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Something in the Stairs

It’s been over a year since I’ve shared a story with you all. Honestly, this one is the hardest I’ve ever had to write—partly because it scares me, but mostly because it hurts. Grab your tissues, my friends; I promise you'll feel every word.

Let me start at the beginning. Ever since my last story, something strange has been lingering in our house. At first, I thought it might be comforting—maybe my grandfather or even my father-in-law, coming to check on me. But the longer this presence stayed, the clearer it became that whatever it was, it wasn’t someone I loved. Whenever my grandfather or father-in-law visit from beyond, they fill me with warmth, a gentle calmness. But this thing, this entity—I never saw its face, only glimpses of its back as it slipped around corners and doorways. It always seemed to be hiding from me, like it didn't want me to know who—or what—it really was. Even now, I don’t know if it was male, female, or something else entirely.

Now, about our basement stairs: my husband had taken down the handrails years ago. He’d meant well, really. They were old, dangerous—more hazard than help, he always said. After my back surgery last year, though, I begged him to put them back up. He just shook his head, gently insisting, “Honey, it’s easier to carry big things down there without them. Besides, you shouldn’t be going up and down those stairs anyway.” So, I gave up on asking, though I secretly missed the security the railing used to offer me.

But after that entity started appearing, things shifted in our home. It was subtle at first—a creeping sense that something wasn’t right. And then, one day, my life took a sudden turn.

It was just another afternoon. I was about to head upstairs but changed my mind halfway up, realizing I’d forgotten something in the basement. As I turned to descend, my knee—the one that's been troubling me—locked up sharply, leaving me teetering precariously on the fourth step from the bottom. Panic surged through me, my back seizing in pain. I cried out desperately to my husband, hoping he could catch me before I fell.

But he stood frozen at the top, unmoving, eyes wide as I lost my balance. My body pitched sideways, through the empty space where the railing should've been. In that terrifying split second, I braced myself to smash headfirst into the old wooden dresser, sure that was my fate.

Somehow, impossibly, I missed the dresser completely. Instead, I landed six feet away from the stairs, sprawled painfully across the cold basement floor. Gasping for air, staring up at the ceiling, I heard my husband's stunned voice ask, “Why on earth did you do that?”

I wanted to scream. “I called you for help!” My voice trembled, caught somewhere between anger and shock. “There was nothing to grab onto.”

In the days following, more strange events occurred. Items moved slightly out of place, shadows flickered where they shouldn’t, whispers just soft enough to dismiss as imagination. Each time, I brushed them off, afraid of giving power to whatever lurked nearby.

Exactly one week later, the basement took hold of me again.

I was talking casually with my sons downstairs, laughing, feeling safe in their company. As I climbed the steps in my sturdy work boots, suddenly, inexplicably, my right foot slipped. In a blur, I felt my body pitch forward, my stomach slamming onto the stairs. Before I could even register the pain, I felt something—something I couldn’t see—lift and flip me through the open gap once more.

This time, the force was stronger, like invisible hands had thrown me. Again, I sailed clear of every obstacle that should have injured me—boxes, furniture, tools scattered on the floor—landing heavily on my back, more than six feet from the stairs.

My oldest son raced over, panic in his eyes as he helped me slowly, shakily, to sit up. My younger boy, familiar with helping me after countless falls or dog tumbles, carefully steadied me, worry creasing his forehead.

To ease the tension, my older son cracked a nervous joke, his voice trembling, “Wow, Mom, you got some real air this time. Maybe we should measure how far you flew.”

But I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t even smile. My heart was pounding too loudly, drowning out everything else. Because deep inside, beneath the confusion and pain, I knew—I just knew—something had pushed me. Something had wanted me to fall. Something had thrown me like a ragdoll, twice now.

And it’s still here.

As I lay awake tonight, retelling this story, all I can think about is that faceless entity, lurking just beyond my vision. I keep waiting for my grandfather’s gentle warmth or my father-in-law’s comforting presence—but all I feel is the cold certainty that this thing isn't done yet.

Please, hold your loved ones close tonight. And pray for me, because honestly, I don’t know how this story ends.