The Marker on the Mosaic

The old apartment complex, Cascara Court, had a way of holding onto its secrets like a miser clutches gold. I grew up there, in a unit on the third floor that always smelled of boiled cabbage and my grandmother’s camphor oil. After my husband got a job overseas, I moved back with my son, Leo, to save money. It was just the three of us: Leo, my mother, and me. My father had passed years ago, but my grandmother, Lola, still lived in the unit next door, her door always slightly ajar, as if she was waiting for someone.

One humid evening, the air thick with the promise of a storm, I was giving Leo his bath. He was three, with the uncanny sensitivity of a child who sees too much. He had finished his business, and I was rinsing him off, the bathroom door ajar to let the steam escape. I saw him freeze, his little body going rigid, his eyes fixed on the doorway. ‘Leo, what is it?’ I asked, my voice light. He pointed, his tiny finger trembling. ‘Man,’ he said.

My heart skipped. I followed his gaze, but saw nothing but the dim hallway beyond. ‘Is there a man at the door?’ I asked, trying to keep my tone steady. He nodded, his eyes wide. I glanced at the door, hoping to catch a reflection in the mirror or the tiles, but there was nothing. ‘There’s no one there, baby,’ I said, forcing a smile. But when I tried to lift him out of the tub, he clung to me, his little arms wrapped around my neck, and he refused to look at the door.

After his bath, I carried him into the living room, where my grandmother sat in her worn armchair, knitting. ‘Lola, Leo says he saw a man in the bathroom,’ I said. She didn’t look up, just shrugged and said, ‘It’s just the old building settling.’ I wasn’t satisfied, but I let it go.

Later that night, after my mother came home from her shift at the hospital, I told her what happened. She sighed, rubbing her temples. ‘You know how Leo is. He has an imagination.’ I nodded, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

The next morning, I noticed something odd. On the mosaic tile floor of the bathroom, near the door, there were faint wet footprints. Not mine or Leo’s. They were larger, like a man’s bare feet, and they led toward the hallway, then vanished.

I tried to dismiss it, but over the next few days, Leo started talking more. He would point at corners and say, ‘The man is there.’ He would stare at an empty spot in the living room and giggle. One afternoon, I found him sitting in front of the bathroom door, whispering to it. ‘Who are you talking to?’ I asked. He looked up, his face serious. ‘The man with the crooked smile.’

My grandmother, who had always been dismissive, began to change. She started muttering about ‘the old owner’ and ‘the one who died in the fire.’ When I pressed her, she clammed up. But my mother, after a particularly restless night, came to me with a confession. ‘I saw him too,’ she whispered. ‘Years ago, when I was pregnant with you. I woke up and saw a man standing in the doorway. He had a crooked smile, and his face was burned on one side.’

My blood ran cold. I had never told my mother about Leo’s descriptions. I decided to investigate. I went to the building’s basement, where the old boiler room was, and found a small storage closet that had been sealed off. With some effort, I forced it open. Inside, I found old photographs, yellowed with age, and a journal. They belonged to a man named Arthur, who had owned the building decades ago. He had died in a fire, but the fire had started in his own apartment, right above where we lived.

I read his journal. He wrote about ‘the children’ and ‘the voices.’ He had been a recluse, and he had committed suicide by setting himself on fire, but not before he had hurt others. The last entry was chilling: ‘They will come. The ones who can see me. I will mark them.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the mosaic tile floor, which I now realized had a pattern of tiny marks, like serial numbers, near the bathroom door. When I went to check on Leo, he was sleeping peacefully. But as I turned to leave, I saw a shadow move across the hallway. It was tall, and it had a crooked smile.

I froze. The shadow stepped into the light, and I saw him—a man with burns on half his face, wearing an old suit. He raised a hand and pointed at me, then at the floor. I looked down. On the mosaic tile, a new mark was forming, as if etched by an invisible finger. It was the date of his death.

I backed away, but he only smiled wider. Then he faded, and I was left standing in the hallway, the air cold around me. I knew then that he was marking his territory, and that Leo and I were the ‘chosen ones’—the ones who could see him, and the ones he would never let leave.

I moved out within a week, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he followed. Even now, in my new home, I see the occasional flicker of a shadow, and Leo still talks to his invisible friend. I know that we brought a piece of that place with us, and that the marker on the mosaic will never fade.