Free Story Friday: Five Steps Up

0

 

Free Story Friday: Five Steps Up


A new original tale every week—twisted, terrifying, and inspired by the darkest legends you thought you knew.
Justin Mercer knew about the staircases.
Everyone who spent time online reading creepy stories knew about them—those impossible concrete stairs that appeared deep in forests, leading nowhere, attached to nothing. Park rangers swore they existed. Hikers posted blurry photos. The internet had turned them into folklore, complete with rules: never climb them, never touch them, never acknowledge them.
Justin had laughed at those stories over beers with his friends, the same way he’d laughed at Slenderman and the Rake and every other internet boogeyman. He was twenty-two, a college senior with a full social calendar, a girlfriend who actually liked his friends, and a grandmother who still made him feel like the center of the universe. He didn’t have time for supernatural nonsense.
That was before he found one.
The November afternoon was fading to dusk when Justin decided to take the long trail through Whisper Ridge State Forest. He’d had a brutal week—three midterms, two closing shifts at the campus library, and a group project that had devolved into him doing all the work. He needed silence, needed to move, needed to be alone with his thoughts for an hour.
The trail was familiar, well-marked with blue blazes on the trees. He’d hiked it a dozen times. But this time, about two miles in, something caught his eye just off the path.
Concrete steps.
Five of them, maybe six, rising out of the forest floor like a monument to nothing. No house ruins nearby, no foundation, no reason for stairs to exist in the middle of dense woods. The concrete was too clean, too new-looking, as if someone had placed them there yesterday despite the moss growing in the cracks.
Justin stopped walking. The forest sounds—birds, wind through leaves, the distant rush of the creek—dropped away. The air felt thick, pressurized, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. And beneath it all, an inexplicable sensation: being watched, being measured, being counted.
He pulled out his phone to take a picture, then hesitated. All those internet stories came flooding back. Never climb them. Never touch them.
But they were just stairs. Probably left over from some old hunting cabin or fire tower, nature reclaiming what humans had abandoned. Nothing supernatural about that.
Justin climbed five steps.
Not all the way to the top—he wasn’t stupid. Just far enough to prove to himself that they were solid, real, mundane. His boots echoed on the concrete with a sound that felt wrong, too hollow, like the steps went down farther than they should.
At the fifth step, a tightness bloomed behind his eyes, sharp and sudden. The sensation of crossing a threshold without permission, of triggering something that couldn’t be untriggered.
Justin turned and walked back down. Fast.
Relief washed over him as his feet hit forest floor again. He’d stopped. He’d been smart. Whatever rule governed these things, he’d respected it just enough.
He practically jogged the rest of the trail back to his car, and by the time he was driving toward campus, he’d convinced himself it was nothing. Adrenaline and imagination, that’s all. Maybe he’d write about it on Reddit later, get some karma from the creepy stories crowd.
That night, he fell asleep believing the staircase was behind him.
The first crack appeared on Tuesday.
Justin was in line at the campus coffee shop, scrolling through his phone while waiting to order. When he reached the counter, the barista smiled at him—the same guy who’d made his usual order three times a week for the past semester.
“What can I get you?” the barista asked.
“The usual,” Justin said. “Large cold brew, two shots.”
The barista’s smile faltered. “Sorry, what’s your usual?”
Justin laughed. “Come on, man. You made it for me yesterday.”
Blank stare. Polite confusion. “Sorry, I don’t… I don’t think I’ve seen you before?”
A girl behind Justin in line spoke up. “He gets the cold brew. I’ve seen him order it like ten times.”
The barista looked relieved. “Right, okay. Cold brew. Coming up.”
Justin paid, collected his drink, and tried to shake off the weirdness. Maybe the guy had been stoned yesterday. Maybe Justin just had one of those faces.
By Thursday, the cracks had become fissures.
His student ID wouldn’t scan at the library where he worked. The security system rejected it three times before his supervisor manually unlocked the door, frowning at the card like it was a forgery. His name appeared on his work schedule, but when he arrived for his shift, another student was already shelving books in his usual section.
“I’m covering for Justin,” the student said when questioned. “He didn’t show.”
“I’m Justin,” he replied.
The student looked at him with genuine confusion. “No, Justin Mercer. The guy who usually works Thursdays.”
“That’s me. I’m Justin Mercer.”
A long pause. Then: “Oh. Weird. You don’t look like how I pictured you.”
In his psychology seminar, Professor Chen called on him by name, asked him to summarize the previous lecture’s main points. Justin answered. The professor nodded, made a note on her tablet.
Fifteen minutes later, she called on him again. Asked the same question. Used his name.
As if the first exchange had never happened.
After class, Justin approached her desk. “Professor Chen, you called on me twice—”
She looked up, smiled professionally. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Justin. Justin Mercer. I’m in your seminar.”
She glanced at her tablet, scrolled through the roster. “Oh yes, Justin. Sorry, I’m terrible with faces. What did you need?”
He’d been in her class for three months. She’d written him a recommendation letter for grad school.
By Friday, Justin understood the rule.
He tested it methodically, scientifically, because if this was happening, he needed to understand the parameters.
Test one: He talked with his friend Derek for ten minutes about their weekend plans. Detailed conversation. Derek laughed at his jokes, agreed to meet for pizza on Saturday.
Justin stepped into the bathroom.
When he came back out two minutes later, Derek was texting someone.
“Hey,” Justin said.
Derek looked up. “Oh, hey. Sorry, do I know you?”
Test two: He FaceTimed Maya, his girlfriend of eight months. She answered immediately, happy to see him, asking about his day. They talked for five minutes.
Justin said, “Hold on, someone’s at my door,” and walked away from the phone for thirty seconds.
When he came back: “Sorry, who is this?”
Test three: Group chat with his friends. He sent a message. Waited. No response. Sent another. Nothing.
He checked the chat history.
His messages were there. But beneath them, his friends were continuing the conversation as if he hadn’t said anything. Making plans, sharing memes, laughing at inside jokes he’d helped create.
One message from Marcus: “Anyone heard from Justin lately? Feel like I haven’t seen him in a while.”
Justin was typing a response when he realized—they wouldn’t see it. They never did.
The rule was simple and absolute:
People remembered Justin only while they could see him.
Once he left their line of sight—stepped around a corner, ended a call, walked out of a room—their memory of him reset. Not erased entirely, but untethered, floating, like trying to remember a dream after waking.
They knew his name. They had evidence of his existence. But the knowledge wouldn’t stick.
He was a fact they couldn’t retain.
Saturday morning, Justin drove home to see his grandmother.
If anyone could anchor him, it was Nana Ruth. She’d raised him after his parents died, had been the constant presence in his life since he was six years old. She knew him better than anyone. Loved him more than anyone.
She was in the kitchen when he arrived, humming along to oldies radio while she kneaded bread dough. The smell of yeast and warmth filled the small house.
“Nana,” Justin said from the doorway.
She looked up and smiled, and for one perfect moment, everything was normal. Recognition lit her face. Love warmed her eyes.
“Justin, sweetheart! I didn’t know you were coming by. Let me put some coffee on.”
Relief flooded through him so intensely he almost cried. She knew him. She remembered.
He sat at the kitchen table while she fussed with the coffee maker, asking about his classes, his friends, whether he was eating enough. All the normal grandmother questions. Justin answered in detail, desperate to prove that this was real, that he still existed in her world.
She turned to the sink to wash her hands.
Three seconds. That’s all. Her back was to him for three seconds.
When she turned around, her expression had changed. Still kind, but uncertain. The way you look at a stranger who’s appeared in your kitchen.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Can I help you with something?”
“Nana, it’s me. It’s Justin.”
She tilted her head, apologetic. “I’m sorry, I… Do I know you?”
“I’m your grandson. You raised me. I lived here for twelve years.”
Ruth looked genuinely distressed. “I don’t have a grandson, dear. I think you might have the wrong house.”
Justin stood up, fighting panic. “Look at the pictures. On the fridge. That’s me with you at the beach, remember? I was eight. You bought me that boogie board.”
She looked at the photos. Studied them. “That’s me, yes, but I… I don’t remember that trip. I don’t remember…” Her voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. I think I’m having one of my spells. I should probably call my doctor.”
She was crying now, embarrassed and confused, apologizing to this stranger in her kitchen for not remembering something she should remember.
Justin left before she could call anyone. He couldn’t bear to see her upset, couldn’t stand the guilt in her eyes for failing to know him.
Love didn’t override the rule.
History didn’t matter.
Only sight.
The weeks that followed taught Justin the full scope of his condition.
His friends discussed him in the past tense while he sat three feet away in the library. “Remember Justin Mercer? Wonder what happened to him. He just kind of… stopped showing up.”
His name appeared in group photos on Instagram, tagged and timestamped, but when people looked at those photos, they skipped over him without really seeing. Their eyes would land on him and slide away, like he was a blur in the background.
His university email account still existed, but when professors sent responses to his messages, they addressed them to “Student” or “Whom It May Concern.”
Payroll had no record of him after November 15th. His supervisor, apologetic and baffled, said the system showed he’d never been employed. She could see his name on old schedules, but the computer refused to process any future shifts.
Maya changed her relationship status to single. When Justin called her—desperate, needing to hear her voice—she answered politely and asked who was calling.
“It’s Justin. We’ve been dating for eight months. I love you.”
A long pause. “I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong number.”
Late one night, Justin searched archived forums and deleted Reddit threads for mentions of staircases. Most were jokes, memes, ranger warnings. But buried deep in a paranormal blog from 2011, he found a fragment:
“Partial ascent. Returned. Didn’t stay anchored. Reality corrects the error eventually. They’re already gone—they just don’t know it yet.”
The thought settled into his bones with terrible certainty:
He wasn’t spared by climbing down.
He was supposed to disappear completely on those stairs.
But he’d only gone halfway, interrupted the process. And reality, methodical and patient, was correcting the mistake.
His popularity, his friends, his loving grandmother—none of it could anchor him. He’d crossed a threshold that didn’t forgive partial measures.
The staircase had finalized something the moment his foot touched that fifth step.
He just hadn’t realized he was already gone.
Justin adapted.
He learned to live in crowded places where eyes were always on him. Studied in packed libraries. Attended every campus event. Joined clubs he didn’t care about just to sit in rooms full of people.
He scheduled his life in continuous visibility.
Coffee shops became his office. Lecture halls his refuge. He couldn’t go home—there was no home anymore. The apartment he’d rented with Derek now had a different tenant, records showing Justin had moved out months ago.
He slept in libraries during reading period, in 24-hour diners, anywhere with witnesses who could hold him in reality through the simple act of seeing.
He stopped trying to maintain relationships. What was the point? He could make people laugh, could charm them, could make them love him for as long as they could see him.
But he couldn’t make them keep him.
In March, Justin returned to Whisper Ridge State Forest.
He knew the exact spot. Had marked it on a GPS app that no longer recognized him as a user but still worked if he didn’t try to save anything.
The staircase was gone.
Five months had passed, and there was no trace it had ever existed. No disturbed earth, no concrete fragments, nothing. Just forest floor and fallen leaves and the blue trail markers leading deeper into the woods.
A group of hikers passed by, laughing about something on one of their phones. They didn’t see Justin standing there, though he was less than ten feet away.
He wanted to warn them. Wanted to shout: Don’t climb anything that shouldn’t be there. Don’t test the rules. Don’t assume you’ll be the exception.
But they’d forget before the words finished leaving his mouth.
Justin watched them disappear around the bend, their laughter fading into the rustle of wind through bare branches.
He stayed there until dusk, sitting on the ground where the staircase had been, thinking about all the stories he’d read. The warnings he’d laughed at. The rules he’d thought were just internet fiction.
Somewhere, in another forest in another state, new stairs were probably appearing. Clean concrete rising from nowhere, waiting for someone curious enough to test them.
And somewhere, someone else was climbing five steps.
Just curious.
Just for a second.
Just to prove the stories weren’t real.
Justin knew they’d stop before reaching the top. They’d walk back down, relieved and proud of their restraint. They’d go home believing they’d been smart enough to escape.
They’d be wrong.
The staircase didn’t take his life. It took his permanence. And there was no climbing back from that.
As darkness settled over the forest, Justin stood and walked back to the trail. Back to campus. Back to the library where he’d spend another night in careful visibility, existing only in the margins of other people’s peripheral vision.
As long as someone could see him, he still existed.
He planned his life accordingly.
© 2025 Karen Cody. All rights reserved.
This original story was written exclusively for the Urban Legends, Mystery, and Myth blog.
Do not copy, repost, or reproduce without permission.
This tale may appear in a future special collection.
Love creepy folklore and twisted tales? Follow the blog for a new story every week—where legends get darker and the truth is never what it seems.
Tags

Post a Comment

Post a Comment

Previous Post Next Post