During my early childhood, around the age of four or five,
I engaged in conversations with a shadowy figure I referred to as the "Hat Man."
This mysterious entity appeared as a silhouette, sporting a hat and brown shoes.
My mother would often overhear me conversing with this presence, prompting her curiosity.
One day, she inquired about whom I was speaking to,
and I responded, "Allen. He used to reside here, but his wife met a tragic fate by falling down the stairs."
To our astonishment, our neighbor turned pale upon hearing this revelation.
It turned out that the previous owners of our house were an elderly couple, and indeed,
the woman had met her demise by falling down the stairs.
Although this incident unsettled my mother, I remained unfazed.
The fact that I learned this information from a spectral figure didn't even cross my mind.
Later on, I discovered that my grandfather used to say,
"Never trust a man who wears brown shoes."
As I grew up, those stairs became a focal point of my life within that house.
Our bathroom overlooked the stairs, and as time passed,
I felt increasingly uneasy using the toilet at night.
The darkness enveloped the stairs, exuding an unnatural aura as if they led into an incomprehensible void of pure blackness.
Eventually, I couldn't even bring myself to glance down those stairs while using the toilet,
and the feeble light emanating from the bathroom failed to alleviate my discomfort.
It always felt as though something lurked down there,
observing and patiently awaiting my presence.
One of our dogs would often lie on the fourth step,
attempting to squeeze its head through the banister,
while the other dog preferred sleeping at the base of the stairs.
These two dogs eventually bred and produced a litter, and we decided to keep the runt.
Strangely, our original dog despised the runt and once tried to carry it upstairs,
presumably with malicious intent, but fortunately, my father intervened.
A few years later, I descended the stairs one morning to have breakfast
and discovered our old dog lying at the bottom, with a pool of blood around her mouth and her tongue hanging out.
From that day onward, her offspring displayed erratic behavior.
The only time she appeared normal was when she sought refuge in the small cupboard beneath the stairs.
We acquired another dog, and surprisingly, he adamantly refused to step foot on those stairs.
This was no ordinary domesticated pet;
he was a hunting dog, unafraid even after engaging in brutal fights with badgers.
Yet, the stairs instilled terror within him.
Once, I attempted to coax him upstairs, and as soon as his paws touched the steps,
his fur stood on end, a clear sign of his fear.
It's worth noting that he had no issues with other stairs;
for instance, he willingly ascended buses with upper levels,
and during our vacations, he effortlessly climbed three or four flights of stairs in hotels.
But it was those specific stairs that frightened him.
Fast forward a decade or so, circumstances led me to move back home.
One night, while making my way to the bathroom,
memories of my childhood aversion to looking down those stairs at night resurfaced.
After completing my task, I decided to purposefully scare myself.
However, as I exited the bathroom, preparing to turn off the lights
and confront the abyss once again,
I experienced an intense force pushing against the small of my back.
It was a significant impact,
and I had to grab hold of the banister to prevent myself from tumbling down the stairs.
Fortunately, nothing further occurred,
and since then, I rarely return to that house.
Nevertheless, I am plagued by lingering questions about the malevolent presence haunting those stairs.
Was it the ghost of the woman who met her demise there?
or was there something else that caused her untimely death?
I suppose I will never know.
Summers were spent at my grandmother's place,
providing a respite from these unsettling experiences.
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