The Footsteps on the Empty Staircase:

The constructing was antique, but fascinating. A diminished colonial shape tucked right into a quiet Karachi community, with creaky wooden flooring and a winding staircase that spiraled up 4 testimonies. I moved in for the solitude — a place to jot down, to think, to breathe.

I didn’t assume the footsteps.

They started on my 0.33 night. i was analyzing in mattress when I heard them — slow, planned steps climbing the staircase just out of doors my door. i believed it turned into a neighbor. but when I peeked thru the peephole, the hallway became empty.

I shrugged it off. antique homes make noise.

But the footsteps again. every night. same time — 2:thirteen a.m. They started out on the ground ground and ascended, one step at a time. I started out to count them. constantly thirty-two steps. constantly stopping simply outside my door.

I asked the landlord if each person lived above me. He appeared pressured. “nobody’s rented the top floor in years,” he stated. “It’s locked. No power.”

I advised him approximately the footsteps. He hesitated, then stated, “You’re no longer the first to pay attention them.”

That night, I stayed up. I sat by way of the door, smartphone in hand, recording. At exactly 2:thirteen, the sound started. clear, heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. My heart pounded. I opened the door just as they reached my floor.

no person.

however the sound continued — footsteps moving beyond me, up closer to the locked pinnacle ground.

I accompanied.

The staircase groaned below me. The air grew less warm. I reached the final step and stood earlier than the door to the fourth ground. It became sealed close, dust coating the deal with. however the footsteps stopped there.

I pressed my ear to the door. Silence.

Then a whisper: “You shouldn’t be right here.”

I stumbled back, heart racing. I ran to my apartment, locked the door, and didn’t sleep. The following day, I asked the landlord again. He sighed. “Years in the past, a man lived up there. Quiet. kept to himself. One night, he vanished. No word, no trace. just long past. Tenants began hearing matters. maximum moved out.”

I requested if he believed it.

He appeared me in the attention. “I don’t cross up there. Ever.”

I attempted to ignore the sounds. I wore headphones, played song, whatever to drown out the footsteps. but they grew louder. greater insistent. every now and then, I heard respiration. from time to time, a knock.

One night time, i discovered a notice slipped underneath my door. No handwriting. just typed phrases: “forestall listening.”

I couldn’t.

I set up a digicam in the hallway. motion-activated. I reviewed the footage the next morning. At 2:thirteen a.m., the digital camera brought on. The screen confirmed the staircase — empty. however the audio captured footsteps. clear. Heavy. Ascending.

I published the clip online. a few referred to as it fake. Others stated i was cursed.

I simply wanted solutions.

I again to the top ground. This time, I delivered a flashlight. The door was nevertheless locked, however some thing had modified. The dust turned into disturbed. The take care of had fingerprints.

I knocked.

Silence.

Then, a voice: “You opened the door the night time you listened.”

I ran.

the next morning, the owner known as. “You want to go away,” he said. “I noticed your video. You’ve stirred some thing.”

I packed. but earlier than I left, I climbed the staircase one final time.

At 2:13 a.m., the footsteps began. I stood on the top, waiting. They reached me. I felt a presence — bloodless, heavy, pressing towards my chest. Then, a whisper: “Now you walk with me.”

I don’t consider leaving. I wakened in my car, parked blocks away. My keys were inside the ignition. My cellphone became lifeless.

I never returned.

however from time to time, when I stay in antique homes, I hear footsteps. constantly at 2:13. always thirty-two steps.

And i'm wondering — did I leave the staircase, or did it observe me?