The Third Set of Footsteps

The farmhouse had been in the family for a century, and after our grandmother passed, my brother and I spent a summer clearing it out. Just the two of us, miles from the nearest neighbour, sleeping in the two front bedrooms at the top of a long wooden staircase that announced every footstep.

The stairs were how it started. We would go up together at night, one behind the other, and the old boards would pop and groan under our weight. Two people, two sets of steps. But every night, a moment after we reached the top and stopped, a third set of steps would climb the stairs behind us. Slow. Unhurried. Reaching the landing and then simply stopping, as if waiting.

The first time, we told each other it was the house settling. Houses do that. But settling does not have a rhythm, and it does not pause on the landing exactly where a person would pause to decide which room to enter.