THE STAIRWAY: "Five Flights Won't Kill Me" | #MidnightInTheMacabre

Elliot leaves his phone charging on the kitchen counter and takes the stairs down from his fifth-floor Chicago apartment to pick up a package in the lobby, and there's no door at the bottom.

EPISODE BLOG PAGE (includes sources): https://weirddarkness.com/TheStairway

SOURCES and RESOURCES: “The Stairway” by Keith Conrad (originally published at http://www.auditoryanthology.com)

WeirdDarkness® is a registered trademark. Copyright ©2026, Weird Darkness.

Midnight In The Macabre (MITM), originally aired: October 15, 2026

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Speaker 1: Welcome, weirdos. I'm Darren Marlar. You've stepped into the horror

fiction side of Weird Darkness. And it happens to be midnight.

In the macabre. It had been an uneventful Thursday night.

Elliot sat slouched on his couch, a faded bear's hoodie

hanging loosely off one shoulder, half watching a rerun of

a sitcom he'd seen a dozen times. The microwave beeped

in the kitchen, and he peeled himself off the cushions

to retrieve his reheated pasta. Outside, the wind rattled the

windows of his fifth-floor apartment, and the occasional honk from

the street below filtered through the glass. Typical Chicago night.

He scrolled through his phone as he ate, barely tasting

the food. Text notifications, a weather alert for flurries overnight,

a grocery store coupon he wouldn't use. Just as he

was rinsing out his dish and debating whether he had

one or more episodes of energy left in him, a

new notification pinged. Your package has been delivered. Now available

for pickup in the lobby locker. Elliot blinked. He had

forgotten he ordered something. Probably the phone case he impulse-bought

last week. He considered leaving it until morning. It wasn't urgent.

But something about the idea of checking it off his

mental to-do list gave him a small jolt of purpose.

He slipped on his sneakers, grabbed a hoodie, and headed

for the door. He left his phone on the kitchen

counter to charge. No need for it. He was just

going downstairs. As he stepped into the hallway, he noticed

the elevator light was stuck on twelve. He hit the

button anyway and waited. Nothing. He hit it again, slightly

harder this time. Still, nothing. With a sigh, he turned

toward the stairwell. Fine, he muttered. Five flights won't kill me.

He opened the heavy stairwell door and stepped inside. It

closed behind him with a sharp metallic click that echoed

off the concrete walls. The stairwell was just like he remembered, gray, utilitarian,

dimly lit. He stared down, shoes squeaking faintly on the

rubberized steps. One flight down, he hit the landing, turned

at the switchback, and descended again. He expected to find

the lobby door waiting at the next landing. Instead, another

set of stairs. He frowned, but kept walking. Another landing.

Another switchback. More stairs. No doors, no signs, no lobby.

Elliot paused at the fourth landing, one hand on the railing.

He looked around, expecting to see the familiar beige door

that led to the building lobby. Instead, he found nothing.

Just the same dull concrete walls and another set of

stairs leading downward. He turned, slowly, retracing his steps back

up to the last landing. He squinted at the space

where the fourth-floor door should be. Still, nothing. No door.

No signage. Not even the typical dented metal placard that said, four.

Just more stairs, up and down, each landing identical to

the last. A chill crept down his spine. He descended

another level. Then another. By the sixth landing, Elliot had

stopped checking for the lobby. It wasn't there. He ran

his fingers along the wall, searching for a seam, a doorknob,

anything that might indicate an exit. The surface was cold

and featureless. The air felt heavier now, as if the

oxygen was thinning just slightly. He wiped sweat from his brow,

not sure when it had started forming. He turned around

and went back the way he came, hurrying up the

steps this time, breath growing short. One landing. Two landing. Three.

Still no doors. Still just switchbacks. Still just more stairs.

He stopped, gripped the railing. His legs were starting to tremble.

Not just from exertion, but from something deeper. Something crawling

up his spine that whispered this wasn't just a weird

building layout. This was wrong. I'll just call someone, he muttered,

reaching into his pocket. only to realize he hadn't brought

his phone. It was still on the counter in his apartment.

So were his keys. His wallet. All he had was

his hoodie, the sneakers on his feet, and the vague

memory of reruns and leftover pasta. He sat down on

the next landing, trying to think. The silence pressed in

around him like a weight. He couldn't hear anyone above

or below. No footsteps. No echoes of doors opening. No

sounds at all. It was like he had slipped out

of the world entirely. He stood again, slower this time,

and continued walking. Down. Up. It didn't matter. He tried both.

He counted steps. He skipped landings. He turned and ran

back the way he'd come. The result was always the same. Stairs. Switchback. Stairs.

An endless loop of with no exit. After what felt

like hours, Elliot's legs gave out beneath him, and he

slumped against the wall, dizzy and exhausted. His mouth was dry.

His thoughts drifted toward ridiculous explanations. Maybe he'd had a stroke.

Maybe he was in a coma. Maybe he was dead.

But that last one didn't feel like a joke. He

didn't know how long he sat there, breathing in the

scent of dust and concrete, before he heard it. A

door creaked open above him, then the soft, unmistakable sound

of footsteps coming down. The sound of footsteps echoed softly

from above, unmistakable, steady, and calm. Elliot sat frozen on

the landing, straining to listen. They weren't hurried or panicked.

Whoever it was, they weren't lost. They were descending with purpose.

He stood, Unsteady at first, and backed slightly against the wall,

unsure whether to call out or hide. Hello? he finally said,

voice cracking. The footsteps stopped. Then a voice answered, smooth, patient,

almost friendly. There you are. A man appeared on the

landing above. He wore a black suit and a gray tie,

his posture perfect. His hair neatly parted like he'd just

stepped out of an old photo. He carried a small

leather-bound notebook in one hand and glanced down at Elliot

with the expression of someone spotting a long-overdue appointment. Elliot, right?

he said, stepping down another few stairs. Elliot blinked. Uh, yeah?

The man nodded. Sorry about the wait. You weren't supposed

to be here this long. My assistant was supposed to

come get you, but, well, let's just say he's easily distracted.

Elliot's brain struggled to keep up. Who are you? Where

am I? What is this? The man extended a hand.

Name's Peter. I'm what you might call a facilitator. Elliot

didn't move. Peter gave a small, understanding smile. You're in

the in-between. The stairwell is just your mind's way of

processing it. Some people get tunnels. Some get beaches. You

got stairs. Elliot stared at him. This isn't real. Peter

raised an eyebrow. You think it feels real because it is,

but it's not the kind of real you're used to.

You died tonight, Elliot. The words landed with an impossible weight.

Elliot shook his head. No, I didn't. I was just...

I was going to get my package. Peter gave a

small sigh, flipping through his notebook. Unit 5C, correct? Yes,

slipped on a loose rug near the stairwell door. You

hit your head. Quick, you were already gone by the

time your neighbor opened her door. Elliot staggered back a step,

reaching for the railing. This is some kind of dream.

I get that a lot, Peter said gently. But no,

you've been trapped here for hours, Elliot. Stuck between where

you were and where you need to go. A pause. Then,

that's why I'm here. As he spoke, something shimmered behind him,

just past the next landing, on a wall that had

been blank before. A door had opened, not like the

others in Elliot's apartment building. It was old, wooden, with

a brass handle and a warm glow leaking out from

its frame. It looked like it belonged in an old

study or a cathedral, not a stairwell. Peter stepped aside

and gestured toward it. It's time. Elliot disappeared. move at first.

What's on the other side? Peter shrugged lightly. That's not

really for me to say. It's different for everyone. Elliot

stared at the door, heart thudding. He looked back down

the stairs he'd endlessly climbed and descended. then up toward

the stranger who somehow knew his name. He took a

step toward the door. Elliot's hand trembled as it reached

for the brass handle. The door felt warm beneath his fingers. Solid, real,

far more substantial than anything else in the stairwell. He

turned back to Peter once more, searching the man's face

for a final answer, some reassurance. Peter just offered a

soft nod. You're not the first to hesitate, he said,

but you made it this far. That's what matters. Elliot

took a breath, steadying himself. Then he opened the door.

There was no blinding light, no grand choral music, just

a slow, golden glow that spilled over the stairwell floor

like sunlight through a high window. Warm air touched his skin,

gentler than anything he'd felt in hours. He stepped through.

And just like that, the door closed behind him with

a soft click. The glow vanished. Peter stood alone on

the landing, flipping to the next page in his notebook.

He sighed. Then, from somewhere above, a faint sound echoed down,

the door creaking open. Peter tilted his head, listening. A beat.

He tucked the notebook under his arm. With a tired

smile and perfect posture, he turned and began climbing. Thanks

for joining me. Find more horror fiction at weirddarkness.com slash midnight.

I'm Darren Marlar, and I hope you'll join me again

soon at midnight in the macabre.