Stair

The sun hung high above the sky, illuminating the town with a soft golden glow. Morning had long arrived, yet one man remained nestled in the comfort of his bed, snoring gently. At precisely ten o’clock, the alarm clock buzzed, its shrill ring slicing through the silence like a blade through fog.

The man stirred groggily. His fingers reached out instinctively and silenced the alarm. He sat up slowly, eyes still sealed shut, lost in that blurry realm between dream and consciousness. After a moment, he opened them halfway and looked out the window beside his bed. The sunlight poured in unapologetically. It was unmistakably morning.

He followed the familiar rhythm of his day, rising without hurry, washing his face, then heading to the kitchen. Like most mornings, his mind wandered aimlessly as he prepared a modest breakfast. No grand dishes or fancy plating. Just a simple chicken soup simmering on the stove and a pot of tea brewing beside it. The scent of the chicken broth mingled with the aroma of steeping tea leaves, filling the space with homely warmth.

At the dinner table, he sipped and slurped quietly. His kitchen, connected to the living room without any dividing walls, had the charm of simplicity. He switched on the television, some daily news playing in the background, voices droning, but he didn’t really listen. The screen flickered, showing the world’s chaos, but he remained cocooned in the stillness of his home.

An hour passed. He stood, cleared the table, and carried his dishes to the sink. The clatter of plates and silverware echoed slightly. After washing them clean, he returned them to the shelf above, their shine catching a glimmer of light.

He dried his hands carefully, reached for the teapot now fully steeped, and poured himself one more cup of tea. He switched off the television and, with the teapot and cup in hand, walked out of the kitchen, into the hallway, and toward the stairs that rose to the second floor. His movements were slow but deliberate.

Upstairs, he settled into a wooden chair beside the window, placing the teapot on a small side table. This room, his sanctuary, overlooked a peaceful lake that shimmered beneath the sunlight. He inhaled the calm air, reached for a book from the nearby shelf, and sat down.

The book’s cover read: “Stair.

He flipped it open to the page he’d marked previously. Judging by the worn edges and folded corners, he had read nearly halfway. He sipped his tea, glanced out at the lake one last time, and then immersed himself back into the world woven between the pages.

In the fictional world of the book, a young boy stepped out of a shop, clutching his grocery bag. He pulled up his hoodie and adjusted the black face mask that had become part of his daily attire. From afar, he resembled a typical teenager. Up close, however, his appearance told another story, scars and bruises decorated his face, especially around his eyes. He looked less like a troublemaker and more like someone who had endured torment.

People didn’t treat him with fear, they treated him with pity.

He despised being stared at. The glances felt heavy, as if each one carried judgment. So he walked faster, keeping his gaze low. Half an hour later, he reached home, a quiet, empty house. No one waited for him. No one greeted him. It was just him.

With practiced motions, he placed the grocery bag on the counter and retrieved the tea bags. He brewed a cup immediately. Tea was his comfort. Tea was familiar. Alongside tea, he had an odd love for guava juice, something his sister had introduced to him once and he’d never quite let go of.

Suddenly, a banging sound erupted above the ceiling. The loud thumping echoed throughout the house, coming from directly overhead, yet above him was only the roof.

For fifteen minutes, the noise persisted: rhythmic, relentless, unnerving.

He looked up slowly. Nothing seemed off. No cracks. No shadows. Just the ceiling. Silent now.

This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Months ago, after his mother and sister had left, following the divorce, he stayed with his father in this house. His father told him he had a new job and would start work the next day. He left early that morning but never returned. No calls. No letters.

The boy had been alone ever since. Four months passed with no sign of either parent or his sister. The loneliness had settled in like mold, quietly creeping, spreading across every room. And then the banging started. It always came at the same time, just past noon, and lasted exactly fifteen minutes. Every day.

He never understood it. He never saw anything. But when it came, he curled up and pressed his hands tightly over his ears, waiting for it to stop.

Despite everything, he didn’t want to leave the house. This place, haunted as it felt, held the last traces of his family. He clung to a childlike hope, that someone, someday, would return for him.

This year, he was eighteen. Technically, he could live alone. So, no one really paid much attention to him. The neighbors didn’t ask questions. The world moved on.

Later, he stepped outside to throw out the trash. Mrs. Moore, from across the street, stared at him coldly, as though his very presence was offensive. To the left, Ms. Tally stood by her fish pond, gaze fixed on him with unsettling intensity.

What was it about him that drew such attention?

He felt that familiar lump rise in his throat and rushed back inside. His foot nearly slipped on the steps, but he managed to steady himself. Back in the kitchen, he poured another cup of tea. The warmth soothed his nerves, if only for a while.

The man reading the book blinked and stared out the window. The sky was beginning to change, painted now with streaks of orange and amber. The lake reflected the colors beautifully.

He marked his place in the book and stood. He carried the tray and teapot back downstairs, the steps creaking gently beneath him. As he placed everything down and began tidying up, his thoughts lingered on the boy in the story.

“The boy must be imagining it... People wouldn’t stare at him for no reason,“, he muttered to himself, pondering whether trauma could twist perception so profoundly. Or perhaps the boy truly saw something others didn’t.

He looked over at the book titled “Stair” Something about it called him back. He decided he would continue reading tomorrow. Maybe then he’d learn what truly haunted that boy, or if there was more lurking behind closed doors and quiet ceilings.