The Cold Brass Serenade

My name is Elara, and I’ve lived in the same brick terrace in the northern industrial town of Millbrook for as long as I can remember—since I was four months old, to be precise. My mum and I moved here after my dad left, and the house has always felt like a living thing, breathing through its creaking floorboards and rattling pipes. I’m used to its quirks: the way the hallway light flickers when nobody’s near the switch, the faint hum from the attic at 3 AM, the occasional smell of mothballs that wafts from the spare room even though we never use it. But last night, something happened that pushed me to the edge of shouting at the walls.

I’ve suffered from insomnia for as long as I can remember. It’s not uncommon for me to lie wide-eyed in the dark, listening to the house settle, counting the seconds until the first bird chirps. At 4:47 AM, I finally gave up trying to sleep. My throat was parched, as dry as the dust that collects on the radiators. I padded to the bathroom, my feet cold on the worn lino, and filled a glass from the cold tap. The water tasted of copper, as usual. I headed back to my room, planning to crawl under my duvet and maybe drift off for an hour before the alarm.

But as I lay there, I realized I’d left the tap running. Annoying. I swung my legs out of bed and shuffled back to the bathroom. To my surprise, the hot tap was now on, a steady stream of steam curling into the cold air. I hadn’t touched that tap. Nobody drinks from the hot tap—it’s a rule, even I know that. I frowned, turned it off, and was about to leave when I heard a drip. The cold tap was now running, slow and deliberate, as if the water was testing me. I turned that off too, my heart beginning to tap a faster rhythm against my ribs.

Back in bed, I pulled the duvet up to my chin, trying to convince myself it was just the house’s temperamental plumbing. But no. From the bathroom, I heard the distinct sound of water rushing, the high-pressure hiss of a tap turned fully open. I sighed—a mix of exasperation and a twinge of unease—and marched back. The cold tap was gushing, water splashing over the basin and onto the floor. I turned it off with a sharp twist, feeling the brass handle warm under my fingers, as if it had been heated from within.

I stood there, staring at the basin, daring it to turn on again. The taps gleamed, innocent. I shook my head and retreated. As I reached my bedroom door, the sound started again—but this time it wasn’t just the bathroom. From the kitchen below, the unmistakable patter of water hitting a steel sink. From upstairs, the shower in the second bathroom. From the garden, the outside spigot. All of them, running at once, a symphony of water in the dead of night.

I ran to the top of the stairs. The house was alive with echoes, every pipe singing, every nozzle pouring. I raced down, slamming taps shut with shaking hands—kitchen, utility room, half-bath. My mum appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair askew, rubbing her eyes. ‘Elara? What’s wrong?’ she called down, her voice laced with sleep and worry.

I didn’t answer. I was too focused on the sound that now came from the bathroom I’d originally visited. I climbed back up, my bare feet leaving wet prints on the carpet. I threw open the door. All four taps—hot and cold in the sink, and the two on the bathtub—were on full blast. The water was so cold it stung my skin when I reached in to turn them off. But as I twisted the last one, I felt resistance, as if something was holding the handle from the other side. I yanked harder, and it snapped shut with a metallic clang that echoed through the house. The water stopped.

Silence. Then, from the drain, a low gurgle, like a laugh that had been swallowed too long. I stared at the basin, my reflection warped in the droplet-covered mirror. I didn’t dare look away from the taps. But when I finally did, I saw a small, dark shape in the corner of the sink—a child’s toy, a little rubber duck, its paint chipped, its eyes staring at me. I had never seen it before.

I picked it up. It was cold, wet, and when I squeezed it, it let out a single, high-pitched squeak that was too sharp, too human. My mum came into the bathroom, her face pale. ‘Where did you find that?’ she whispered, her voice trembling. ‘That was your grandmother’s. She gave it to you when you were a baby. You lost it when you were three, remember? You cried for weeks.’ I shook my head. I didn’t remember. But as I held the duck, I felt a chill run down my spine, because from the pipes, as if from deep underground, I heard a faint, mournful echo—the sound of a child crying. And the taps began to drip again, one by one, in rhythm, as if the house was counting down to something.