.

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “You never feed it. Not even if it thanks you.”

The Truth Beneath

Grandma sat me down and told me a story. Not a fairy tale. A family truth.

Years ago, before I was born, her younger brother—my great uncle—disappeared in that house. He was twelve, clever, and curious. One night, he started hearing knocks under the stairs. He left bits of food. Whispered to it. Thought it was a secret friend.

Then one day, he vanished. All they found was a slice of bread on a plate and the stair closet door wide open.

Grandma believed something fed on kindness. Something old. Something lonely. And every few decades, it wakes up.

Breaking the Cycle

That night, I waited by the stairs again. This time, not with food, but with something else.

A storybook.

I opened it, sat cross-legged, and read aloud.

The knocking started. Soft. Then louder.

Still, I read.

And when I finished the last line, I said, “That’s all for tonight. Goodnight.”

Silence.

The air around me shifted—calmer, warmer.

The next morning, the plate was still there, untouched.

What I Learned

I never fed the thing again. I visited it sometimes. Read stories. Sang songs. Talked about my day.

Over time, the knocks faded. The cold spots warmed. I think it just wanted to be seen—to be remembered without being fed.

When Grandma passed, she left the house to me. I still live here. And the rule still stands:

Don’t feed the thing under the stairs. But don’t ignore it either.

Moral of the Story

Some hungers grow from loneliness, not evil. What we feed—whether it’s fear, love, or curiosity—grows. But not every problem should be answered with more. Sometimes, listening is enough.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi