The Frosted Tile

When I moved into the old Pemberton Arms in the fall of ’98, I knew it had character. The landlords, a Mr. and Mrs. Harlow, were ancient and half-deaf, and the building creaked like a ship at sea. But I was a graduate student, poor and desperate, so I took the top-floor studio for a steal. The communal bathrooms at the end of the hall were a nuisance, but I figured shared showers built character. How wrong I was.

The first sign came in November, when the heat kicked on but my hallway bathroom stayed cold. It wasn’t just a draft; it was a seeping, bone-deep chill that clung to the porcelain. I’d walk in and my breath would plume, even though the thermostat read seventy-two. I checked the vents, sealed the window, even left a space heater running in there once (the Harlow’s nearly had a fit). Nothing changed. The cold was a permanent resident.

Then the water started. The toilet would flush on its own, a ghostly gulp in the dead of night. The sink taps would turn on with a squeak, spitting out water that was so cold it burned. And the tub, a claw-footed relic, would sometimes fill with water so frigid it seemed to condense the air around it, yet when I’d peek in, it would be dry as a bone, the taps silent.

My neighbor, a wiry man named Frank who chain-smoked by the fire escape, claimed he saw lights flickering in that bathroom at 3 AM, and once, he swore he heard humming coming from the drains. I laughed it off, until the morning I found my toothbrush, which I’d left on the sink, floating in a puddle of ice water on the floor. The tap was off. The sink was empty.

That night, I decided to camp out in my room, pretending not to hear the water running. But the sounds grew louder — gurgling, dripping, and a strange, wet slap, like something heavy being dragged across the tile. I cracked my door open at 3:30 AM. The bathroom door was ajar, and a faint, blue-white light pulsed from within, like a television tuned to static. I crept closer, my heart hammering.

And I saw her. A woman, or what had been one, slumped in the tub, her hair plastered across her face. The tub was full to the brim with crystal-clear water, so clear it was almost invisible. She wasn’t moving, but the water rippled around her, as if she were breathing. The cold hit me like a wave, and I saw my reflection in the surface — except, it wasn’t my reflection. It was her, staring back at me with empty, white eyes.

I slammed the door and ran back to my room, locking the door, pulling the covers over my head. But I could feel the cold seeping through the walls, and I knew, somehow, that the bathroom was now part of my life. The next day, I reported it to Mr. Harlow, who just shrugged and said, ‘Old pipes, that’s all.’ But when I pressed him about the woman, his face went pale. ‘You saw her?’ he whispered. ‘I thought she only came out in winter.’

He told me her name was Margaret, a tenant from the 1920s who had drowned in that tub, suspected suicide. But the rumor was, her husband had held her under. Since then, she’d been restless, especially in the cold months. The property was cheap because no one wanted to live near a ghost.

I should have moved out right then. But I was broke, and finals were coming, so I stayed, convinced I could ignore her. I was wrong. She started appearing in my apartment, a flicker at the edge of my vision, a woman-shaped cold spot. My books would slam shut, my pencils roll off the desk. And every night, the water would run, and I’d hear her humming — a Victorian lullaby that echoed in my skull.

One night, I woke to find the bathroom door ajar, the light on. I was drawn to it, as if hypnotized. The tub was full, and she was sitting upright, her hands folded in her lap, her hair floating around her like seaweed. She turned to me, and her mouth opened, but instead of words, a torrent of ice-cold water poured out, flooding the floor, rising around my ankles. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. The water climbed to my knees, my waist, and I felt her fingers brush my face, cold as the grave.

I woke up on the bathroom floor, drenched, the tub empty. My alarm clock said 7 AM, but the sun was already setting — I’d lost a whole day. And in my mouth, I tasted saltwater. I finally understood: she wasn’t just haunting the bathroom; she was trying to pull me into her watery grave with her.

I moved out the next week, forfeiting my deposit. I couldn’t sleep for months, hearing that humming, feeling that cold. Even now, in a new city, a new apartment, I sometimes wake up to find the bathroom door ajar, and the air in my own bathroom is always a few degrees colder than the rest of my home. I never stay in places with shared bathrooms anymore. And I always, always check the tub before I turn on the water, half-expecting to see her there, waiting for me to join her in the frost.