The Boiler Room’s Second Door

My niece, Clara, came over for Sunday dinner. My mother needed a lift to her evening pottery class, and Clara was due for her archery practice. We finished the pot roast, and I told her to change into her gear in the guest bathroom down the hall. It was the one with the old clawfoot tub and the creaky window.

She was in there a long time. I was in the living room, trying to keep my own kids from wrestling over the remote, when I realized the bathroom door was still shut. ‘Clara, we’re going to be late!’ I yelled. No answer. I called again, sharper. Still nothing. A knot tightened in my stomach.

Then the bathroom door opened, and Clara stepped out. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She walked stiffly into the living room and stood in front of me, not moving. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. She didn’t speak at first, just stared. Finally, she whispered, ‘There were two tall men in the bathroom. They were standing behind me, looking at me in the mirror.’ I laughed, thinking she was playing a trick. ‘It’s just the steam and the old pipes,’ I said. But she shook her head, her bottom lip trembling. ‘They didn’t move when I turned. They just watched.’

She refused to go back near that bathroom for the rest of the visit. She wouldn’t even walk down that hallway alone. I thought it was just a kid’s imagination, a fear of an old house. But that night, after everyone had gone, I passed the bathroom and felt a draft. The door was ajar. I pushed it open and saw that the window was open, the sheer curtain billowing. But what caught my eye was the old mirror above the sink. There was a handprint on it, high up, like someone had reached to touch it from above. I hadn’t wiped it down, and Clara was too short to reach that high.

I closed the window, locked it, and tried to forget. But the next morning, as I was making coffee, I heard a noise from the bathroom. The sound of water dripping. I opened the door and saw that the faucet was on, just a trickle. I hadn’t left it on. I turned it off, and as I did, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Behind me, for a split second, I saw two tall figures, their faces blank, their eyes like black pits. I spun around. Nothing. The room was empty. But the air was cold, and I felt a presence, like being watched.

I called a plumber to check the pipes, thinking maybe there was a draft or a leak that caused the sounds. But when he came, he looked at the bathroom and went pale. He asked me, ‘Who else lives here?’ I said it was just me and the kids. He pointed to the doorway. ‘There was someone standing right there when I came in. He was tall, wearing old-fashioned clothes. He pointed at the wall.’ I felt a chill. I had seen no one. The plumber left without fixing anything, saying he had an emergency elsewhere.

That evening, I told the kids to use the other bathroom, the one upstairs. But as I passed the guest bathroom, I noticed the door was slightly open again. I pushed it open. The mirror was fogged, as if someone had just taken a hot shower. But the room was dry. I stepped closer and saw words written in the fog on the mirror, in a script I didn’t recognize: ‘We are still here.’ I lunged to wipe them away, but my hand went through the mirror, and I felt a cold grip on my wrist. I yanked back, my heart pounding. The fog vanished, and the mirror was clear.

I couldn’t stay there anymore. I called my mother, told her we were coming to stay with her for a while. As I packed, I heard a sound from the guest bathroom, like a heavy thump. I went to investigate, but the door was locked from the inside. I rattled the knob. Then, from inside, a voice, low and rumbling, said, ‘We liked the girl.’ I ran, grabbed the kids, and drove to my mother’s house, never looking back.

Later, I heard from a neighbor that the previous owner of my house, an old man, had died in that bathroom. He had been tall, and he had a brother who was also tall. They had both died in that house, within a year of each other. Their names were Elias and Tobias. They were buried in the backyard, under the oak tree. The realtor never told me that. I never went back for my things. I had the house sold at a loss. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I still feel those eyes on me, those two tall figures, waiting for another little girl to come to their door.