The Chrome Spigot

My uncle Prakash had invited me to stay at their new flat in the city, a boxy concrete block that smelled of fresh paint and sawdust. The moment I stepped through the door, a chill slithered down my spine, like a damp finger tracing my vertebrae. I chalked it up to the building’s newness, the sterile air, but the feeling clung to me. They gave me the guest room, which had an attached bathroom with gleaming chrome fixtures. I hated that bathroom from the first glance. It wasn’t anything I could name, just a profound unease that made my skin crawl every time I passed its threshold. I’d rather use the cramped, drafty common bathroom down the hall, pretending I preferred the walk.

For the first few days, nothing happened. I began to think my imagination had played a trick on me. The bathroom was just a room, after all, with a white porcelain sink, a toilet, and a shower with a glass door. One afternoon, when the maid was scrubbing the tiles, I forced myself to cross the boundary. I told myself it was silly to be scared. As I stepped onto the cool floor, the world around me dissolved into a watery blur, like looking through a frosted window. The shapes of the fixtures melted into indistinct smudges. But the moment I retreated back into the bedroom, everything snapped into sharp focus again. I blinked, convinced I had a dizzy spell, and said nothing.

A week later, my cousin Meera, a mischievous twelve-year-old, locked me in the room as a prank and flicked off the light switch from outside. The click of the lock was sharp in the sudden darkness. I laughed nervously, expecting her to giggle and unlock it. Instead, her footsteps faded down the hall. I was alone in the gloom, the only light a faint orange glow from the street lamp filtering through the curtains. Then I heard it. A low, gurgling whisper, like water draining from a deep pipe. It came from the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was ajar, and I watched in horror as it began to swing open on its own, inch by inch, with a slow, creaking groan. A blinding, white light spilled from within, so bright it burned my eyes, and the gurgling sound rose to a cacophony of dripping, hissing, and a voice that seemed to call my name, a voice I did not recognize.

My heart pounded like a trapped bird against my ribs. I pressed my back against the locked door, my fingers scrambling for the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. The light grew stronger, and within it, I saw a shape, dark and hulking, standing just beyond the threshold, blocking the light for a moment as it seemed to survey me. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The shape took a step forward, and the floor beneath me grew cold, as if ice was spreading. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, the light was gone. The bathroom door was closed, and the room was dark and silent, save for my ragged breathing. I fumbled for the switch, and light flooded the room. I was drenched in a cold sweat, and the lock on the door suddenly gave way with a soft click, as if released by an unseen hand.

I stumbled out of that room and never went back. I told Meera I had a sudden illness and left for my parents’ house the next morning. As I waved goodbye from the taxi, I saw a figure in the guest room window, a dark silhouette that could have been a trick of the light. But I knew, deep in my bones, that the bathroom was not just a room. It was a threshold. And it was waiting for the next guest to cross.