The Hollow Tap

The summer I turned eight, my parents packed me off to my Aunt Marlene’s farmhouse while they took a belated honeymoon to the coast. The farmhouse sat at the end of a gravel lane, surrounded by fields that turned from gold to gray as the sun dropped. Aunt Marlene was a stoic woman who smelled of mothballs and spoke in clipped sentences. She told me to keep to my room after dark, ‘on account of the draft.’ I thought she meant the wind.

My room was at the end of a long hallway, with a window that overlooked the skeletal apple orchard. The floorboards were old pine, warped and groaning with every step. The bathroom was across the hall, and the kitchen was two flights down, past the parlor with its heavy curtains and the grandfather clock that ticked like a heartbeat.

That first night, I was brushing my teeth when I heard footsteps. Slow, deliberate creaks from the direction of the stairs. I paused, toothbrush in hand, expecting Aunt Marlene to appear in the doorway. She didn’t. The footsteps stopped. I shrugged it off—old houses settle. I finished, shut my door, and slid under the quilt that smelled of lavender and dust.

At 12:47 AM, I woke with a start. The clock downstairs had struck twelve, and I needed to pee. I padded across the cold floor, the boards groaning under my weight. The bathroom light flickered on, revealing a sink that was already running. A thin stream of water, as if someone had just turned it on and left. I turned it off, filled a glass, drank. The water was metallic, but I was thirsty.

As I stepped into the hallway, I noticed the kitchen door was ajar. The air from the kitchen was biting, at least ten degrees colder than the rest of the house. I crept forward, my bare feet numbing on the linoleum. The kitchen was dark, save for the glow of the porch light filtering through the window. And there, at the far counter, a figure stood. It was Aunt Marlene, but not Aunt Marlene. Her back was to me, her hair in a tight bun, and she was pouring water from a kettle into a cup. The water was black, like ink.

I whispered, ‘Aunt Marlene?’ She didn’t turn. She set the kettle down, and I saw her hand—it was too long, fingers like pale roots. She began to hum a tune I didn’t recognize, something old and off-key. I backed away, my heart hammering, and rushed back to my room. I threw the door shut, locked it, and pulled the quilt over my head. The humming continued, drifting up through the floorboards, until it faded into the sigh of the house.

The next morning, I found Aunt Marlene in the kitchen, making eggs. The air was warm. She asked if I slept well. I said yes, but I couldn’t stop staring at the sink. She noticed and said, ‘That tap’s been leaky for years. Drips every night around midnight.’ I nodded, but I knew what I saw. The water had been running, not dripping.

That night, I set a trap. I sprinkled flour on the hallway floor before bed. At 12:45, I woke again—I felt a presence. I lay still, listening. Footsteps, slow, coming up the stairs. The floorboards creaked. I heard the bathroom door open. Then the sink turned on. I slipped out of bed, careful not to step in my own footprint. I peeked down the hall. The bathroom light was off, but I could hear the water. I crept closer, my breath clouding in the cold. The sink was full, overflowing, the water black. And standing over it, a shape—not Aunt Marlene, but a woman in a long dress, her face obscured by shadow. She was pulling her own reflection out of the water, hand over hand, like a rope. I screamed.

The shape dissolved into a spray of black droplets that vanished before they hit the floor. The water stopped. The silence was absolute. I stood trembling, the flour on the floor smeared with wet footprints that led not from the bathroom, but from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into my room—ending at the foot of my bed. I didn’t sleep that night.

In the morning, I told Aunt Marlene everything. She listened, her face unreadable. Then she said, ‘That’s the old well. They sealed it when the last farmer’s daughter drowned in it. Her name was Ruth. She used to hum while she drew water.’ She pointed to a faded photograph on the wall—a girl in a dress, standing by the old well, which was now covered by the kitchen floor. I looked at the sink. The tap was rusted. Aunt Marlene added, ‘She doesn’t like it when you take the water. She wants it back.’

I never drank from that sink again. I spent the rest of my visit with bottled water, and I always locked my door. But every night, at 12:45, I heard the tap turn on. And every morning, the kitchen sink was full of water, not a drop spilled. On the last day, as I left, I saw Ruth standing by the edge of the field, her dress dripping, her hand raised in a wave. I waved back, and she smiled—a grin too wide, with teeth like river stones.

Years later, I learned the farmhouse was demolished. But I still hear that tap sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the pipes are quiet. And I know, wherever I am, Ruth is drawing her water, waiting for someone to take a drink.