The Blue Tile Bathroom

I never thought I’d be the kind of person who schedules a séance for a cat. But after Dr. Halvorsen made the house call that March afternoon, I was a hollow shell, and the silence in the apartment was louder than any scream. Mabel, my tortoiseshell of sixteen years, had been my constant since she was a ball of fluff in a cardboard box. We’d moved from the cramped studio in Austin to this sprawling craftsman in Portland, Oregon, when I’d finally said yes to Liam’s proposal. The house was a fixer-upper, with its creaking stairs and drafty windows, but it had one perfect feature: the downstairs bathroom. It was a small space, barely big enough for a claw-foot tub, but the walls were covered in tiny, hand-painted blue tiles that caught the morning light like a thousand tiny seas. Mabel adored that room. She’d sprawl on the cool tiles while I soaked in the tub, her tail twitching in her sleep.

The day I lost her, I sat in that bathroom for hours, the tub empty, the tiles cold. Liam found me there, my cheek pressed to the floor, and gently coaxed me out. He suggested we call a pet communicator, something he’d read about in a magazine. I scoffed, but desperation is a powerful drug. So when I found a woman named Celeste Ward online, who claimed to speak with the departed, I made the call. Celeste’s voice was calm, unhurried, like wind chimes in a soft breeze. She asked for a photo of Mabel, and a few of her favorite things. I sent her a picture of Mabel on the bathroom floor, her green eyes half-lidded, and a frayed blue ribbon she’d always carried around.

A week later, on a Tuesday evening, I sat alone in the living room, the phone on speaker. Celeste began to describe Mabel’s personality in uncanny detail. Then she paused. ‘She’s showing me a room,’ she said, her voice fading into a whisper. ‘It’s not the main part of the house. It’s small, with a tub, and the walls… they’re blue. Like a mosaic.’ I gasped. ‘That’s the bathroom,’ I said. ‘Her favorite spot.’ ‘She’s saying something,’ Celeste continued, her voice now firm. ‘She says, ‘The bathroom, the bathroom, seeing me, feeling me.” I broke down, sobbing. ‘She used to sit on the edge of the tub and watch me,’ I managed. ‘She’d purr and knead the mat.’ Celeste was quiet for a moment. ‘She’s not sad,’ she finally said. ‘She’s showing me a place, a bright green field with a stream. But she keeps going back to that blue room. She wants you to know she’s still there, somehow.’ I thanked her, but after I hung up, a weird unease settled in my stomach. The bathroom was the most peaceful place in the house, but now it felt different.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I got up for a glass of water, and as I passed the bathroom, I noticed the door ajar. The light was off, but I swear I saw a flicker of shadow move across the tiles. I flicked the switch. Nothing. The bathroom was empty, the tub dry. I went back to bed, convincing myself it was a trick of the night. The next morning, I found Mabel’s blue ribbon on the bathroom floor, right in the center, as if it had been carefully placed. I hadn’t touched it since she died. Liam shrugged, saying maybe the cleaning lady had dropped it. But we didn’t have a cleaning lady.

Over the next weeks, the bathroom became a focal point of my grief. I found myself drawn there, sitting on the edge of the tub, talking to the air. Sometimes I’d close my eyes and pretend I could feel Mabel brush against my leg. It was oddly comforting, but also unsettling, because I knew she was gone. Then the dreams started. Every night, I’d dream of the bathroom, but in the dream, the tiles were wet, and the water in the tub was dark, like ink. In the dream, I saw Mabel’s face peering up from under the surface, her eyes wide and pleading. I’d wake up gasping, my heart pounding.

I tried to ignore it, but the dreams escalated. One night, I dreamed I was in the tub, and the water was rising, and something was pushing me down. I woke up choking, realizing I’d actually drifted into the tub in my sleep. The water was cold, and the bathroom was freezing. I screamed for Liam. He rushed in, wrapped me in a towel, and demanded we sell the house. But I couldn’t leave. Not yet. I had to understand.

I called Celeste again. This time, her tone was different, wary. ‘There’s something else in the bathroom,’ she said, ‘Something older than Mabel. It’s been there longer, feeding on the sadness that gathers in that room. Mabel was trying to protect you from it. But now that she’s gone, it’s becoming stronger.’ My blood ran cold. ‘What is it?’ I whispered. ‘I don’t know,’ Celeste said. ‘But it’s using Mabel’s image to lure you. You need to leave that house.’ But I couldn’t just leave. I had to see it for myself.

That night, I emptied the tub and filled it with lukewarm water. I lit candles and placed them around the room. I took Mabel’s ribbon and set it on the edge. I told myself I was saying goodbye. As I lowered myself into the water, the bathroom felt heavy, like the air was pressing down on me. I closed my eyes, and in my mind, I saw Mabel, but her eyes were not green; they were black, like obsidian. ‘Mabel?’ I said aloud. But it was not Mabel’s voice that answered. It was a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from the tiles themselves. The water around me began to churn, and I felt something cold wrap around my ankle, pulling me under. I struggled, but the grip was iron. The candles flickered and died. In the pitch black, I heard a hiss, and then Mabel’s voice, but distorted, slithering in my ear: ‘You left me. Now you stay.’

I felt my lungs fill with water. I was drowning in my own tub, being dragged down by a force that had worn my beloved cat’s face. But then, through the chaos, I heard a faint, familiar purr. It was Mabel, but not the thing in the water. It was the real Mabel, her spirit, pushing against the darkness. I felt a warm nudge, like she was butting her head against my chest, shoving me upward. With a burst of strength, I broke the surface, coughing and sputtering. The oppressive weight lifted, and I saw Mabel’s silhouette, soft and glowing, at the foot of the tub. She looked at me, her eyes kind, and then she faded, leaving only the blue tiles, shimmering with wetness.

I never went near that bathroom again. The next week, we moved out, leaving the house to its secrets. I still miss Mabel, but now I know she isn’t in that bathroom. She’s wherever the light is, and she kept me from becoming the next spirit trapped in those blue walls. Sometimes, on warm summer nights, I swear I can hear a faint purr, but it’s not coming from a room. It’s coming from inside my heart, and it tells me she’s finally at peace. But that bathroom, with its beautiful blue tiles, still stands, silent and waiting, for the next grieving soul to enter its grasp. I never think about it if I can help it. But at night, when the house is still, I sometimes hear the water run, and I know that whatever I woke up down there is still thirsty. It’s just a matter of time before someone else opens that door. I hope they see the warning in time. I hope they know not to look into the water for their beloved’s face, because what looks back might not be the one they lost. I hope they remember: the Bathroom, the Bathroom, to see and to feel, but not all that is seen is true, and not all that is felt is love.

The End.