⏱ ~5 min reading
Lidusya lived in a tall old house with a green roof and a round window in the attic. Grandma said the house was so old that she remembered her great-grandmother when she was a little girl with pigtails.
During the day the house was silent. Only the clock in the living room ticked softly, and the kettle in the kitchen occasionally sighed with steam. The sun played on the windowsills, bubbles moved lazily in a jar of jam, and the cat Smetanko slept curled up on the rug by the fireplace. But at night - oh, at night the strangest things began.
As soon as Lidusya settled down under a warm blanket, a voice came from the corridor:
— Skr-r-rip... rrip... thump.
The girl froze. She felt her heart take a small leap, like a fluffy sparrow in her chest.
"Scr-r-rip..." it repeated again. "Tuk-tuk.".
Lidusya hugged Gavrilo the bear tighter. Gavrilo was big, with one ear a little shorter than the other, and smelled of vanilla and a little bit of grandma's closet.
"Do you hear, Gavrika?" she asked in a whisper. "Someone is coming up the stairs.".
Gavrilo was silent, but looked confident. It seemed to Lidusa that he was saying: "Don't be afraid, I'm with you.".
This went on for three nights. Every evening, as the lights went out in the house, the old wooden stairs would begin to sing their «scr-rip-thump-screak» softly. Now louder, now quieter, as if someone were slowly climbing up and then descending again. Sometimes it seemed that in the middle of the stairs someone would stop and even sigh.
The first night Lidusya thought: it must be someone else. The second night - it must be a ghost, which the neighbor girl Yulka told her about. The third night she didn't know what to think, she just pulled the blanket up to her nose and listened, listened, listened.
On the fourth evening, Lidusya decided that she had to find out. After all, when you don't know something, it always seems scarier than it really is. That's what her father said. She took Gavrilo under her arm, a flashlight in her hand, and left the room.
The corridor was warm. The floor smelled of the wax that Grandma used to rub on it every Sunday. The moon looked in through the window above the door and laid a silver strip on the stairs, like a path for little feet.
"Scr-r-rip," said the stairs very close by.
Lidusya walked to the very edge of the top step and sat down. The wood was warm, like a palm that had been basking in the sun all day. She ran her finger over it: tiny grooves, scratches from fingernails that had been stepping here for a hundred years.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly.
The step beneath her sighed softly:
— S-r-rip-p-p…
And suddenly the girl heard footsteps behind her. Soft, in slippers. It was her grandmother, in her long polka-dotted robe, with a cup of warm milk in her hands.
— Can't sleep, Lidus?
"Grandma, there's someone on the stairs. He's walking. I'm not making this up.".
The grandmother smiled and sat down next to her, hugging her granddaughter. Her shoulder smelled of chamomile.
"Oh, you're talking about that. You know, our house is very old. During the day it stays level because the whole family lives in it: you run, the cat jumps, Dad walks, the kettle boils. And at night, when everyone falls asleep, the house can finally breathe. The wood in the walls and in the steps straightens out a little, like you do when you lie down and stretch your heels to the edge of the bed. Do you hear that?"
"Scr-r-rip-tuck," the stairs confirmed.
"He's stretching," whispered the grandmother. "You see, he's been carrying us all day. He's carrying your steps, my steps, Dad's heavy boots, Mom's dancing in the kitchen, singing while washing the dishes. And now he's resting. And when he's feeling good, he sings softly.".
Lidusya touched the step with her palm. It was warm and a little rough, like the back of an old dog.
"So he's not in pain?"
"No, little one. He's fine. This is his lullaby—for you and me. Just like you like it when I stroke your head before you fall asleep.".
The girl listened. And indeed: «skr-rip» no longer seemed scary. It was similar to how dad croaks, sitting down in a chair after work. Or how Lidusya herself yawns sweetly, crawling under the blanket. Or how Smetanka sighs, turning from side to side.
“Good night, little house,” she whispered and patted the step.
"Scr-r-rip," the stairs answered meekly.
Grandma carried Lidusya back to bed. Gavrilo was under her arm again, the blanket up to his nose. Grandma left a cup of warm milk by the bed, a thin stream of steam rising from it.
Now the girl lay and listened. The stairs creaked softly, like the breathing of a large, gentle animal. Somewhere above, a beam creaked - as if the house had turned over on its side. Something in the wall clicked faintly - and fell silent. There was a movement in the attic - it must have been stretched too.
"Sleep, home," whispered Lidusya. "I'm sleeping too.".
And she fell asleep. And the house sang to her its old, warm, wooden lullaby - until the very morning. And Gavrilo, under her arm, seemed to be softly singing along too.
✨ The old sounds of our home are his lullaby ✨