The Stairs

I grew up in a one-story house, so my grandparents' house that had two stories plus a finished basement always seemed huge to me as a kid. It was a good size for holding all my cousins, which is what it usually seemed to end up doing around the holidays. The noise and fun chaos tended to blur my memories, so every year that we visited, it felt like I needed to explore that house all over again. By the time I was in middle school, though, I thought I finally had a pretty good idea of how it was laid out.

So one year, when it came to that awkward time after lunch when all three downstairs bathrooms were occupied, my grandma suggested I go upstairs to use the bathroom off of the master bedroom. No one else was upstairs at the time, and it was odd how quickly the sounds of my aunts and uncles chatting and my cousins playing Uno faded into distant murmurs as I climbed the white carpeted stairs.

The upstairs hall was dim—not dark, because the adjoining rooms had windows, but somehow the quiet made the light seem softer. I made my way down the hall and through my grandparents' pink bedroom. Had they always had two walk-in closets? I had forgotten about that. I used the bathroom—the toilet flush felt too loud in the stillness—and headed back out to rejoin my family downstairs.

As I stepped back down the quiet hall, I glanced up the stairway to the third floor. I could almost hear the silence coming from up there. I rushed past and started down the stairs to the first floor.

Wait a minute. Third floor? Wasn't this a two-story house? I paused mid-step and then turned back into the hall, peering up the upper staircase once again. I could only see as far as the landing.

Had I ever been up these stairs? Surely I had, but I couldn't recall it. I racked my brain, and thought I found an early child memory of climbing them, but it was hazy, and I certainly couldn't recall reaching the top.

They must have just led to the attic. I took a few steps up out of curiosity, and suddenly felt like I should ask permission before continuing on. That was odd, because my grandparents had always let us go anywhere we wanted in the house. We had always played in bedrooms, closets, the garage, even the laundry chute. But something about the utter silence of this staircase made me feel like I was not invited.

I turned around and headed back downstairs. Hearing the sounds of humanity again felt like a strange relief, and I considered forgetting the stairs and joining the game of Uno. But I was too curious; I still couldn't believe there was a part of this house I hadn't explored yet.

"Grandma?" I said, after finding her in the living room. "Can I go up the stairs to the attic?"

"Hmm? Oh, there are no stairs to the attic, honey. The attic access is in the green bedroom, but you have to climb a ladder to get up there. If you want to see it, ask Grandpa to show you after he wakes up from his nap."

"No, I mean the stairs—upstairs. The stairs in the upstairs hall. Where do those go?"

"Oh, those stairs? I never go up those stairs."

"What—why not?"

"I never need to go up there."

"But what's up there?"

"I'm not sure. Guess my memory's not as good as it used to be."

I frowned. "Well—can I go up there?"

She shrugged. "I suppose so."

I was feeling thoroughly confused, if not a little concerned, as I headed back up to the second level. But I was also intrigued, and determined now to find out where the stairs led. I started imagining secret rooms up there, full of treasure or clues to ancient mysteries. Realistically, I knew it was probably just another attic access, but the least I could do was go see it and make sure.