The Glass Veil

The house on Birchwood Lane was a two-story Victorian with peeling paint and a porch that sagged like a tired jaw. My family had moved there the summer I turned twelve, and I hated it. The walls were too thin, the basement smelled of damp earth, and there was a bathroom on the second floor shaped like an L, with a sliding glass door on the shower that was tinted a sickly green. I called it the ‘moss box’ because the glass made everything look like it was underwater.

That morning, I shuffled in, still half-asleep, and locked both doors—the one near the toilet and the one at the other end. I liked the privacy. The shower was cramped, but the water was hot, and I let it run over my face, trying to wake up. I squirted shampoo into my palm and worked it into my hair, the lather dripping down my back.

Then I saw her. A wavering shape on the other side of the glass, like a reflection caught mid-motion. A girl with long black hair that hung straight down, hiding her face. She drifted past the door from the toilet side, moving toward the sink. My heart stuttered. I blinked, and she was gone.

‘Jules?’ I called, thinking my twin sister had somehow slipped in. ‘You better not be messing with me.’ No answer. The water drummed on the tub. I stuck my head out, steam curling into the cold air. The bathroom was empty. Both doors were still locked from the inside. I felt a knot form in my stomach.

I finished rinsing, hurriedly towelled off, and threw on clothes. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a shadow from the tree outside. But my hands were shaking as I left for school.

That evening, I couldn’t shake it. I decided to test the water, to see if the glass played tricks. I turned on the shower, let it run, watched the steam rise. Nothing. I even stood inside, facing the same direction, and moved my hand. Still nothing. I was about to step out when I saw her again, clearer this time. She was kneeling by the toilet, her head bowed, her hair a curtain. I screamed, and she vanished like a puff of smoke.

My mother came running. She found me shaking, pointing at the corner. ‘What is it, Robbie?’ she asked. I couldn’t explain. She chalked it up to an overactive imagination.

But I knew better. The next day, I brought a flashlight and scanned the bathroom before stepping in. I locked the door, but I left a crack open so I could see the other door. I positioned myself to face the entrance, let the water run, and waited.

She appeared again, but this time she didn’t move. She stood at the foot of the tub, her head tilted slightly. I could see her lips moving, but no sound came out. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold water. I shut off the shower and stared at her. She raised a hand, slowly, as if reaching for me. I stumbled back, slamming against the wall.

My sister Jules burst in, having heard my shout. ‘Robbie! What’s wrong?’ She looked at the empty bathroom. I pointed, but she saw nothing. ‘You’re losing it,’ she said.

But I wasn’t. That’s when I noticed something. When the water was running, she was there. When the water was off, she was gone. I tested this over the next few days. It was always her: the black hair, the pale skin, the silent lips. She was young, around my age.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. I crept upstairs, the floorboards groaning. I turned on the bathroom light, but I didn’t turn on the water. I sat on the edge of the tub, my back to the shower, and called out, ‘Who are you?’

Nothing. But I heard a faint sound: a whisper, like a leak in a pipe. It came from the shower head. I turned it slightly, and a trickle of water emerged. In that instant, she materialized behind me. I spun around, and for the first time, I saw her face. Her eyes were dark, hollow, and her mouth was open in a silent cry. She mouthed one word: ‘Help.’

I was terrified, but something in me broke. I turned the water on full blast, and she began to writhe, as if in pain. The water splashed over her, and she dissolved into red swirls, like blood diluted in a stream. The water turned pink, then clear. And she was gone.

I ran to my room, my clothes soaked, and I didn’t leave my bed for a week.

After that, my father had the bathroom renovated. He replaced the glass door with a frosted one, painted the walls a bright white, and put in a new toilet. But the house never felt right. I would often see a smudge on the shower glass, shaped like a hand, even after cleaning.

I grew up, moved away, tried to forget. But sometimes, when I’m in a shower, with the water running and the steam rising, I see her out of the corner of my eye. She never speaks, she never moves, but she’s there, just beyond the veil. I don’t know what she wanted, or what she was trapped between, but I know one thing: every time I turn on the water, I touch that other world, and I’m not sure I can ever fully leave it.