The Glass of Water

My childhood summers in the town of Marrow were supposed to be simple: fireflies, bike rides, and the smell of cut grass. But our afternoons at Great-Aunt Hester’s house were anything but. She kept a sprawling Victorian on Cedar Lane, a street of identical houses that all seemed to lean slightly toward the end of the cul-de-sac, as if pulled by some unseen force. My cousin Paul was two years younger, with eyes that always seemed to be looking past you. My brother Dan and I were the typical terrors, always hunting for new adventures, but Paul had a habit of staring at the kitchen window for hours, muttering about ‘the thirsty lady.’

We called her ‘Mrs. Thirsty’ because Paul said she was always asking for a drink. We thought he was just making it up for attention. Dan and I would roll our eyes and drag him out to the backyard to play tag, but he’d always stop mid-game, his head cocked, listening to something we couldn’t hear.

One humid July afternoon, Aunt Hester had stepped out to a school board meeting, leaving us with a babysitter, a teenager named Chloe who was more interested in her phone than us. We were in the den, watching some cartoon, when a commercial came on. A woman with a perfect smile held up a glass of water and asked, ‘Would you like a refreshing glass of water?’

As the question hung in the air, every sink in the house turned on at once. The faucets in the kitchen and both bathrooms spewed water, not in a normal stream, but in a thick, pulsing gush, like the house was vomiting. The pipes groaned and rattled. Chloe screamed and ran to the kitchen to shut them off, but the water kept coming, flooding the counters and splashing onto the floor. Dan and I stood frozen. Paul was calm, almost serene, pointing to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. ‘She’s here,’ he whispered. ‘She wants the water.’

We followed his gaze, and at the end of the hallway, the air shimmered. A translucent shape, vaguely feminine, with a gaping mouth, flickered in the dim light. It raised a hand as if to beckon, then the hallway lights flickered and died. The water stopped abruptly. Chloe emerged from the kitchen, drenched, her face pale. She didn’t say a word; she just grabbed her bag and ran out the front door, leaving us alone.

We ran to my aunt’s bedroom, the only room with a phone. But the line was dead. The windows were sealed shut with a hiss, and the doors leading outside refused to budge, as if the house itself had locked us in. The temperature dropped, and the air grew thick, smelling of rust and old pennies.

Paul walked to the kitchen, and we followed, our sneakers squelching on the wet floor. He opened the refrigerator, which was surprisingly dry, and took out a glass. He filled it from the tap, which now flowed with a clear, cold stream. He placed the glass on the counter and stepped back. We watched as the water in the glass began to ripple, then rise in a perfect column, forming a small funnel that twisted and shaped itself into the figure of a woman. The water-woman had no face, just a smooth head, but it turned toward Paul.

‘She’s thirsty,’ Paul said. ‘We have to give her something better.’

Dan and I exchanged panicked looks. The water-woman took a step toward us, and the puddles on the floor began to crawl across the linoleum, reaching for our feet. We backed away, and the lights flickered again. In the distance, we heard a low, guttural hum, like a clogged drain.

I remembered my aunt’s plastic pitcher in the pantry. I grabbed it and filled it with water from the sink. I held it up to the water-woman, my hands shaking. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Drink.’

The water-woman’s head tilted, and the column of water that was her body rippled. The hum grew louder, filling the room. Then, in a swift motion, she lunged forward, and I felt the shock of ice-cold water engulf me. It was like being submerged in a frozen river, and I couldn’t breathe. But just as suddenly, it was over. I was standing in the middle of the kitchen, gasping, the pitcher still in my hands. The water-woman was gone.

Paul was now holding the glass we’d filled earlier. He took a sip, then handed it to Dan. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘She just needed to be acknowledged.’

We never told Aunt Hester what happened. We eventually grew up and left Marrow, but I never got over that afternoon. Years later, I was in my own kitchen, washing dishes, when a commercial came on. A woman asked, ‘Would you like a refreshing glass of water?’ I felt a chill down my spine, and I looked at my tap. It was off. But at the end of the hallway, I saw a faint shimmer, and I swear I heard a woman’s voice, hoarse and desperate, say, ‘I’m still thirsty.’ I now live in a house with no running water, and I drink only bottled water. But sometimes, late at night, I hear the pipes groan, and I know the thirst is eternal.