The Dripping Faucet

The Salt Air Motel was a relic from a more innocent era, its peeling white paint and neon vacancy sign buzzing with a tired persistence. My friends Maya and I had booked the last available room for a long weekend escape from the city, craving the briny breeze and the monotone crash of waves against the shore. We arrived late Friday, the sky bruised with the last light of the setting sun, and the air smelled of kelp and secrets. The motel manager, a gaunt woman with eyes that seemed to hold too many winters, handed us our key with a trembling hand. ‘Mind the pipes,’ she croaked, ‘they sing sometimes.’ We laughed it off, eager for our vacation.

Our room was clean but stale, with a faint smell of mildew and lavender. Maya claimed the bed by the window, and I took the one near the door. We spent the first night exploring the deserted beach, collecting smooth stones and discussing the fleeting nature of childhood friendships. By the second night, we were comfortably tipsy on cheap white wine, sprawled on the rickety bed, and trading stories of our pasts. I told her about my grandmother’s séances, and she countered with tales of a haunted schoolhouse back in Ohio.

The motel’s plumbing groaned in reply, a guttural sound from the pipes that snaked through the walls. Ignoring it, I decided to play a prank on Maya, a throwback to a similar joke I had played on a friend years ago. I excused myself to the bathroom, and once inside, I turned the cold sink faucet on just a trickle, then rejoined Maya, a mischievous glint in my eye. But Maya, who knew me all too well, merely raised an eyebrow. ‘The pipes, remember?’ she said, smirking. I shrugged, playing dumb.

A minute later, a soft, rhythmic dripping sound emanated from the bathroom. Maya’s smile faltered. ‘Did you leave it on?’ she asked. I shook my head. ‘Just the sink, maybe it’s the fan.’ The dripping continued, steady, like a metronome. We exchanged a glance, and I got up to check. The sink was dry. The floor was dry. The dripping was coming from the wall behind the toilet, a hollow, echoing sound that seemed to come from deep within the building.

That night, I lay in bed listening to the wet, persistent beat. It was unnerving, but I rationalized it as a faulty pipe. Maya was already asleep, her breathing soft. I finally drifted off, only to be jolted awake by a scream. I snapped on the lamp. Maya was sitting bolt upright, her face ashen. ‘There’s something in the bathroom,’ she whispered, pointing. I listened. The dripping had stopped, replaced by a faint, high-pitched hum.

We both crept to the bathroom, the door ajar. Inside, the mirror was fogged over, despite the cold. Written in the condensation, in a spidery script, were the words: ‘STOP TURNING ME ON.’ A chill ran down my spine. We tried to wipe it away, but the words reappeared almost immediately, as if someone on the other side was tracing them with a finger. We spent the rest of the night in the car, too frightened to stay.

The next morning, we decided to leave. As we were packing, the motel manager appeared at our door. ‘You heard it, didn’t you?’ she said, her voice low. ‘The woman who drowned in the ocean pool back in ’69. They never found her body. She haunts the pipes, looking for a way out.’ She paused, her eyes scanning our faces. ‘Just be glad she didn’t speak to you. When she speaks, your name is the last thing you hear.’

We checked out immediately, leaving behind our half-drunk wine bottle and the memory of that dripping faucet. I never told Maya about the joke I’d played, but somehow, she knew. We haven’t spoken of that weekend since. But sometimes, late at night, when the plumbing in my apartment groans, I hear a faint whisper, ‘Don’t turn me on,’ and I feel a cold breath on the back of my neck, reminding me that some pranks are best left unplayed.