A normal person counting extra steps on the deep end pool stairs sounds like a kid's ghost story—like "our school used to be a graveyard."
But it's been three days, and I still can't close my eyes in the shower.
My name is Lin Zhao, twenty-five, product manager at an internet company. Every day I argue with developers, fight with designers, and explain to my boss why the feature didn't launch again this week.
I keep a decent lifestyle—every Wednesday night I hit the Olympic Sports Center swimming pool near work for an hour or so.
It's on the east side of the city, an old facility built before the 2008 Olympics. Renovated twice since, but basically just changed the locker room cabinets and swapped manual shower valves for card readers.
The deep end's at the far end of the pool, separated by a floating rope. Water depth slopes from 1.8m to 2.2m. Along the wall, stairs run from the water surface all the way to the bottom.
The incident happened on July 14th. Wednesday. The air was thick and heavy like a steam bath.
I arrived at the pool just before seven. The front desk girl was scrolling short videos, didn't look up: "Wristband deposit fifty."
I handed over my phone. She scanned it and gave me a red wristband printed with 032. The locker room had a few people—most finishing their swims and showering.
I changed into my trunks, rinsed off, and froze when I reached the pool edge.
The deep end was empty.
The floating rope lay alone across the water. The surface there was still as glass, revealing the blue tile pattern on the bottom.
The shallow end had a few people—couple clinging together near the wall, auntie in a swim cap doing breaststroke, head bobbing up and down like a pendulum.
The lifeguard sat on his high chair playing on his phone, screen light reflecting off the mole on his chin.
I didn't think much of it. Wednesdays are quiet—last few weeks only had two or three people. I stretched my shoulders, climbed down the shallow end ladder. Water hit my chest, cold enough to make me shiver.
After two laps to warm up, I pulled myself over the floating rope.
When I stood, water reached my neck. I took a breath, toes probing for the stairs along the wall.
It's a habit. You don't *need* the stairs in the deep end, but counting them step by step gives me peace of mind.
The tiles were cold, my soles feeling the fine textured bumps. At step nine, water covered my chin. My toes probed further, found step ten—firm, bottomed out.
Water just reached my earlobes.
I glanced at the shallow end. The auntie was gone, only the couple remained canoodling. The lifeguard had switched legs but was still on his phone. Everything normal.
I wanted to go deeper, walking along the wall, hand on the grip groove. I lifted my foot to the next step, toes touching the platform—cold, but a little colder than the last one.
I stepped down, sinking a bit. Water covered my ears, and the world went suddenly quiet.
Then something touched my ankle.
Not water current. Anyone who's spent time in a pool knows—current slides past, warm. This felt like a hand, fingertips brushing lightly along the outside of my ankle.
I froze. The blue tiles beneath me were crystal clear. I could see the black anti-slip strip along each step edge. Step ten under my right foot, step eleven under my left—both solid.
I looked down. The water was murky. Old pool, bad circulation—afternoon crowds cloud it up. Now little white particles floated below—sunscreen or dandruff, probably.
But beneath that murk, I saw a shape.
Dark. Blurry. Much darker than the pool bottom blue. Right next to my left foot.
I didn't move. Just stood there, ears submerged, heart pounding in my head. The spot on my ankle that was touched began to tingle, a numbness creeping up my calf.
I stared at that dark shape for two or three seconds. It didn't move—just crouched quietly below my left foot on the stairs.
I slowly lifted my left foot. The shape remained.
I didn't dare look again. I grabbed the pool wall, turned around, lifted my right foot from step ten, and climbed up the grip groove.
Step nine, eight. Water receded from my ears. Sounds returned—the hum of ventilation, the couple laughing in the shallow end, a woman singing from the lifeguard's phone.
I climbed out and sat on the pool edge, gasping. My knees shook.
The lifeguard glanced up. "Choke?"
"No." My throat tightened. "There's something down there."
The lifeguard set his phone on his lap, squinted at the deep end. The pool was spotless—not even a bubble on the surface.
"What something?"
"I don't know. Black." I pointed. "Below my left foot, on the stairs."
The lifeguard stood, walked to the deep end edge, bent to look, then glanced at the ceiling lights. "Nothing there. Water's dirty—must be your eyes playing tricks."
I sat on the edge, unmoving. Water dripped from my feet onto the tiles—*plop, plop*. I looked down at my left ankle. A faint white mark, like someone had gripped it.
I touched it—didn't hurt, just slightly cold.
"How many steps are there?" I asked.
The lifeguard tilted his head. "What steps?"
"The ones in the deep end. Along the wall."
He thought. "Nine? Or ten? Can't remember. Not many anyway."
"Are you sure it's nine?"
He got annoyed, sat back down and picked up his phone. "New pool has eight I think. Old pool here—I counted when I started, nine. Why?"
I said nothing and went to shower.
Hot water beat down on my back, but I kept thinking about those two extra steps. If the deep end only has nine steps, what were step ten and step eleven?
What was that dark shape below? Water streamed down my face, eyes closed. That cold spot on my ankle finally warmed up after several minutes under the hot spray.
When I changed and walked out, I hesitated, then turned back to the front desk.
"How many steps are there in the deep end?"
The girl looked up from her phone. "Huh? What steps?"
"The stairs along the wall where you enter the deep end."
She thought, glanced toward the pool. "Nine or ten, I guess. Why? Drop something?"
"Nothing dropped." I said. "Just curious."
"Then I don't know—ask the lifeguard." She went back to her phone.
I stood there. After a moment she looked up again, annoyed. "Something else?"
"Has anything ever happened here?" I asked. "Drownings?"
Her face changed. "C'mon man, don't scare me—I have to walk home tonight. It's an old pool, stuff happens everywhere. Nothing in my year and a half here though.
If you really wanna know, ask the manager—I don't know anything."
I thanked her and left. On the subway home, I kept checking my ankle. The white mark had faded, invisible now.
But the sensation remained—the cold fingertips brushing my skin, clear as if someone had pressed a fingerprint into my memory.
Two days without going to the pool.
Thursday and Friday I worked till ten, came home, showered, slept. The incident got pushed to the back of my mind.
When colleagues asked over dinner "Any weird stuff happen lately?" they talked about roommates cooking instant noodles in the dark. I didn't mention the pool.
But insomnia came.
Every night lying in bed, eyes closed, I saw that dark shape underwater. I never got a clear look, but its outline grew sharper in my mind.
Like a person crouched on the stairs, head down, hands hanging in front. When I stepped on step eleven, his right hand lifted and touched me.
Saturday morning I woke up and decided to go back.
I didn't know why. Maybe to prove I'd imagined it, maybe to count the steps again.
When people encounter unexplainable things, the brain stubbornly repeats the scenario—like restarting a crashed computer.
I told myself daytime would be safe, crowds would help.
Arrived around two in the afternoon. Saturday was busy, three or four people at the front desk.
As I took my wristband, I glanced at the deep end. Someone was swimming—a middle-aged man in a white cap doing freestyle, splashing hard.
I breathed easier, changed, got in the water. Two laps in the shallow end, then I clung to the floating rope and watched.
The man swam to the far end and came back, splashing water in my face as he passed. I stayed still, waiting until he reached the shallow end to rest.
The deep end was empty again.
My heart lifted. But it was broad daylight—four rows of ceiling lights on full. The tiles below were crystal clear, not a shadow in sight. I told myself: swim over, step on the stairs, count carefully, get out.
I took a breath and ducked under the floating rope. When water reached my chest, I paused, glanced at the lifeguard—a young guy, not the one from before, looking down at something.
Kids screamed in the shallow end, splashing.
I walked to the wall, back against it, feet probing down.
Step one, two, three. Water to waist. Four, five—chest. Six—shoulder. Seven—chin.
At step eight I tiptoed, step nine solid. Water reached just below my nose. I tilted my head to breathe.
I stopped. Right foot on step nine. According to the lifeguard, this was the last step. But that time I'd stepped on ten. I shifted my right foot and probed deeper.
Empty. Toe swept past—no platform.
I froze. Moved half a step deeper, probed again.
Still empty. Water covered my head now. I held my breath, fully extended my foot—nothing. Just sloping pool bottom, smooth tiles.
I surfaced for air, dove back down. This time I felt along the wall all the way down. Nine steps. Below step nine was the sloped bottom, smoothly transitioning to 2.2m depth.
No step ten. I ran my fingers along every step edge—not even a bump.
When I surfaced I was gasping. The kid in the shallow end was still screaming, shrill. I glanced over—his mom was pulling his arm, saying something.
Everything so normal it was eerie.
My legs felt weak climbing out of the deep end. The young lifeguard finally looked up. "You okay?" I said fine.
"How many steps are there in the deep end?" I asked.
He clearly wasn't expecting it, froze. "Nine I think."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I counted when I started—nine." He said. "Why?"
"Nothing." I walked toward the locker room, then turned back. "By the way, who was on duty last Wednesday night?"
"Last Wednesday... Lao Zhang, the one with the mole on his chin."
"Is he here today?"
"Off today." The young lifeguard looked at me. "You looking for him?"
"No, just asking."
After showering, I lingered at the front desk.
A different girl with glasses was on duty. I hesitated, then asked: "Has anyone ever said the steps in the deep end... don't match?"
She pushed her glasses up. "What do you mean?"
"Like, counting more steps than there actually are."
She stared at me for two seconds, then her expression changed. "Are you the guy who came last Wednesday night?"
My heart skipped. "How do you know?"
"Xiao Zhou told me—the girl who was here last Wednesday." She lowered her voice. "Said you asked about accidents and how many steps. Did you see something?"
I said nothing. She just looked at me, eyes behind her glasses a little nervous.
"I'll tell you something—don't tell anyone." She leaned forward, hands on the counter. "Someone did drown in the deep end a few years back."
My palms started sweating.
"When?"
"I've been here two years—heard from old staff. Four or five years ago, a guy came to swim at night. He was alone in the deep end. Swam, then never came up.
When they found him... anyway, the pool paid compensation and buried it." She swallowed. "Some say the guy tripped on the stairs.
Those deep end stairs—people say they change. Sometimes there are more steps."
"Change?"
"Yeah. One person counts nine, another ten, some even twelve." Her voice got smaller.
"Old staff say don't go to the deep end alone at night, especially don't step down one by one. They say when that guy drowned, his foot got stuck in the step crack."
My back went cold. Someone pushed out of the locker room, flip-flops slapping. The glasses girl straightened instantly, putting on her professional smile.
After that person left, she whispered again: "Just be careful. Xiao Zhou got sick the day after you were here—hasn't come back yet."
When I walked out, the sun was still bright. Heat waves rose from the asphalt. I stood at the entrance for a long time, back still cold.
At home I searched online: "Olympic Sports Center swimming pool deep end accident." First result was a local news story from three years ago—male drowned, identity unknown, police ruled out foul play.
No comments below. Searching for pool stairs gave only tutorials for teaching kids to enter water.
I tossed my phone on the couch, got a bottle of water from the fridge. Drank it standing in the middle of the living room, mind racing. That dark shape surfaced again—clearer now. A man.
Crouched on the stairs, face buried in knees, hands hanging in front, right hand fingers slightly spread.
That right hand—touched my ankle.
That night I dreamed. Dreamt I was back at the pool, deep end still empty. I stood at the edge looking down—water crystal clear, every tile visible.
Stairs stretched down clearly, one by one. I counted—nine. Then I stepped in, walking down step by step.
At step nine I wanted to stop, but my foot moved on its own. Step ten. Another step. Step eleven.
What I stepped on wasn't tile—it was soft. I looked down. Underwater, that man looked up, hand gripping my ankle, eyes open.
I jolted awake. Sat up sweating—AC at 16°C but still hot.
That spot on my ankle was cold again. I touched it—there was that white mark, more visible this time, like someone had squeezed it.
I didn't sleep again. Sat in the living room with lights on till dawn.
Monday at work I was a mess. Boss called my name twice in meetings asking if the requirement document was done.
I said almost. Hadn't written a word. My mind was full of stairs—sinking deeper, never hitting bottom.
At lunch I saw a local WeChat account push: "East Olympic Sports Center Swimming Pool to close for maintenance, one week."
I clicked in—closing this Wednesday, circulation system upgrade. A photo of the pool accompanied it, deep end empty, water glistening blue.
I stared at that photo for a long time. The stairs on the wall were clearly visible, black anti-slip strips. I zoomed in as far as I could. Nine steps.
But at the bottom right of the last step, a patch of different color. Darker than surrounding tiles, irregular shape—like a shadow.
I flipped my phone over, closed my eyes. When I opened them a colleague asked if I wanted an apple. I said no. She looked at my face: "You haven't been sleeping, have you? Bags under your eyes."
"Insomnia."
"Too much stress—soak your feet before bed."
I nodded. Soak feet. The phrase turned in my mind, and suddenly I thought: if step eleven was that man's instep, he was crouched there.
Crouched below step nine, at 2.2m depth, face down. Does he stay there all the time?
The thought made my back cold again. I stood and went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face. In the mirror I looked terrible—sunken eyes, pale lips.
I stared at myself in the mirror, thinking about that drowned man. How old was he when he died. Why was he swimming alone that night. Did he count the steps wrong too.
In the afternoon I asked the boss for half a day off—feeling unwell, need to go home. Boss approved, told me to rest. I left the office but didn't go home. Took a taxi back to the pool.
I didn't know why I went. Maybe just to confirm one last time. Tomorrow it closes—today should be the last business day.
Arrived around four. Fewer people than Saturday—three or four in the shallow end, one old man doing backstroke in the deep end, slow laps back and forth.
I changed, sat on the pool edge soaking my feet. Water warm. Kids in the shallow end played with a plastic ball, splashing.
The lifeguard was the same young guy from Saturday. He saw me and nodded. I nodded back.
The old man swam for about twenty minutes then got out. Deep end empty again. I sat on the edge, watching the water. Floating rope swayed with the waves, blue and quiet below.
I stood and walked to the deep end edge.
The lifeguard glanced at me. "Swimming?"
"No." I said. "Just looking."
I squatted at the edge, leaning over to look down. This angle showed every step clearly—nine steps stretching down, ending at the sloped bottom.
Water was clear—circulation system probably running at max on the last day, even tile grout visible below.
But after staring for about half a minute, I noticed something.
To the right of step nine, about a hand's width from the wall, a darker patch. Not obvious—like fog on the tiles.
I blinked and looked again. That fog slowly seeped down, into the seam where step nine met the sloped bottom.
Then that seam moved.
More accurately, the seam widened. Where the sloped bottom and step met should have been a smooth line. But that line slowly dipped down, like something under the tiles was pushing up.
I stared at that seam for about ten seconds. It kept widening—from a line to a gap. The tiles at the edge lifted slightly, revealing black underneath.
A finger reached out of that gap.
Pale white—waterlogged. Nails grayish-blue. It reached out from under the stairs, resting on the edge of step nine, fingers curling slightly.
My scalp exploded. I tried to stand, legs turned to jelly.
I pushed back with my hands on the pool edge tiles—slippery with water. I fell backward onto the floor, hitting my head. Stars burst in front of my eyes.
The lifeguard jumped off his chair. "What happened!"
I lay on the floor gasping. Ceiling lights spun. The lifeguard knelt to help me, asking if I needed an ambulance. It took several seconds before I could speak.
"Someone's under the stairs."
The lifeguard turned to look at the deep end. I couldn't see the pool from the floor, but his expression changed from worried to confused to "this guy is crazy."
"No one there."
"Right of step nine, there's a gap, inside the gap—"
I sat up. My head throbbed. I grabbed the pool edge and looked at the deep end. Water was still and blue.
The stairs were still nine. The seam between step nine and the bottom was tight—nothing there.
Nothing at all.
The lifeguard stood beside me, expression awkward. "Bro, you been working too hard? Low blood pressure? I saw you squatting there forever—heatstroke?"
I ignored him. Just stared at that seam. For two minutes, eyes blurring from staring. The seam didn't move.
The lifeguard patted my shoulder. "Why don't you go rest? You look pale."
I stood, legs still shaking. A bump on the back of my head—sore when I pressed it. I walked toward the locker room, stopped, turned back: "You're closing tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah, maintenance for a week."
"When you do maintenance," I said, "you drain the pool, right?"
"Of course—need to empty it to replace the circulation system."
I nodded. When the water drains, whatever's under those stairs can't hide. I wanted to tell him to check that seam then, but swallowed the words. He wouldn't believe me. I barely believed myself.
In the shower I kept thinking about that finger. White, gray nails, resting on the step edge.
Like it was trying to climb out. I closed my eyes, hot water pouring over my head. I heard another sound mixed with the water—*gurgle gurgle*, like someone blowing bubbles at the bottom of the pool.
I snapped the water off. Shower area was quiet. Someone next door was humming—Jay Chou's "Sunny Day."
When I changed and came out, the glasses girl was still at the front desk. She saw me, froze, then waved me over.
"You came again?" Her voice was low.
"Yeah."
"Um..." She looked around, pulled a piece of paper from under the counter. "Found this cleaning today—don't know who put it here. Take a look."
It was plain A4 paper, folded twice. I opened it. One line, ballpoint pen, messy handwriting:
"There's a hand in the crack under the deep end stairs. Don't step on the twelfth step."
I stared at that line. "Where did this come from?"
"Don't know—under the counter drawer, under a pile of old receipts." The glasses girl looked nervous.
"Scared me when I saw it. Almost threw it away, but then I saw you... who do you think wrote this?"
I flipped the paper over—blank. Held it up to the light—paper was yellowed, edges curled, been there a while.
"Have you seen this handwriting before?"
She shook her head. "Pay no attention. Several people use this pen at the front desk—people scribble stuff and leave it."
I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. "Thanks."
"Hey," she called me back, "will you come again after?"
"Closed for a week."
"I mean after that."
I thought. "Don't know."
When I walked out, it was getting dark—orange sunset in the west. I stood at the entrance and pulled out the paper again.
"Don't step on the twelfth step." But I only counted to eleven. Step ten was that man's instep, step eleven was his hand touching me. What's step twelve?
I looked up at the pool sign—white LED letters lit up, faintly blue in the twilight.
Faint sounds of water and children's laughter came from inside. Tomorrow it closes—water drained, pumps replaced, pool bottom exposed.
Suddenly I thought: that drowned man, four or five years ago, how many steps did *he* count that night?
I took a taxi home. On the way I took a photo of the paper and saved it, then sent it to a friend who works at the newspaper covering social news.
"Help me check something—four or five years ago, the drowning at Olympic Sports Center pool. Any follow-up reports or investigation results?"
About twenty minutes later he replied: "Why the sudden interest?"
"Nothing, just curious."
He sent a screenshot—a small news blurb from the local paper back then, similar to what I found online. But at the end of the screenshot was a line I hadn't noticed:
"Multiple abrasions found on victim's feet, preliminarily judged to be caused by underwater stairs."
I stared at that line, fingers tingling. The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror: "You okay, kid? Motion sickness? Want me to open a window?"
No thanks, I said. Almost home.
At home I sat on the couch in the dark, reading the paper by streetlight. Twelve steps. Don't step on the twelfth. I closed my eyes and replayed that night.
Steps one through nine clear. Ten solid. Eleven solid. Then I turned back. What if I'd taken one more step?
My phone vibrated. Newspaper friend sent another message: "Oh right buddy, I checked the following days' papers.
There was a small follow-up—victim's family went to the pool demanding compensation, said the stairs were poorly designed. But it seems they settled privately, no more news."
I replied "Thanks" and set the phone down.
Living room was quiet. I heard my breathing, fridge compressor humming. Cars passed outside occasionally, headlights sweeping across the ceiling then gone.
I stood and washed my face in the bathroom. In the mirror my lips were still pale, the bump on my head still sore.
I looked down at my ankle. That white mark appeared again—darker this time, like a full handprint, five finger marks clear.
I wiped it with a towel. Wouldn't come off. The mark seemed to glow from beneath the skin.
Back in the living room, I picked up my phone and looked at that photo again. I didn't get a picture of the finger reaching out from the step crack—I'd fallen, too late.
But "Don't step on the twelfth step" kept nagging at me.
How did the person who wrote this know?
Did they step on the twelfth step?
I sat in the dark staring at the paper for a long time. Finally folded it and put it in my wallet's inner pocket, stood and turned on all the living room lights.
As I turned on the fourth ceiling light, my hand shook. A image flashed in my mind.
That drowned man crouched under the stairs. Face buried in knees. Right hand hanging. His right foot on step eleven—when someone steps on his instep, he lifts his right hand.
What about his left foot?
What step was his left foot on?
All lights on, blinding bright. I stood in the middle of the living room. Under my feet, wooden floor—dry, warm. But I kept feeling something pushing up from beneath.
Tap, tap.
Like someone was knocking from under the floor with their fingertips.