The Glistening Wound

I’ve always been able to see the dead. Not hear them, not feel them, just see them, like smudges on the air. But when we moved into the creaking old house on Meridian Lane, I wished I couldn’t see anything at all.

It started with the faucet. I’d turn on the cold water to fill a pot, and as I reached for the handle to turn it off, the hot knob would twist on its own, scalding steam rising. Or I’d leave the tap running for a second, and it would stop, then sputter back to life with a gurgling choke. I told my dad, but he just laughed and blamed the old pipes. He didn’t know what I saw in the kitchen: a woman, her throat slit ear to ear, standing at the sink, endlessly rinsing a knife. Her blood didn’t just drip; it pooled and shimmered, spreading like oil across the counter. She’d turn her head toward me, her mouth open in a silent scream, and the water would turn red.

I stopped going into the kitchen after that. I started using the bathroom sink, the only place I felt safe. The bathroom was small, with a clawfoot tub and a cracked mirror, but it was mine. I’d lock the door, sit on the floor, and breathe. But even there, the silence felt heavy, like something was holding its breath.

Then I noticed the crack in the mirror. It started as a thin line, barely visible. But each day it grew, fork-like, reaching across the glass. And every time I looked into it, I saw a reflection that wasn’t mine. A gaunt face, eyes that were black holes, a mouth that hung just a bit too wide. It would stand behind me, its hands reaching for my shoulders, but I’d spin around and see nothing. The air would be cold, and the faucet would drip.

Things escalated. Dishes would fly from the cupboard, shattering on the floor. Doors would slam throughout the night, waking my dad, who’d stumble out of his room, muttering about drafts. I’d hear my name being called, a soft whisper from the living room, but when I went in, the lights would flicker, and the heavy drapes would billow, even with the windows closed. I started staying in my room, refusing to leave, but even there, the sense of being watched intensified. The walls seemed to breathe.

One night, I woke to a sound like a sewing machine. I crept to my door and peered through the crack. The bathroom door was ajar, light spilling out. I pushed it open, and there, kneeling on the tiles, was the woman from the kitchen. She was stitching something into the floorboards—a long, glistening thread that looked like saliva. She looked up, and her eyes met mine. Her throat wound opened, and a sound came out, like the grinding of stones. She held out her hand, and in it was a small, glistening object, like a pearl, but wet and pulsing. I staggered back, and as I did, the bathroom mirror cracked with a sharp report, and the reflection in the shards was not my own, but a twisted version of me, wreathed in shadow, with the same gaping wound as the woman.

I turned to run, but the floor was slick with something dark. I slipped, and my hand landed on the floor. The woman’s stitched work was there, the glistening thread now crusty, like a scar. I pulled my hand back, and I noticed the thread was now forming a pattern on the floor—a spiral, leading to my bedroom door. I followed it, my heart pounding. The door was open. Inside, my bed was covered in wet, glistening strands, like a web. And in the center lay a photograph, soaked, of a woman I didn’t recognize, but with my face.

I knew then that this house wasn’t just haunted. It was a wound, and it was trying to infect me. I grabbed my father, shook him awake, and we left that night, driving until the sun rose. We never spoke of it, but I still carry the scar on my palm, a thin, shimmering line that never heals. And sometimes, when I turn on a faucet, I see her reflection in the water, and I know the wound is still open, waiting to flow.