The Gash That Remembers

I was twelve when I stayed at Aunt Marlene’s farmhouse, a place that smelled of woodsmoke and old medicine. She was a stout woman, her weight a constant source of her complaints, and she had a walking cane with a brass duck’s head that she leaned on heavily. That night, she had to drive into town to fetch my cousin, leaving me alone for a few hours. I was supposed to be in the bath, but I’d forgotten my pajamas, so I padded back to the guest room, my bare feet cold on the floorboards.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the radiator. But as I reached for my clothes, I noticed the small clock radio on the nightstand was off. I knew I’d left it on, the red numbers glowing like a demon’s eye. A chill ran up my spine, but I shrugged it off and clicked it back on. The tuner crackled, and I hurried to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

The water was scalding, and I was scrubbing my scalp when I heard a sound from the hallway—a soft, shuffling drag. I froze, the shampoo stinging my eyes. ‘Aunt Marlene?’ I called, but the only answer was the drip of the faucet. I dismissed it, returning to the soapy ritual.

Then, the shower curtain at the far end billowed inward, as if a draft had passed through. I laughed nervously, chalking it up to the old house’s quirks. But then the curtain swept aside, and a figure stood there—not Aunt Marlene, but a woman I’d never seen, with hollow eyes and a grin too wide. Before I could scream, she shoved me hard. I slipped, my leg twisting, and I felt a searing pain as my thigh slammed into Aunt Marlene’s cane that had been propped against the tub. The duck’s head caught my flesh, tearing a deep gash.

Blood bloomed in the water, but when I looked up, the figure was gone. I scrambled out, the wound gushing, and hobbled to my room. The radio was off again, and the TV on a static channel. I grabbed a towel and pressed it to my leg, waiting for Aunt Marlene to return. She found me pale and shaking, and drove me to the emergency clinic in the next county, where I got eighteen stitches.

I still have that scar, a pale, raised line on my thigh. And whenever I look at it, I remember not the accident, but the face of that woman—though I never saw her again. To this day, I can’t be in a bathroom without checking that the curtain is tied back. And I never, ever leave a radio on in an empty house, because sometimes, the signals you hear aren’t from this world. The scar is my reminder: some ghosts don’t just haunt houses; they scratch to get in.