Stairy Scarecase

I only saw it the first time by accident. I was passing by on my way home from work, walking down a side street on my way to catch the train. Funny how I'd not noticed it before, but I guess I was lost in my thoughts all too often.

It was an old concrete staircase. It was alongside an old brick building that had long been boarded up and abandoned. It looked like it curved around to the right, but that couldn't be right, as it was to the right of the nearest building, and it would surely connect to the building itself. Could it lead up to an old raised entrance? Or head around somewhere else?

I wanted to see where it led. I had always had that thirst for an adventure, and I didn't particularly care if I missed the train, as there would be another one not long after. It wasn't like I had anything else to rush back for. Except my houseplant - and even that barely required any maintenance. I placed a hand on the cold iron bannister, and took a step up. Immediately I felt as if I was going to throw up, and clutched my stomach, groaning. Oh shit. I stood still for a few moments, trying to breathe through it, recalling in my mind what I had eaten that day. I wanted to be at home if I was going to be throwing up this evening, and left the staircase, hurrying on to the train station.

I found myself thinking about that staircase all weekend. I was an engineer, a designer of spaces, and my brain visualized every eventuality of where those stairs could lead, how they could attach to another wall, or a floor, or another building. My brain wouldn't stop attempting to put together the pieces of the puzzle, until it exhausted itself and I eventually fell asleep.

On the Saturday, I had a friend's house party to go to, for some event which was considered 'big' in real life; something to do with her being pregnant for the eighth time or something, and I found myself bored shitless most of the time at that party, mainly because I was wondering about that weird staircase and where it led to.

At one point I realised that somebody was trying to make conversation with me, before turning away in disgust because I had seemingly ignored them. But that wasn't what happened; I was just lost in my staircase thoughts. Why was this stupid piece of architecture plaguing me so much? Why was nobody here as interesting to me as a staircase? Perhaps this was why I was still chronically single; people were nowhere near as interesting as mysteries.

That night I dreamed about stairs in the dark, but they were going down, down into the ground, and the lower I got, the narrower the steps became, as I burrowed into the earth and soil began closing in on me from all sides, burying me gradually. I woke up shouting and coughing, pulling imaginary soil away from my nose and mouth, soon realising I was attacking the pillow which had fallen on top of my face whilst I slept.

I found myself sitting upright in a panic, trying to breath, clasping with shaking hands at the glass of water by the bed. I had to drink, to lubricate my bone-dry mouth, which in my mind was still full of brown grains of earth. It was the most terrifying dream I had ever had. I could taste soil, worms even. It took several minutes before my panic attack slowed, and I laid back down to sleep.

*

And yet I had to find that staircase again. I can't say why, but I had to know where it went. It was consuming my waking thoughts as well as my dreams.

The following monday I dragged myself through the working day, struggling to take an interest in anything, finding myself perking up at the thought of my staircase adventure, and finally - an answer!

I left early with barely a goodbye to my colleagues, or even that cute guy I liked in my department. I clocked his crestfallen face as I strode past him, not able to care. My heels clacked on the pavement as I walked quickly, reaching my destination in record time.

The stairway looked... different this time. I stood, looking up at it, peering into where the light stopped illuminating the steps. The hedges on either side faded into darkness, and I could swear now that they swerved to the left, not the right.

Had I remembered it wrong?

I took a step up, and again the nausea hit me. I reached down to remove my heels, placing stockinged feet on the ground, which eased the nausea somewhat. The first few steps felt cold beneath me, and then a warmth was coming through, rising up my legs and through my body. As I continued to climb, the heat became all consuming, and my face started to redden. I lifted a hand to my face and felt the red-hot heat radiating out from my cheeks.

But I continued to climb, and soon I couldn't see anymore, as my eyes burned and closed, and parts of me began to sizzle, but I didn't scream, I merely continued upwards on the journey I had been fantasizing about for weeks and weeks.

I had died a long time ago, you see, and I was finally ready to take the final stage of the journey. My hand singed on the metal banister, but the pain felt welcome, not appalling. I got higher and higher, still not able to see, only seeing red behind my eyelids as flame engulfed my body, and my broken, blackened bodily remains fell to the ground as my spirit soared away to where it belonged, carried on the wind.