The Man in the White Undershirt

I never thought I’d see one. Not really. I’d read about them, watched documentaries, even attended a couple of paranormal lectures when I was younger and more impressionable. But as I got older, the stories felt like fairy tales, the videos like cheap tricks. I figured if ghosts existed, they’d have better things to do than haunt a tired accountant like me. But this morning, I saw it, and I can’t shake the image from my mind.

I was walking up the stairs to the second floor of our house, a creaky old Victorian we bought last summer. The house had that musty smell of old wood and forgotten memories, and the stairs groaned under each step like they were complaining about the weight. I was still half asleep, my mind foggy from last night’s work. I reached the top of the landing and looked down the hallway to the left, which led past the bathroom and the guest room to the master bedroom. And there, about twenty feet from me, was a figure walking into the bathroom.

At first, I thought it was my daughter, Emma. She’s sixteen now, and she’s always up before me, getting ready for school. She has that same lean build, that same way of walking with a slight bounce in her step. She was wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of light blue pajama pants, and her hair was a chestnut brown, just like Emma’s. I was about to call out, ‘Emma, you’re up early,’ but something stopped me. The figure didn’t turn its head. It just kept walking, moving steadily toward the bathroom, and then it did something that didn’t register until seconds later.

It walked through the bathroom door at an angle, not straight on. The door opens perpendicular to the hallway, so to enter, you’d have to turn right. But this figure, if it was a figure, took a diagonal path, crossing the threshold at a slant, as if it were gliding through the doorway but aiming for the mirror on the left wall of the bathroom. I saw it pass through the frame, the white of the shirt disappearing into the brighter light of the bathroom’s window. And then it was gone.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, my heart thudding in my chest. I took a step forward, then another, until I was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, peering in. The room was empty. The sink, the toilet, the tub—all empty. The mirror on the left reflected the doorway and the hallway behind me, but nothing else. I felt a chill trace down my spine. I walked over to Emma’s room across the hall and knocked, then eased the door open. She was in bed, covers pulled up to her chin, her face peaceful in sleep. I closed the door quietly and went back to the landing, trying to make sense of what I’d seen.

It wasn’t a trick of the light. The hallway was well lit, and the figure was as solid as any person. I could see the creases in the t-shirt, the way the fabric moved as it walked. But there was something off, something I couldn’t place at first. The way it moved was too smooth, like a video gliding on a track. There was no bend in the knees, no natural sway. And it never turned its head. It just walked, fixed in that direction, as if it knew exactly where it was going.

I’ve heard stories about residual hauntings, where an event plays out over and over like a loop. Maybe this was something like that. But why our house? Why that bathroom? That afternoon, I did something I should have done when we first moved in. I went to the local library, looking for any records about our house. An old newspaper article from 1962 caught my eye: a man had committed suicide in the house, using a handgun, in the upstairs bathroom. His name was Albert Marsh, and he was described as a reclusive writer. He wore a white t-shirt when he died, according to the coroner’s report.

I read the article over and over, my hands trembling slightly. The details didn’t match what I saw—he’d died in the bathroom, but the mirror wasn’t there then. The house had been renovated. But the diagonal path—that was the key. The mirror had been added later, but back in 1962, there was a door to a closet on that wall. Maybe Albert’s last walk was not to the mirror, but to the closet, where he kept his gun. I think he was headed to the mirror, but in his final moments, the mirror reflected something else: his own despair.

I didn’t tell my family. I didn’t want to scare them. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the apparition. The next morning, I made a point to be on the landing at the same time, 6:47 AM. I waited, holding my breath, but nothing appeared. The house was silent except for the usual creaks and groans. I wondered if I had imagined it, but I knew I hadn’t.

Then, a week later, it happened again. I was coming up the stairs with a cup of coffee, and there it was, the same figure, same white t-shirt, same diagonal walk into the bathroom. This time, I didn’t freeze. I followed it, my heart racing. I watched it pass through the doorway, and I followed just behind, expecting to see it stop at the mirror. But it kept walking, through the mirror, into the glass, as if it were nothing. I saw its form merge with the silvered surface and disappear, and for a moment, I saw something in the reflection: a man’s face, pale and gaunt, with dark hollows for eyes, staring back at me with an expression of profound sadness.

I stumbled back, dropping my coffee. When I looked again, the mirror was just a mirror, reflecting the empty bathroom. But I knew then that Albert’s spirit was tied to that mirror, forced to relive his final moments over and over, forever walking toward his own reflection as if it were a portal to something else. And I know now that if I ever look into that mirror at the wrong time, I might see more than my own tired face. I might see him, waiting, and maybe he’ll beckon me to join him.

I’ve been avoiding the upstairs bathroom ever since. I use the powder room on the first floor now. But it’s not easy, because I live in the same house with my family, and the stairs are the only way to the bedrooms. Every time I go up, I keep my eyes forward, afraid to glance at the bathroom door. But I can’t help it. The door is always open, because the latch is broken, and as I pass, I catch a sliver of the mirror out of the corner of my eye. And sometimes, just for a split second, I think I see a shadow in the glass, a shadow that stands too still to be my own.

Last night, I woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Soft, shuffling footsteps, like someone wearing pajama pants and socks. I lay in bed, my mouth dry, listening as they came up to the landing, then moved toward the bathroom. I heard the creak of the bathroom door—though it was already open—and I knew it wasn’t Emma. When I finally mustered the courage to get out of bed and look, the house was silent. But when I peeked into the bathroom, the mirror was covered in a thin layer of dusty frost, and on the glass, in the condensation, someone had written a single word: ‘Soon.’