The Copper Kitchen Taps

Marta and I moved into the old mill house on the edge of the village of Blackmere, a place where the gray stone buildings leaned into each other like conspirators and the river whispered secrets through the night. The house, once a watermill, had stood for over two centuries, its wooden beams dark with age and its floors uneven from years of settling. We were drawn to its character, the exposed brick, the massive fireplace, and the sprawling kitchen with its ancient copper taps that gleamed in the dim light.

At first, everything was idyllic. We spent our evenings by the fire, reading or listening to the rain against the windows. But then, after about three months, things began to shift. It started with the lights—a flicker here and there, always when I was alone. I worked from home as a translator, while Marta worked the night shift at the town’s hospital. So I spent many hours in that house by myself, and it was during those times that the peculiarities manifested.

I dismissed the flickering as old wiring, for the house was indeed over a hundred years old. But then, I began to notice the taps. Every morning, when I rose early to work before dawn, I would find the kitchen taps dripping, not just a little, but fully on, the water splashing into the deep stone sink with a steady rhythm. At first, I thought perhaps Marta had left them on, but she denied it, and I knew she was careful. I started turning them off before bed, making sure they were closed tight, yet every morning they would be running again.

The pattern was always the same: only when I was alone. Marta’s schedule meant she was often gone during the day, and on her night shifts, I would be alone through the night. It was on one such night that I woke to a sound—not the drip of the taps, but a soft, rhythmic pounding, like a heartbeat, coming from the direction of the kitchen. I crept downstairs, my heart in my throat, and found the taps on, the water pounding into the sink, creating a percussive splash. The room was cold, much colder than the rest of the house, and I felt a presence, though I saw nothing.

I tried to rationalize it. Perhaps it was the old pipes, a water hammer effect. But the copper taps were new, and the sound was too deliberate, too purposeful. The next morning, I told Marta, and she suggested we install cameras to catch whatever was happening. We set up a small camera in the kitchen, pointed at the taps. But every time we reviewed the footage, we saw nothing—just the taps turning on by themselves, water flowing, and then the taps turning off an hour later. It was as if an invisible hand operated them.

Things escalated. One afternoon, while I was reading in the living room, I heard a crash in the kitchen. I rushed in to find a glass shattered on the floor, the shards scattered as if thrown. There was no explanation—the glass had been in the cabinet, untouched. I began to feel uneasy, a constant sense of being watched. I started leaving the lights on at night, even when I slept, but the feeling persisted.

Then came the morning I will never forget. I woke up with a sharp pain on my side, and when I looked down, I saw two thin, red scratches running horizontally across my ribs, just below my chest. They were fresh, stinging. Marta was asleep beside me; she had returned late from her shift. I had no memory of any injury, and the scratches didn’t look like any I had suffered before—they were too precise, too parallel. I felt a chill run down my spine, and for the first time, I admitted to myself that something was truly wrong.

I started researching the history of the house. The village library had records, and I discovered that the mill had been owned by a family called the Whitfields in the 1800s. There was a story, perhaps a legend, that old Thomas Whitfield had drowned his wife in the millrace after accusing her of infidelity. Her body was never found. The house had been in the family for generations, and some said the wife’s spirit still lingered, seeking revenge on any woman who occupied her home.

I shared this with Marta, who was skeptical but concerned. She suggested we move, but it was easier said than done—our lease was for another year, and we had little money. So we called a priest, who came to bless the house. He said some prayers and sprinkled holy water, but as he was leaving, he pulled me aside and warned, ‘This spirit is strong. It latches onto the living, especially women. Be careful.’

After the blessing, things seemed to calm for a few weeks. Then, one night when Marta was away, I woke to the sound of water running. I went downstairs and found all the taps in the kitchen turned fully on, but this time, the water was not clear—it was a murky brown, filled with silt and leaves, as if coming from the river. And at the bottom of the sink lay a single, long strand of hair, dark and tangled, not my own.

I turned off the taps, my hands shaking. I felt a presence behind me, a cold breath on my neck. I spun around, but there was nothing. Yet I knew I was not alone. I fled the house that night, staying at a friend’s place, and I told Marta we needed to leave immediately, lease or no lease.

We moved out two weeks later, breaking our lease and losing our deposit. We found a small apartment on the other side of town, and since then, I have not seen the taps run, nor has anything else happened. But sometimes, late at night, I lie awake and listen to the sound of water dripping from the faucet in our new kitchen, and I wonder if it’s my imagination or if the spirit followed us. And I remember the scratches on my ribs, which have since faded, but each time I look at my bedroom door, I half-expect to see it open on its own, with the sound of a tap turning on in the distance.