The Last Faucet

My uncle Marcus passed away on a sweltering Tuesday in late August, 2019. I won’t dwell on the details of his death—they still carve fresh wounds. He had been in a coma for six days after a sudden aneurysm, and when the doctors said there was no hope, my aunt Elena, his best friend Jorge, and I gathered around his bed in the sterile white room of St. Jude’s Medical Center. We each said our goodbyes, whispering words of love and letting him know it was okay to let go. I leaned over, pressed my lips to his forehead, and told him I loved him more than words could say, and that his mother was waiting for him on the other side. Then I stumbled into the hallway, sobbing into my hands.

In the weeks after, I tried to find solace in the mundane rhythm of my life in the dusty town of Pinnacle, Arizona. I lived in a small adobe house at the edge of the desert, where the only sounds were the wind and the occasional cry of a coyote. The day after the funeral, exhausted from the endless condolences and the drive back from the city, I fell into a deep sleep. Somewhere in the haze between waking and dreaming, I felt a presence in my bedroom—a coolness in the air, a familiar weight on the edge of my mattress. I half-opened my eyes and saw a silhouette, a man’s shape, standing by the window, backlit by the pale moonlight. He didn’t move, just stood there, and I felt a wave of peace wash over me. I whispered, ‘Marcus?’ But the motionless figure only raised a hand, as if to wave, and then faded as consciousness slipped away.

I told myself it was grief, a trick of a tired mind. But the encounters grew more frequent and less benign. A week later, I was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, when I felt a breath on the back of my neck. I spun around, but the room was empty. Yet, the faucet, which I had turned off, began to drip—a slow, rhythmic ticking that kept time with my heartbeat. I turned it off again, but it started anew, faster this time, the water turning a rusty brown. I looked into the sink and saw my own reflection, but my face was older, gaunt, with hollow eyes. I stumbled back, and the reflection smiled at me.

I called Elena, hoping for reassurance, but her voice was strained. She told me she had been feeling Marcus’s presence too—pots moving on their own, flickering lights, his favorite chair rocking in the corner of their living room. She had sought the help of a local priest, who said it was Marcus reaching out from the other side, but something was wrong. ‘It’s not him,’ she insisted. ‘His eyes, when I see him in the mirror, they’re not his. They’re black, like empty sockets.’

That night, I decided to confront it. I sat in my living room, the lights dim, and I spoke aloud: ‘Marcus, if you’re here, give me a sign.’ The faucet in the kitchen turned on full blast. I went to it, heart pounding, and saw the water running red. Slowly, it changed to a deep, viscous black, and from the drain, a voice seeped, distorted as if underwater: ‘You left me.’ I felt a cold grip around my ankle, and I looked down to see a pale hand emerging from the floor, its fingers like skeletal claws. I kicked free and ran to the door, but it was locked. The lights flickered, and I heard a sound like a wet cough behind me.

I turned, and there he was—Marcus, but not as I remembered. His skin was mottled and peeling, his eyes white and sightless, and his mouth stretched unnaturally wide, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. He lunged, and I screamed, but no sound came out. I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact, when I heard Elena’s voice from a distant memory: ‘The one you left behind—they come back wrong.’

I snapped awake in my bed, drenched in sweat, the morning sun streaming through the window. The faucet was dripping, but the water was clear. I stumbled into the kitchen, half-expecting to see something, but everything was normal. I decided I had to leave, to escape whatever presence was haunting me. I packed a bag, but as I reached for the door handle, I saw a note on the kitchen counter—my own handwriting: ‘Don’t go. He wants to be with you.’ The last faucet turned on, and the water flowed like blood again.

I knew then that this was no ordinary haunting. My uncle’s love had twisted into something possessive, and it would never let me go. I dropped the bag and stared at the stain spreading on the floor, and I felt a cold breath on my neck, and a voice that was Marcus’s, yet not, whispered, ‘Forever.’