The Croaking Staircase

A woman wearing a Hawaiian shirt sips Mountain Dew through a straw, shouting words off a card “And 1st place for chicken goes to….Here Piggy Piggy BBQ!” Hoots and Hollers rise up from the crowd as a burly trio of men saunter up to the stage to collect their cheap trophy. “It’s hot as Hades out here!” a large red-faced woman says next to me. I nod, wiping the sweat off my neck with a hankerchief. I scramble for drama. Will the pork burn? Will Randy drink too much and strip his clothes off again? Will the heat kill someone, causing them to be whisked away on a gurney? I don’t actually wish that, but when you’re making a reality show about bbq competitions, you can run out of ideas fast. 

  For the next two nights we stay in Natchez, the oldest town on the Mississippi. Live oak trees line the crumbling streets, and dusty porch fronts with intricate woodwork hint at something I could only describe as “dilapidated grandeur.” I heave my luggage onto the hotel bed and begin to unpack a few things, pausing to leaf through a flyer on the nightstand advertising plantation tours. 

Outside the hotel, stairs lead down to the river. A riverboat casino has pulled up like a glittering jewel beckoning us inside. She’s called the “River Belle” and has a giant paddlewheel, lit up with red and gold bulbs. Everyone races inside, eager to let loose a bit. I feel a heady rush as I order a mint julep and amble through the narrow aisles. This is why I’m here. Emboldened from my drink, I decide to leave and explore Natchez on my own. 

  I roam along the bluff of the Mississippi, a river breeze tickling my scalp. Swollen clouds collect in the night sky. A barnyard smell hangs heavy in the air. There aren’t many streetlights in this old town.  

  There’s a stairwell on the left, leading up steep, concrete steps. I hesitate a moment, then climb to the top. The path in front of me vanishes in the undulating bluegrass. I push my way through the waist-high meadow and look up. A hundred yards away is a monstrous antebellum home.  

A long curtain blows through a broken window. If fear was the nagging whisper at my neck, curiosity was the hand to calm it.

I walk closer, the street noise below fades away with every step. The crickets stop chirping, leaving me alone in suffocating silence. Spanish moss hangs off the eaves like tangled hair. Sweeping white balconies, once grand, slope and sink. Impressive white pillars are snaked with overgrown vines. I walk closer. On the sprawling deck sits a gramophone, lying under a blanket of leaves and debris. The door blows open and shut, like a mouth agape. I step over the musty threshold, and I’m swallowed by the dark. Shadows hulk around me, staring from the corners. The floorboards buckle and creak under my weight. Something pulls my foot. I reach down and extract a long nail from the sole of my shoe. I stand still, feeling the room close in around me. 

  I reach for my phone, and turn on the flash. I hold the little light out in front like a weapon. The ceiling soars above me, dust particles dance through the beam of light. Sagging furniture, broken glass, and the smell of moldy cardboard fills the room. Wallpaper, once ornate, is peeling off revealing mottled plaster. A staircase winds up to another floor. I begin to climb. A deep croak escapes the wood boards below, as if a bog of rot is bubbling in wait.

  I stop suddenly as I hear a noise above. Rain. I walk closer. Now upstairs with my exit out of sight, I’m trapped. Is this what happens? The croaking staircase collapses, swallowing too-curious humans into it's amphibious belly? Panic rises. I push it down and keep going. A mattress lies in the corner of one room, toys strewn about, some unopened mail spills out on the floor. Someone lives here. 

  I should leave, but I can’t. At the far end of the bedroom there’s a door. I cross the room slowly, my shoes sinking into the dusty rose carpet. I grip the handle and turn the knob. It opens an inch but it’s stuck in the swollen wood frame. I tug, urgent voices in my head pushing me to do so. The patter of raindrops has become a roar above my head. Water trickles through the ceiling landing on my face in persistent warning. A floorboard creaks downstairs, my stomach seizes. Someone is here. I tug on the door again, this time not for exploration but for a place to hide. It flies open and I throw myself into the inky darkness. My phone is dead.  

Footsteps and muffled voices float up through the cracks. I scramble for a plan. 

My eyes adjust slowly, teasing images in my periphery. Shadow goblins cower over me. I stand, unsure of where to go or what to do next. Footsteps are getting closer, and a gravelly voice yells out. It isn’t words I recognize, but almost a pained cry. Numbed with fear, I whisper into the darkness “You need to get out of here now.” I smell smoke, maybe something burning on a stove? Maybe they are cooking and this will buy me time to sneak out. I look up and realize I’m in the attic, with nowhere else to go. There’s a small octagonal window on the far side of the room. I tiptoe across the naked floorboards, pushing the window open. I crane my head out the bottom half and squint through the pelting rain. An orange glow crackles below, black smoke coils up the beams of the porch. The house is on fire. 

I stumble backwards, adrenaline racing. I begin planning my escape. I pick up an old 2x4 piece of wood and ram it through a small window, breaking the hinges, glass exploding outward. 

 I swing one leg out and squeeze my head and torso out after. I’m huddled in the tiny ledge, unsure of my next move. Heat is building. Fiery tongues lick outside the windows below. Holding my breath, I slide down the mossy roof to the edge and crawl slowly to the balcony. I test my weight on the decaying railing by leaning one arm, then the other, then steadily bringing my legs over until I’m on the balcony. From here, I maneuver myself over the railing and drop one leg, and then the other. I hang there, the Spanish moss teasing me as I imagine grabbing it's wet tendrils, and forming it into a rope, letting me swing to safety like Tarzan. But I am not Tarzan and this is not a Hollywood set. I squeeze my eyes shut, and let go.