Footsteps on the Stairs

Sorry! Sick yesterday. 😦 My foot was haunted with gout. lol And just general malaise. So, on with the campfire incantations.


These are real-life ghost stories or what I thought were ghosts. Usually there was/is an explanation for whatever occurred, but sometimes, just sometimes, I could only guess at the reason my heart was racing and goosebumps were rising. I don’t really believe in ghosts. But I also don’t not believe in ghosts. I’m a skeptic. But I would love to see, hear or record a ghost.

I have been fascinated by TV programs about ghosts from a young age. Murder mysteries, Scooby-Doo, Murder She Wrote, Sherlock Holmes, Ripley’s Believe It or Not, Unsolved Mysteries, TAPS, Celebrity Ghost Stories. Anything. I watched The Exorcist and couldn’t sleep for 3 days. If I think about that movie at night, I don’t sleep for hours. That sh!t is scary. It could happen. LOL

The following story is a bit more serious than last time. Hold onto your popcorn tub.


In high school, I met a really great friend, A. She was my best friend. Sometimes, she was my only friend. A was shy, eager to please, and downright terrified. Of everyone. A was quick to laugh, but she was nervous and skittish. Like a dog that had been beaten. We had abuse in common, though we never talked about it at length.

She was the truest person I’ve known as a girlfriend. The most honest, the most loyal. She was devoted and encouraging. A thought I was hilarious and fascinating. Most people did not share her adoration. I felt like a magical being around A. She rarely criticized me, if ever, and she lavished me with friendship, praise and comfort.

But her house was a f***ing mess. Sorry, A. But she would say the same.

The house was old. I can’t say how old, but probably from the early 20th century. It was 1 1/2 stories, but full of tales. The funny, little house had a tall, wooden fence not five feet from the exterior walls. It was prison-like with the planks that close. (Prisons are usually built by their occupants, in one way or another.) But they lived in town, on the busy main thoroughfare, and it provided privacy on their small lot.

A’s family (Mom, Dad and A) lived only on the first floor of the home. The door to the stairs was always blocked by clutter of some kind. VHS movie tapes, magazines, newspapers, clothes, shoes, trash. So I thought it was just the condition of their house, not an attempt to cordon off the entire upper floor.

I had visited A’s house many times, but never stayed over. One night, it was extremely late, I was extremely tired and A offered the couch in the small room by the front door. Again, the house was tiny. So the stairs were just behind the couch room. Only separated by a wall. The couch? Where I laid down to sleep? Was backed against the shared wall of the stairs.

Right before I laid my very tired head down on a throw pillow and covered my very tired body with a scratchy-thin blanket, A thought it wise to warn me:
“I just wanted you to know. Sometimes, and this will sound weird, you can hear footsteps on the second floor. Sorry.”

GAH!

“Huh??!” is all I could manage.

She explained that some nights, she could hear footsteps above. Heavy steps that sounded like boots thudding across the floor. She had a very serious look, so I knew she wasn’t winding me up. She was dead serious and sort-of embarrassed. I was wide awake.

“So…what is it??”

A offered more. She said that it was definitely person-like, not an animal, and the weird thing (weirder thing), the floor on the second level was rotting. No one could possibly walk from one side of the house to the other because they would fall through the deteriorating floorboards.

That’s. Specific. She told me that I could leave if I didn’t want to stay.

I felt bad for her, I was tired and I half-way didn’t believe this bizarre bedtime story. Plus, she had made it clear, “It doesn’t happen every night.” She just wanted to warn me in case it did. So, I stayed. I asked her to linger with me a bit longer, to laugh off the strangeness of her caution.

She was exhausted and begged off to bed. I was exhausted as well, but still uneasy. So I played Super Mario Brothers until my eyes screamed shut. I left an end table lamp burning, but I always did that. I hated the complete black. If I was going to be attacked, I wanted to see it coming. Mostly though, if I heard a noise, I wanted to identify it immediately.

A few hours later, still dark outside, I heard a loud thump above my head. I was instantly awake. I stopped breathing and listened. I heard footsteps coming across the floor upstairs.

NO! Crap!

Heavy boots. Not cowboy skiffle-shufflers, but heavy, leather, chunky-soled motorcycle boots. Or work boots. Donned by a heavy-set human. Coming closer until they were directly above me. Then they started down the stairs!

NO! Crap!

The stairs that were less than 2 feet away from my face! Behind the wall!

GAH!

I listened to the steps until they stopped exactly by my ear. And we waited. Me and the ghost. For something to happen. I didn’t do a thing. I laid on the couch, breathing from time to time, eyes at attention, until dawn. No more sound.

After everyone stirred, I went to look at the door that led to the upstairs. Cluttered as usual. No one had been on the second floor.

GAH!

I never stayed at A’s house again. Even when she offered.


According to A, the man who used to own the house committed suicide years earlier at another location. Did he still like this house? Is he trapped? Is it residual?

I don’t know what it was. If someone told me this story I would think they’re full of…sprite. LOL If it wasn’t a ghost, then what was it???

True, every bit.

PS. Don’t go in that house.

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8 thoughts on “Footsteps on the Stairs

  1. I wish I could spend more time on your blog.
    You are a fascinating writer.
    Your ghost story gives me the creeps.
    You have the art of keeping your readers glued to your script.
    Beautiful pen.
    Keep writing 🖊

    Liked by 2 people

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