The Creak of the Haunted Stairs

Sarah first noticed the squeak on a cold October evening. With the exception of the sporadic gust of wind that rattled the windows, the old home, which stood deserted at the fringe of the town, was renowned for its eerie silence.

This house belonged to Sarah's grandmother, who died away inexplicably six months ago. Everybody in the village whispered about the sounds emanating from the staircase in the dead of night and talked in low voices about the house.

Sarah moved into the mansion against the advice of her friends because she was curious and eager to find out the truth. As she got comfortable in her grandmother's old room that first night, she saw that midnight had arrived.

It felt as though the air around her was getting heavier and colder. And suddenly it was there, that distinct sound of a footstep. A faint shudder on the steps.

Sarah initially wrote it off to the wind or the house settling. However, as the night went on, the creaks grew louder and more intentional. Every stride reverberated through the corridors, becoming closer and louder.

"Is there anybody present?" She uttered a tremulous whisper.

Stillness.

Her bare feet felt cold on the hardwood floor as she made her way to the landing. Beneath her, the stairwell was illuminated by faint moonlight that came through the stained-glass window.

Nothing seemed out of place as she inspected the steps with her gaze. However, there was a second groan, louder than the first, as though someone had just ascended a stair.

Her heart pounded. She demanded, raising her voice this time. "Who's there?" There was still no response, just the sound of one more step creaking.

Sarah, summoning her courage, grabbed a flashlight from the nearby table and slowly descended the stairs. The wooden steps groaned under her weight, but the eerie creaking persisted, as if someone—or something—was walking just ahead of her.

She reached the bottom of the staircase, her pulse quickening. She shone the light around the hallway but found nothing out of the ordinary. However, the sound of footsteps continued. They were behind her now, slowly, methodically climbing the stairs once more.

In a panic, Sarah turned around, the beam of her flashlight shaking. There was no one—just the sound of those dreadful, unseen feet climbing upward. Cold sweat ran down her back as she backed into the wall, her breath quick and shallow.

“What do you want?” she called out, her voice breaking with fear.

Suddenly, the creaking stopped. Silence fell over the mansion like a suffocating blanket. Sarah waited, every nerve on edge, her eyes darting around the room. Then, without warning, the sound returned—but this time, it wasn’t just footsteps. A soft, ghostly voice whispered from somewhere above.

"Come... up..."

Sarah froze. Her grandmother had always told her to avoid the attic—the one place in the house Sarah had never ventured. She could feel the pull now, the eerie invitation drawing her toward the upper floors. Her hands shook as she gripped the flashlight tighter. Was this the same force that had taken her grandmother?

Despite every instinct telling her to run, Sarah couldn’t resist. Her legs moved of their own accord, carrying her up the creaking stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the very house was swallowing her in its ancient grip.

At the top of the stairs stood the door to the attic. It was slightly ajar, the darkness beyond it thick and impenetrable. As she approached, a gust of cold air rushed out, chilling her to the bone. The whispers were louder now, indistinct but unmistakably calling her in.

With trembling hands, Sarah pushed the door open. Inside, the attic was dusty, filled with old furniture and boxes long forgotten. But there, in the center of the room, was something she had never seen before—a small wooden box, carved with intricate symbols.

She approached cautiously, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. As her fingers brushed against the box, the whispers ceased. For a moment, the house was completely silent. But then, the box creaked open on its own, revealing a single object: a photograph.

It was a picture of her grandmother, standing on the very staircase Sarah had just climbed. But behind her grandmother, barely visible in the shadows, was the outline of a figure—dark, looming, and unmistakably real.

Suddenly, the footsteps resumed, but this time they were all around her, faster and louder, as if the entire house was coming alive with the sound. The attic door slammed shut, trapping her inside.

In the darkness, Sarah clutched the photograph, her eyes wide with terror. The creaking steps grew closer, and a cold, invisible hand brushed against her shoulder.

The last sound she heard before everything went silent was the slow, deliberate creak of a single step.