Thud

The Creaking Staircase

The old apartment building on Maple Street had a staircase that never seemed to rest. Not the kind of creaks you get from age—these were deliberate, slow, as if someone’s weight dragged over each step, even when the halls were empty.

Mrs. Hale, 78, had lived there since 1963. She knew every groan of the floors, every rattle of the windows. But lately, the third-floor landing had taken on a life of its own.

It started with the light. A flickering fluorescent tube that would dim whenever she climbed past the second floor, buzzing like a trapped wasp. Then the sounds: a low, wet breathing, like someone with a cold, right behind her. She’d spin, heart racing, but the hall would be empty—just the faded wallpaper peeling at the corners, a single cobweb swaying in the draft.

One night, she paused to catch her breath on the third step. The light sputtered out. In the dark, something brushed her cheek—damp, like a strand of hair. She fumbled for the railing, her fingers closing around fabric: rough, frayed, reeking of mildew.

“Who’s there?” she croaked.

No answer. But the breathing grew louder, hot against her ear.

She stumbled upward, tripping over her own feet, and slammed her apartment door shut. Through the wood, she heard it: thud, thud, thud—slow, heavy steps, stopping right outside. Then a scratch, like nails on the paint.

The next morning, she found a single gray hair tangled in her doorknob. Not hers—she’d gone white decades ago.

The super came to fix the light. He pulled off the cover, and let out a yelp. Inside, wadded up, were handfuls of wet cotton, matted with more gray hair. “Looks like someone stuffed this in here,” he said, poking at it with a screwdriver. “Been damp a long time. Rotted the wires.”

Mrs. Hale’s blood ran cold. That cotton—she’d seen it before. In the lap of Mr. Grady, the widower from 3B, who’d died six months back. He’d always carried a frayed cotton handkerchief, dabbing at his perpetually runny nose.

That night, she locked the door twice. The steps returned, stopping outside. This time, there was a soft splat—something hitting the door. She inched toward the peephole, her hands shaking.

The hall light was on, casting a sickly glow. Hanging from her doorknob was a handkerchief. Frayed, gray, soaked through with something dark.

And on the floor beneath it, a pool of water was spreading. Slow, steady, seeping under the door.

She didn’t sleep that night. At dawn, she packed a bag and left.

The building’s new tenant, a young woman, moved into Mrs. Hale’s old place a week later. On her first night, she heard the steps.

“Must be the pipes,” she muttered, rolling over.

But when she woke up, there was a gray hair on her pillow. And outside, the third-floor light flickered, buzzing, as if waiting.