The Cistern’s Lullaby

It wasn’t my story, but my grandmother’s, and she told it to me only once, on a night when the wind rattled the windows of her little cottage. Her name was Elara, and she had a face like a map of a life fully lived. I never knew my grandfather; he passed before my mother was even a teenager, from something that ate his brain. Elara never spoke of him much, except that night.

She was young then, newly married to a man named Tomas, and they lived in a rambling old house on the outskirts of a town called Greywood. The house was a rental, and it had a peculiarity: the second floor was locked, and the landlord, a man with skin like old parchment, would only say ‘It’s been sealed for a reason.’ They they took the ground floor, and that summer was a sweaty, suffocating beast. The nights brought no relief, and when the power failed, the heat pressed in like a living thing.

One such night, they dragged their mattresses to the flat roof of the terrace, hoping for a breeze. Elara lay awake, listening to Tomas’s even breathing, when a sound cut through the stillness—a steady, rhythmic splashing, like water falling into a drain. It came from below, from the direction of the bathroom. She nudged Tomas, but he didn’t stir. She thought he must have gotten up and was now sleeping again, but the sound continued. Curiosity got the better of her.

She slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent on the hot concrete, and descended the stairs. The hallway was pitch black, the only light a faint sliver of moon through a grimy window. She pushed open the bathroom door. The room was lit by a pale glow that seemed to come from nowhere, and there, at the sink, stood a man. He was tall, with dark, matted hair, and his back was to her. He wore a white shirt that clung to his skin, wet with sweat or water. He was repeatedly turning the tap on and off, and each time he turned it on, a gush of water would splutter and then die.

Elara’s breath caught. ‘Tomas?’ she managed, her voice barely a whisper. The man didn’t turn. He just continued his work, the click of the faucet and the pathetic gurgle of water a monotonous lullaby. She took a step closer, and a cold dread wrapped around her. This man was not Tomas. Tomas was broader, lighter-haired. This man was thin, almost skeletal.

She turned to run, but her feet were rooted to the spot. The man finally took his hand off the tap and turned, and Elara saw his face. It was gaunt, with sunken eyes that seemed to hold a universe of sorrow. His mouth moved, but no sound came out, only a faint rasp, like leaves brushing against a window. He pointed to the wall behind her, and she turned to see a door she had never noticed—a small, wooden door, almost hidden in the wall’s pattern. It was slightly ajar.

Elara stumbled backward, out of the bathroom, and fled up the stairs, her heart pounding against her ribs. She didn’t wake Tomas; she couldn’t speak. She just lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the water sounds continue until dawn.

The next morning, she told Tomas. He laughed it off, saying she had a vivid dream. But Elara couldn’t shake it. The memory of that gaunt face, the pointing, the hidden door. She began to notice things. Strange stains on the ceiling that would shift shape when she looked away. A constant feeling of being watched. And then, the sounds began again—not just water, but a slow, rhythmic dripping, always from that hidden door area.

One afternoon, while Tomas was at work, she decided to investigate. She approached the wall where she had seen the door, but there was nothing, only smooth plaster. She pressed her ear to the wall. Nothing. Then, she felt a draft, cold and musty, emanating from a crack in the floorboards. She pried it open and found a small, dusty crawlspace. Inside, she saw a tarnished, ornate basin, filled with black, stagnant water. On the rim, a small, rusted key.

She reached in, her hand trembling, and picked up the key. As she did, the water in the basin rippled, and she heard a faint, childlike hum. ‘Thank you,’ a voice seemed to say. She clutched the key and backed away, the basin’s image burning into her mind.

That night, she told Tomas everything, and he finally listened. They decided to leave the house, but as they packed, the water sounds returned, louder, more insistent. They left that night, staying in a motel on the other side of Greywood. But the key, she had put it in her pocket, and when she touched it, she felt a cold pulse.

Months later, she learned from a neighbor that the house had a history. A previous renter, a man named Elias, had lost his young daughter to a fever. She had died in that bathroom, and Elias had gone mad with grief, sealing himself and the upper floor. He was found dead, drowned in a strange basin he had installed in the wall. They never found the daughter’s body.

Elara never returned to that house, and she kept the key in a box, never forgetting. She told me that on quiet nights, she could still hear the sound of water, and she believed the man in the bathroom was Elias, and the key was the only way to unlock the door that held his daughter’s restless soul. ‘That’s why,’ she said, her eyes distant, ‘I never have running water at night.’