The Hand on the Tiled Wall

March 17, 2026

by Laisha

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (504 words)

"In the autumn of 2014, I was staying at my cousin’s apartment in the city, helping her prepare for her first child. It was a Thursday night, and I had just tucked my own two kids into bed in the guest room. The apartment was old, with creaky pipes and drafty windows, but it had […]"

In the autumn of 2014, I was staying at my cousin’s apartment in the city, helping her prepare for her first child. It was a Thursday night, and I had just tucked my own two kids into bed in the guest room. The apartment was old, with creaky pipes and drafty windows, but it had a certain charm. After a long day of organizing the nursery, I decided to take a shower before turning in.

I stepped into the bathroom, the tiles cool under my feet. The shower was a small stall with a glass door, and the water ran hot, steam rising to fog the mirror. I let the water pour over my face, my eyes closed, when suddenly I felt a cold, firm grip on the back of my neck. It was so strong that I couldn’t turn. My heart hammered in my chest. I thought it was my cousin’s husband, playing a prank, so I spun around, but there was no one there. The water was still running, but the bathroom was empty.

I stumbled out of the shower, dripping wet, my skin crawling. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself, my breath shallow. I called my mother, my hands shaking, and told her what happened. She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘That’s a warning, dear. Someone close to you will pass.’ I tried to brush it off, thinking it was just my imagination.

The next morning, at 9:30, my phone rang. It was my other cousin, not the pregnant one. Her voice was choked with tears. ‘The baby… he’s gone. She went into labor last night, but he didn’t make it.’ I felt the world tilt. I dropped the phone and sank to the floor, sobbing. I called my pregnant cousin to confirm, and she told me through her grief that the baby had stopped moving after dinner the night before—the exact time I was in the shower. The doctors said he died right around then.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that what I felt was not a warning but a touch from something darker, something that had been waiting in that old apartment. I started seeing things in the corner of my eye, a shape that would vanish when I turned. I slept with the lights on for weeks. My cousin and her husband moved out soon after, unable to bear the memories, but I never forgot the cold hand on my neck, the way it held me tight as if to claim me.

Months later, I returned to the apartment to collect the last of our things. The bathroom still smelled of stale water and cleaning products. I stood in front of the shower, staring at the tiled wall. And there, faintly, I saw a handprint pressed against the tiles, as if someone had braced themselves there. It was too small to be mine or my cousin’s. It looked like the hand of an infant, pressed in desperation, forever frozen on the wall.

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