The Cistern Chime

The old schoolhouse had stood for over a century, its red brick stained with the grime of a thousand rainstorms. I was a senior now, and I thought I had outgrown the silly superstitions the underclassmen whispered about—the ones about the basement boiler room, or the janitor’s closet that smelled of rot, or the third-floor bathroom that no one used after dark. But there was one place I never dared to mock, even in my bravado: the restroom near the old gymnasium, the one with the ancient cistern that groaned like a living thing.

It was a Tuesday, a week before finals. I had stayed late to finish a history project, and by the time I packed my bag, the halls were empty, the janitor had gone home, and the sunset bled through the high windows in streaks of amber and rust. My stomach twisted—damn that cafeteria burrito. I needed a toilet, and the nearest one was the gym restroom. I told myself it was fine. The light was still on, the air was still warm, and the familiar hiss of the old cistern was just a mechanism, not a heartbeat.

I pushed open the heavy door. The room smelled of bleach and old pipes, faintly metallic. The floor was a checkerboard of black and white tiles, cracked in places, dark grout. I chose the second stall, the one with the least graffiti. I locked the door, pulled out my phone to scroll, and settled in. The cistern was at the far end of the room, a massive steel tank mounted high on the wall, exposed, with a rusted chain that dangled like a noose. Every few minutes, it would fill with a series of clicks and gurgles, then release with a thunderous roar that rattled the walls. I was used to it. I even found it soothing, a metronome of the building’s old plumbing.

The first time the green water dripped, I thought it was a leak. A single drop hit the floor with an audible plink, echoing in the silence. I ignored it. Then another drop. Then a steady trickle. I peeked over the top of my stall—the cistern’s pipes were weeping a greenish, oily fluid. I frowned, thinking maybe a pipe had burst. But I was not about to leave mid-business. I returned to my phone, trying to focus on a meme, but the dripping became a rhythm, almost musical. Drip. Drip. Drip. It was off-beat, wrong, like a half-remembered lullaby.

Then the chime came from inside the cistern itself. A single, crystalline ring, like a spoon tapping a glass. I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen. The sound had not come from the pipes. It had come from within the metal tank. Another chime, two notes this time, ascending. I laughed nervously, telling myself it was just the metal expanding. But I had heard that sound before—I had heard it in an old music box my grandmother owned, a tarnished thing that played ‘Greensleeves’ when you wound its key.

I stood up, pulled up my pants, and peered through the crack in my stall door. The room was empty. The cistern sat there, huge and indifferent, dripping green sludge. Then, the tank’s side bulged outward, as if something inside was pressing against the metal. The bulge rippled, and I saw a face imprint form—not human, but a vague suggestion of features: two hollow eyes, a gaping mouth, all distorted in the gray steel. A low hum emanated from it, synchronizing with my heartbeat.

The floor beneath my feet vibrated. The lights flickered. I wanted to run, but my legs were locked. The face pressed harder, and I heard a wet, tearing sound, like fabric ripping. The metal began to split, not with a screech, but with a wet, fleshy burst. From the tear, a hand emerged—pale, with long, spindly fingers, knuckles too large. It gripped the edge of the tank, and then an arm pulled through, impossibly long, like a worm. The creature that crawled out was thin as a shadow, with skin the color of old paper, and its eyes were the green of the leaking fluid. It did not have a mouth. Instead, it had a long, vertical slit that opened and closed silently, releasing a fine mist.

It slumped to the floor, its body folding like a marionette with cut strings, but then it began to move—dragging itself toward my stall. The green fluid followed it, seeping from the tank, spreading like a living tide. I finally screamed, but no sound came out. I flung the stall door open, but the creature was already at the threshold. It tilted its head, and the slit in its face puckered, issuing a single, clear chime. Then it lunged.

I stumbled backward, crashing into the sink, knocking over a bucket of cleaning supplies. The clatter was deafening, and the creature hesitated, as if disoriented by the noise. I scrambled to my feet and yanked the door open, sprinting down the empty hallway. Behind me, I heard the chime again, faster now, like an alarm. I didn’t stop until I burst through the school’s main entrance and collapsed on the front lawn, gasping for air.

When I looked back, the windows were dark, silent. The school looked normal. I thought it was over. But that night, as I lay in bed, I heard it again—the same chime, soft, from my closet. I didn’t check. I buried my head under the pillow. The chime grew fainter, but it never stopped. It was a sound that lived in the walls, in the pipes, in the water I drank. I moved out of that town a month later, changed my name, and started fresh. But tonight, as I write this, I hear it again—the cistern’s chime, calling from my bathroom drain. And I realize I have never really left that room. I have carried it with me, a parasite in my memory, and it knows where I live. It always knew.

Now, the chime is a persistent ding, a single note, over and over. I cover my ears, but it seems to vibrate in my bones. I reach for the phone to call someone, but the line is dead. The lights flicker. My reflection in the mirror is not my own—it’s a thin, pale thing with green eyes, and a slit in its face is opening, matching my own mouth as I scream. But no sound comes out. Only the chime. The cistern has found its new home in me, and it is demanding to be filled.