The Curl of the Cistern

Every Saturday, Mira woke before dawn to tame her stubbornly straight hair. The apartment’s only mirror that wasn’t fogged or cracked hung in the laundry room, above a chipped porcelain sink. It was a ritual: wet, lather, rinse, repeat. But this Saturday, the air felt heavier, the fluorescent light flickered like a dying heartbeat.

She turned the faucet to warm, a steady stream that whispered secrets against the rust-stained basin. As she soaked her hair, she noticed the water tasted faintly of copper and chlorine, a metallic tang she’d never registered before. ‘Probably just old pipes,’ she muttered, but the words hung in the humid air, echoing slightly.

She squeezed a blob of her coconut-scented shampoo, working it into a lather. The suds felt thicker than usual, almost gelatinous, and the smell was off—not coconut, but something sickly sweet, like rotting flowers. She scrubbed her scalp harder, desperate to dispel the unease creeping up her spine. A faint thump came from the other side of the wall. ‘Cole, you almost done in there?’ she called out. No response. She shrugged, assuming her brother was just blasting his music.

After rinsing, she applied her conditioner, a habit she’d perfected. That’s when she heard it—a wet, sucking sound, like something being pulled from a drain. She froze, her hands still in her hair. The noise came again, louder, closer. It seemed to emanate from the drain directly below her face.

‘Hello?’ she whispered, leaning over the sink. The mirror reflected her wide-eyed expression, but for a split second, she thought she saw a shadowy figure behind her, its hair hanging in dark, wet ropes. She whirled around, but the room was empty.

Heart pounding, she turned back to the sink and dunked her head under the stream to rinse the conditioner. The moment her scalp touched the water, it seared—scalding hot, full blast. She screamed and yanked her head back, but the water pressure pinned her, forcing her face down. The heat was unbearable, and the smell of burning hair filled the room.

She fought against the invisible force, her hands slipping on the wet porcelain. In her peripheral vision, she saw a puff of white, cloudy fog materialize near the corner. It pulsed, almost like it was breathing. This is not my brother, she thought. This is something else.

With all her strength, she pushed back and tore her head away, stumbling onto the cold tile floor. Her face was flushed, her scalp tender. She grabbed a towel and wrapped her hair, backing toward the door. The fog drifted closer, and she could discern a faint whispering, not words, but a low hum that made her teeth ache.

She dashed into the dim hallway, slamming the laundry room door behind her. She leaned against the wall, gasping, and realized she hadn’t plugged in her curling iron. But that didn’t matter now. She ran to her father’s office, finding him hunched over his laptop.

‘Dad, did you or Cole go into the laundry room?’ she blurted out. He looked up, annoyed. ‘No, why?’ ‘The water turned hot on its own. There was something in there,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Just the pipes, Mira,’ he said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Old building, you know. Don’t be dramatic.’

She looked at him, at the way his eyes wouldn’t meet hers, and she knew he wouldn’t believe her. She retreated to her room, locking the door, but she could still feel the phantom heat on her skin. When she finally dared to look in her own mirror, her hair had curled into tight, damp spirals that seemed to move on their own, as if something alive was coiling beneath her scalp.

That night, she heard the laundry room door creak open, and the sound of water running, running, running. And in the dark, she swore she heard a voice, soft and seductive, whispering, ‘Now your hair is beautiful, just like mine.’ She didn’t sleep. She never went back to the laundry room. But wherever she went, she carried a small mirror, always watching over her shoulder, because the fog followed her—always just a step behind, waiting for her to lower her guard and get her hair wet again.