The haunted stairs stood at the far end of Wing C, hidden behind a fire door most students pretended not to notice. In the morning, sunlight reached the corridor and made everything look harmless. By evening, the air near those steps felt used, as if something had just exhaled and was waiting to breathe again.
No one climbed the haunted stairs after sunset.
That was the rule.
They said the staircase had fifteen steps. They also said the whisper behind the door never counted past fourteen.
No one explained what happened at fifteen.
The First Warning in Wing C
The school was older than the apartments crowding its gates. Teachers said the staircase had once been an emergency exit. It was sealed after an accident during a late-night study session.
No one told the story the same way twice.
What stayed the same were the numbers.
Janitors heard counting drift from behind the fire door. Slow. Careful. Always stopping at fourteen. Never fifteen.
The staircase was locked.
The counting wasn’t.
Why Students Stayed Away
Stories moved quickly in Wing C. Some said a spirit lingered there. Others claimed the haunted stairs remembered every foot that touched them.
I avoided that corridor when I could.
That afternoon, art club ran late. Everyone else left in pairs, their voices fading toward the main gate. I stayed to rinse brushes and wipe paint from the sink. By the time I packed my bag, the corridor lights had dimmed.
The fire door stood open.
It should not have been.
From inside the stairwell, I heard it clearly.
“Three.”
No one was there.
“Four.”
The whisper was soft, patient, as if expecting someone to continue.
My name followed.
Quiet.
Not loud enough to echo. Close enough to feel.
I stepped inside before I could think better of it.
Climbing the Haunted Stairs at Dusk
The first step was colder than tile.
Dust and old metal filled the air. The door eased shut behind me with a soft click. The corridor lights blinked once, then went dark.
I stood still.
The whisper resumed.
“Five.”
I swallowed and climbed.
“Six.”
It stayed just behind my shoulder.
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
It faltered on nine, then corrected itself.
“Ten.”
I knew there were fifteen steps. I had counted them during a fire drill.
“Eleven.”
“Twelve.”
The air grew warmer, like breath against my neck.
“Thirteen.”
My foot found the step.
“Fourteen.”
I reached the top.
There should have been one more number.
A Memory Hidden in the Walls
The whisper did not move to fifteen.
It paused.
The landing ahead was narrow and dim. The door that led outside stood closed, paint peeling along the edges. I stared at it, waiting for the last number.
If it reached fifteen, someone did not come back down.
I did not know how I knew that. I just did.
The silence stretched thin.
My name came again.
Not asking.
Not warning.
As if being written down.
When the Haunted Stairs Spoke My Name
“Fifteen,” the whisper breathed.
The door at the top shifted inward.
Not fully open.
Just enough to show darkness beyond the frame.
Cold air poured through the crack.
For a moment, I felt light. Too light. As if the weight of my shoes, my bag, my body no longer mattered.
The railing under my hand felt distant.
I thought of attendance in class. Of names called. Of names skipped.
I shook my head.
“No.”
The word broke in my throat.
The door slammed shut.
The warmth vanished. The railing felt solid again beneath my palm. My shoes felt heavy, real.
The whisper did not repeat fifteen.
After That Night
I stepped down slowly.
Fourteen.
Thirteen.
Twelve.
All fifteen steps were there.
At the bottom, I pulled the fire door open and let the hallway light spill inside. The stairwell looked narrow and ordinary again.
The door has stayed closed since.
Janitors no longer mention counting. Students linger in Wing C without knowing why it feels easier to stand there.
Sometimes, during attendance, there is a pause before my name.
Just long enough for me to wonder whether it is being counted twice.