Clapping on the Staircase at Night

I live on the top floor, the ninth. Our building is an ordinary panel block, but the homeowners' association decided to show off and installed a "smart light" system in the stairwell. On every landing there's a sensor: if no one makes noise or moves for about thirty seconds, the light goes out. To turn it back on, you either have to stomp or clap your hands.

I go out to the stairwell to smoke, on the flight between the eighth and ninth floors. I usually stand in silence, zoning out on my phone or looking out the window. The light goes out, I clap my hands — the bulb comes on. Romantic, my ass.

Yesterday around three in the morning I go out for another smoke. Dead silence in the stairwell. I'm standing there, smoking. After about thirty seconds the light goes out. I'd already raised my hand to clap when suddenly I hear from below, from the first floor — a distinct, dry CLAP.

I froze. I hear the lamp come on on the first floor (in our building you can see the reflections on the walls through the flights). A second of silence — and another CLAP, a bit closer now. The second floor lit up.

Someone was coming up. But, fuck, he wasn't walking. I didn't hear footsteps, didn't hear the shuffle of soles or heavy breathing. There were only claps. Rhythmic, at even intervals.

CLAP — third floor.

CLAP — fourth.

I'm standing on the ninth, in total darkness, afraid even to breathe. The cigarette is smoldering, burning my fingers, and I'm afraid to drop it so as not to make a sound.

CLAP — seventh floor. The reflection of the light from the lamps below is already creeping up to my railing.

CLAP — eighth. Right under my feet.

It went quiet. I could hear that something was standing there, on the eighth-floor landing, literally five meters from me, separated only by one flight of stairs. A minute passed. The light on the eighth floor went out. We both stood in pitch darkness. I could feel the back of my head going numb with fear.

I couldn't take it. Slowly, trying not to make the door creak, I slipped into my vestibule, locked the steel door on all the bolts and pressed my eye to the peephole. It was dark in the vestibule, and dark in the stairwell too.

I stared into the peephole for about ten minutes. My eyes were already aching from the strain. And then, right in front of the door, in the absolute emptiness and darkness of the stairwell, there was a quiet, almost mocking CLAP.

The light on my landing flashed on. Through the peephole I saw no one. Just the empty landing and the swinging cord from the lightbulb.

But on my door, right at face level, there remained a wet handprint. As if someone had held their hand for a very long time in something cold and slimy before clapping.