Did you ever have this fear as a child?
A fear that when rooted deep enough, you’d start to neglect the idea to leave your bed at night? Holding on to the bitter hope that those natural urges would simply pass?
I mean, let’s be honest, most of us ended up with a few, uh, wet sheets, as kids.
I know I did, but for me it was all down to that lurking sense of dread. The one that eats away at us, ever present at the back of our subconscious; no matter if there was a night light or not.
It was always brought immediately to the forefront as we found ourselves tip-toeing hastily across the top of the stairs. That feeling of being exposed and vulnerable as we leap towards the toilet door, towards our safety. Fighting the urge to glance down the stairs, terrified of what we might see.
I’m now a fully grown man and thankful to say, I’ve not wet the bed for many years. I’m also a new homeowner, having just recently bought an old two bed cottage at an auction. It’s within a town that’s been sadly overlooked by community councils since the early 70’s. It was just after the coal mines closed that the work became scarce, many of the populous were then having to make do with what they could find.
Now, I’ll be the first to admit my life has become something of the mundane since choosing to live here. This town just doesn’t inspire me to be anything more than what I currently am, you know what I mean? I suppose I’m just another case of severe complacency.
I’m trailing off subject a little now, I know, I apologies. I’m just flustered and overtired, I’m starting to feel my hands turn clammy as I continue to type out these words. My nerves are completely shot whilst my fingers continue to cramp and twitch.
Through it all, however, I can still see the funny side. I just then imagined myself sitting here like one of the old timers down the local pub, his hands twitching impatiently as he’d await his next fix of whiskey.
Now, this ordeal of mine, and I say it lightly, as I fear it’s begun to feel a lot less like an ordeal and more like life threatening.
And it’s the sole reason why I’m even writing to you, you see, this all started just over 3 weeks ago now.
As I recall that particular afternoon, me and my old school mate John had set ourselves up at the local pub down the road. We started early, knocking back pint after pint, bingeing our way through most of the waking day.
Whilst we ‘wet the whistle’, we engaged in the usual derogatory conversation and less than witty banter. The latter mostly from my part anyway. After a couple of awful games of darts, I heard the barman call out for last orders. It’d be rude not to have indulged a final time, we thought, each downing our last beverage before settling the final tab.
We said our farewells to the fellow drunkards we’d met before staggering out the door, the crisp air of the night seeping into our lungs. It’d knock us down a peg, especially me, the smaller of the two. I found myself leaning more and more upon John’s shoulder, as he’d help me up the steps just outside my house.
I fumbled with the door in my drunken stooper, failing miserably at any attempt to decipher the lock and key.
After a short while John managed to get us in. I was left with my muddy shoes and jacket still on, as he pushed my limp body upon my bed and slurred something of a ‘goodnight’, stumbling out the room and back down the stairs. I didn’t hear him leave, though admittedly, I had fallen promptly into a peaceful, snoring slumber.
I awoke in the middle of the night, unaware of the exact time. But what became quickly apparent was that I was still incredibly drunk, I was also in a desperate need to relieve myself. I eventually undressed the clutter from my body and staggered from my room, blissfully unaware of my surroundings as I floundered across the landing and into the toilet.
I must’ve fallen asleep again whilst sitting to complete the ritual, to be awoken to what I thought was a noise coming from downstairs. In my inebriated position, I tried to coordinate the words to form a half decent sentence. But in reality I just about managed to call out the name “John!”
I thought that perhaps he was unconscious on my living room couch, as he often was after our long sessions of drinking.
I managed to flush, trying to then brush the sleepy haze forming over my eyes. Simultaneously, I stepped out of the toilet and into the overwhelming darkness at the top of the stairs. I was fearless at this point, the abundance of booze I drank that day clearly aided in that. I then clenched both my palms upon the bannister, leaning over; perhaps a little too far in hindsight.
I shouted out for John a second time.
There was still no answer.
I should probably mention that my stairwell was set out like a u-turn, turning you around on a small platform about halfway down before you could continue your descent. So from the top, you could easily lean over and see the bottom step.
It’s exactly what I did, but in my current state, and it being completely dark, it offered very little reward. I called out a third time for good measure, my voice sounding more hoarse this time.
I couldn’t quite make out the bottom of the stairwell within the gloom, despite being at a dangerous angle, half dangling over the side.
Though, the more I peered aimlessly, the more I could’ve sworn there was something standing there.
Right down there on the bottom step.
I studied the strange blur a moment longer before I finally looked away, my eyes painfully dry. I was adamant to confirm my suspicions however, as I then felt along the wall, seeking the light switch.
I eventually found it, switching it on.
I groaned as the white hue from the stairwell light engulfed the space almost instantly, making me close my own eyes for a brief moment of respite.
I opened my eyes to glance back over the bannister, looking towards the bottom step. I was hopeful to see John standing there with that stupid grin on his face.
But there was no one there.
I scoffed, believing he must’ve taken himself back to the couch. I waved my hand out in dismissal, chalking the whole thing up to my half-cut senses, that all I really needed was a good sleep.
At that I flicked off the light again, paying the stairwell no more mind as I dragged myself back to bed. Safe to say, I slept soundly the rest of the night.
The morning after greeted me with an unbearable hangover, seemingly only to grow, becoming more tiresome as the day stretched on. Another sure sign I’m getting bloody old.
My friend John however, was nowhere to be seen, in-fact, after devouring a bacon sandwich I received a telephone call. It was John, wanting to check up on me, confirming shortly after that he never actually stayed over…
I thought that extremely odd, as there definitely felt like a second presence, even in the condition I was in.
That day came and went without further incident and after a nutritious microwave meal for one, I readied myself for bed.
Admittedly, I didn’t even wake up the second night, sleeping the whole way through, totally undisturbed.
It was on the 3rd night that everything changed.
I spent my evening mindlessly staring at the TV for around an hour after dinner, flicking through the various game shows and property development programmes.
I sat there in my old armchair, never once wishing any of those lucky contestants to have been me. In fact, I felt a little powerful, my lacking care felt like a super power as I continued to dislike anything that might’ve bettered my meagre existence.
And with that lasting thought, I finished my one and only beer for the night. Shifting my arse to find the remote, I then turned off the TV, marching myself up to bed soon after.
I admit, sleep didn’t come to me as easily that night, I just kept waking up, but only once did I actually get out of bed. A brief peek at the alarm clock indicated 02:45, sighing wearily, I stood up and moved towards the landing at the top of the stairs.
I was almost at the bathroom door, when all of a sudden, something just felt wrong. I’m sorry, It’s hard to explain with words, something just felt so terribly wrong. And I was left with a looming sense of worry, without any reason to explain to me why.
It was thick in the air that night, a feeling I was far too intoxicated to heed just two nights prior, now becoming painfully apparent as I stood there alone. My feet began to edge me closer to the stairs, despite my obvious protest. Ever closer as morbid curiosity soon snared me, my hands wrapped tightly upon the running bannister.
I looked down the stairs.
And it was if all the fears of my ten year old self had come to fruition at the same time…
The third step was inhabited.
It was inhabited by an unknown intruder, obscured by the night, but not enough to be overlooked this time.
It ominously stood there in the dark, the moon from my front door created a stretched outline around its body.
I was unsure it even noticed me, it seemed void of any emotion, so un-phased by my sudden bleat of terror. I felt a tear form within my eyes as fear absorbed me, my stomach knotted in on itself. I remained solely focused upon this thing, as if it were plucked from my childhood nightmares.
It was around my height, though hunched at the shoulders, its face concealed by a mop of what I could only assume was hair. It hung in wet strands, falling weightless down to its skinny chest.
I couldn’t make out its face, if whatever it was even had one. I found it hard to comprehend its skulking posture, as if it was forever resigned to a painful slump, as if it aches to take another step; but never does.
It was clothed in the twilight of the night, apart from its gangly, grey limbs, humanoid in appearance despite its frog-like toes and fingers, freakishly thin as they were long, the toes seemed to stick to the carpet of the step.
I shouted again at it, though my voice breaking through unrivalled fear. I hurled abuse, offering out threats of the police and anything else that came suddenly to mind. Despite knowing the landline was downstairs, past the thing.
Though when it came with no response a second time, I started to question if it was actually there, or simply a vivid, disgusting creation of my boyhood imagination. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, I didn’t want to. My arm stretched awkwardly to turn on the landing’s light on the wall behind me.
The light soon flickered to life then it was gone, it vanished as soon as the light touched its form.
I stood there, bewildered as I flipped the switch on and off a good few times. Sure enough, each time the light faded the emaciated form of the silent spectre reappeared, unflinching in its statue-like appearance.
I shuddered as I exhaled, it seemed real to me now. I chaotically slapped my hand across the light switch as it pinged back on, I left it on for good as I made a hasty retreat back to my bedroom. I slammed the door shut behind me, locking it with sweaty palms, cowering beneath my bedsheets for the remainder of the night.
That morning I questioned myself whether I should’ve actually called the police, whether I should’ve told anybody what I’d seen.
I didn’t go into work that day, nor respond to John’s left answer phone messages. I sat on the middle tier of my stairwell, the light still left on, even during the day now. My mind perplexed, trying to make sense of what I saw as I glared down towards the hallway below.
My stomach growled, but I didn’t even have it in me to cook that night, ordering in a takeaway as I camped out on the top of the stairs.
I had to be sure I wasn’t going insane, I just had to know what was happening in my home.
The evening came by quicker than I’d realised as the windows outside displayed the weary town now at rest. The labour of my little landing light never wavering in its conviction; denying the darkness and what it brought.
I was without courage, but I walked on anyway, pacing slowly down the stairs, the steps squeaking from each planted foot. My hands gripping the bannister, my body instinctively turning slightly, I was ready to make a mad dash back up should the need arise.
Upon reaching the 4th step, my skin suddenly crawled as my spine tingled lightly, the temperature had undeniably dropped upon my footfall. I flinched like a coward, closing my eyes as I’d lunge backwards upon the 5th step, where the temperature promptly corrected itself again.
I could hear nothing but my heart thumping in my ears, standing as I’d start to walk up and down the last few steps two or three times. It soon became undeniable, I came to the conclusion that the 4th step seemed to have a climate of its own.
There was nothing else I could do, I simply continued to leave the light on after that, my electricity bill be damned. I wasn’t going to allow whatever that was climbing my stairs night after night to become visible, allowing its ghoulish form to torment me further.
And so I left it on, and soon enough a week of nights had passed, I even went through the trouble of labelling the light switches at both the top and bottom of the stairs with the words:
“DO NOT TURN OFF!”
It was just to make sure my future drunken shenanigans didn’t ruin this plan I now had in place, as I fear this’ll be how I’ll live from now on.
And although it worked to some extent, its horrible presence lingered on, like a horrid smell. When I take myself to bed or return to the kitchen for a midnight snack, a single step without fail gives me a chill in passing.
On the 11th night, with my landing light still burning true, I descended the stairs for a glass of water. I ignored the 11th step as best I could, in fact I almost jumped the entire step completely, though it was as if I had leapt through death itself.
I entered the kitchen, casually flipping on the light as I’d fill a glass from the sink. I observed outside, my small garden backed onto my neighbours house, noticing they too were still up at this hour, a couple of lights still on downstairs.
Until they weren’t.
I watched as their lights all at once dissolved into darkness. I barely had time to react before mine also died, plunging me deep into pitch blackness.
It was a power cut.
I stuttered a murmur of terror, thumbling as I dropped my glass upon the floor, hearing it shatter into a hundred pieces. I ran across broken glass, the kitchen door was left wide open! Without so much as looking out into the hallway to check, I slammed it shut. I stepped back wheezing, watching as the moonlight shone through the blinds of the window, highlighting the frame of the wooden door with sinister intent.
I’d never been on the wrong side of the stairs before now, what did this mean? What should I do?
It was quick thinking that prompted me to fetch my old flashlight from underneath the sink, holding it like a sword pointed outwards in defence.
As I frantically spun its handle to build up power, without warning or noise, I watched in horror as something started to protrude slowly, poking out from between the sizeable gap underneath the kitchen door.
Toes.
It was its pale, slender toes, seemingly endless with three knuckles a piece, outstretched with rotten nails.
I cried out for it to leave me alone, shining the faded light of my little torch at the door. It was enough, as the gnarled appendages promptly disappeared from view.
I stayed like that for 4 hours, my right arm feeling as if it’d drop off by the end of it, as the whirring sound of the torch’s handle was the only thing keeping it at bay.
I didn’t stop until after daybreak, hell, even after the kitchen light flashed back to life hours prior, I was absolutely petrified of it still finding a way to come inside.
The next couple of days merged into one as I decided to hatch a plan, ignoring the happenings of my life and the outside world. I felt myself descending further into something of a hermit. I was losing so much sleep you see, held prisoner in my own home.
Praying daily that the lights don’t fail me again.
John started ringing my landline, worried about me, it was only a matter of time before he’d come and check on me. So I beat him to it, I finally emerged from my home, I was running away I suppose, at the very least for a couple of nights so I could just sleep.
I made up an excuse to John, worming my way onto his couch as he said I could stay with him a while. I’d spun a lie that my house needed to be fumigated because of a bad infestation of rats. He seemed to buy it, at least I think he did.
Unfortunately, I knew I couldn’t stay away forever.
The night I eventually returned, I attempted to block the next step with laundry, books, boxes and whatever else I could use to fill the damned space.
Much to my distress it didn’t work, but I think I just pissed it off even more. I opened my bedroom door just after midnight on the 18th night to find it had missed that step entirely. The haunting apparition now having completed its u-turn in the middle of the stairs.
Yesterday was the last step, I could feel it’s cold, invisible chill even on the landing.
It’s now been 21 days since it first invaded my home, invaded my life.
Tonight it’ll finally be up here with me, I won’t be able to leave my room unless my house remains a constant glow. I feel myself slipping, growing even more delusional by the day, I know I am.
I sit here, my nightly routine soundtracked to the whirling sound of my torch. As my nights continue to be sleepless, my life is ruined.
My room is now a tripping hazard of hundreds of plug sockets and extension cables. I’ve gone overboard with the lights I know that, but I require all these spares and backups you see!
It can never be dark here ever again.
Whenever sleep finds me, I dream, I dream of those hideous toes sliding underneath my bedroom door…
Please, please help me, I don’t know what it wants from me or this house.
I received my first notice of payment from my electricity supplier today, I owe them such an absurd amount of money already.
One day soon they’re going to shut off my power when I can no longer pay up, and when that happens, I’m not sure what I’m going to do…