The Fourth Presence

I had just returned from the mill, my bones aching with the day’s labor. I collapsed into the worn leather armchair in our apartment, the one that smelled of old tobacco and cheap whisky, a relic from my bachelor days. My wife, Elena, was still at her shift at the hospital. I must have drifted off almost instantly, the hum of the ancient refrigerator my lullaby.

I woke to the sound of Elena’s keys jangling in the door. I managed a mumbled ‘Hey’ as she passed, her face tired, and then I was gone again, sinking back into the dark. I have no memory of the next forty-five minutes. None. It was as if my mind simply closed a book and reopened it later.

The next thing I knew, Elena was shaking my shoulder, her voice sharp with worry. ‘Marcus, did you take a shower?’

I blinked, my brain still foggy. ‘What? No. I’ve been right here, asleep.’ I gestured at the chair, the blanket that had slipped to the floor.

‘Well, someone did,’ she said, her tone flat. ‘The bathroom is like a sauna. The mirror is completely fogged, and the shower floor is still wet.’

I hauled myself up, my joints protesting, and padded down the hallway. The air in the bathroom was thick and warm, cloying. The mirror was a white sheet of condensation, and the glass shower door was beaded with droplets. The floor tiles were dark with water. I touched the shower wall—still warm. Someone had been in here, and not long ago.

‘Maybe you were sleepwalking?’ Elena offered, but even she didn’t sound convinced. My hair was dry as a bone. My clothes, still rumpled from the day, were sweat-damp from sleep, but not wet. There were no wet footprints on the floor between the bathroom and the living room. Just a single set of damp impressions right in front of the shower, facing the drain.

We stood there in silence, the steam curling around us. I felt a prickle at the base of my neck, like being watched. But we were alone. The lock on the front door was engaged, and the apartment was set high above the street, on the 14th floor, the only entrance a single elevator down the hall.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the hum of the city, the distant siren. Elena was breathing deeply beside me. I kept thinking about that shower. The water. The steam. It was too real, too physical for a dream.

The next morning, I checked the bathroom again. The mirror had cleared. But there, on the glass shower door, was a smudge. A handprint. But it was too small. Delicate. Like a woman’s. But Elena had her own bathroom, she said she never used mine. And the handprint was on the outside of the glass, facing the sink.

I went to work, but I couldn’t concentrate. All day, I saw that small handprint in my mind. I told myself it was just a smudge from the cleaning spray, but the shape was too distinct. The fingers were spread, pressing against the glass as if someone were peering in. Or out.

That evening, I did something I hadn’t done in years. I set up my old video camera, the one from my film school days, and placed it in the living room corner, pointing at the hallway and the bathroom door. I didn’t tell Elena. I wanted to catch whatever it was.

We went to bed. I barely slept. At some point, I heard it: the faint sound of water running. I froze. I didn’t move. But I wasn’t asleep. I felt my heart thudding against my ribs. I waited, listening. The water stopped. The apartment fell silent again. I tried to convince myself it was the radiator, the old pipes. But I knew better.

In the morning, I couldn’t wait to check the camera. I played it back, fast-forwarding through the hours of static and darkness. At 2:47 a.m., the bathroom door, which I had left ajar, swung open by itself. A thin sliver of light spilled into the hallway. Then a shadow moved—not a human shape, but something indistinct, like a heat shimmer on a road. The water in the shower turned on. I watched as the shadow seemed to solidify near the mirror, but the camera’s resolution was too grainy to make out any details.

I played it again. And again. Each time, the same thing. The door opening, the light, the shadow, the water. But no one entered. No one left. The shadow just evaporated as the water stopped.

I showed the footage to Elena. She turned pale. ‘We need to get out of here,’ she whispered.

But we stayed. We couldn’t afford to move, not on my paycheck. We tried to rationalize it: a draft, a faulty shower, a bad camera. But we both knew.

Then, last night, it escalated. I woke up to the sound of humming. Soft, melodic. A woman’s voice. I sat bolt upright. Elena was still beside me, asleep. The hum came from the bathroom. I crept out of bed, my heart in my throat. The bathroom door was ajar, and the light was on. I pushed it open. The shower was running, the glass fogged. But on the misted mirror, there was a message, written with a finger: ‘I’M STILL HERE.’

I didn’t sleep after that. I sat in the living room, staring at the bathroom door, until dawn.

Now, I’m sitting here, typing this, in the bright morning light. Elena has gone to her mother’s. I’m alone. I’ve been alone for two hours. The apartment feels empty, but I can feel something else. A presence. It’s waiting. It’s patient. And I think it likes the smell of lavender soap, because the bathroom still reeks of it, even though neither of us uses it.

I don’t know what it is. A ghost? A hallucination? A sleepwalker’s phantom? But I know one thing. I didn’t take that shower. And yet, there are wet footprints on the mat again. This time, they lead from the bathroom to the armchair, where my blanket is rumpled. As if someone is resting there.

I’m starting to think I’m not the only one in this apartment. And I’m starting to think I never was.