The Mirror Fogged Twice

The first time I noticed was in late October, when I moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the marsh. The place had been in Daniel’s family for generations, but they’d left it to rot for years. He’d convinced me it would be a project, a fresh start. The house leaned like a tired old man, its porch sagging, its windows like cloudy eyes. But I loved the solitude, the way the fog rolled in every evening, muffling the world.

I didn’t like the guest bathroom upstairs. It was long and narrow, with a mirror at one end that fogged up even when the room was cold. The tiles were a sickly green, and the bathtub had a ring of rust. Daniel always used the downstairs shower, saying the pipes up there were temperamental. So I mostly avoided it, using the half-bath off the kitchen for my quick morning routines. But one night, after a long drive back from town, I couldn’t wait. The half-bath was occupied by a clogged drain, and I was desperate. I climbed the creaking stairs, turned on the bare bulb that swung from a cord, and stepped into that claustrophobic cavern.

The air was damp, and the mirror was already fogged, even though I hadn’t run the water. I ignored it, turned on the tap, and let the bath fill. As the room steamed up, I undressed quickly, feeling that familiar prickle on the back of my neck—the sense of being watched. I told myself it was just the old house settling, the wind creaking the frame. I slid into the tub, lying back, my shoulders touching the cold porcelain, and I faced the door, which I’d left ajar. The mirror was behind me, but in the dim light, I could see my distorted reflection in the faucet.

I closed my eyes, trying to relax, and that’s when I heard it: a low, guttural grunt, followed by the unmistakable hiss and splatter of urination. My eyes snapped open. I was alone. The sound seemed to come from directly behind me, from the corner where the toilet stood. I spun around, heart hammering, but there was nothing. The grunt echoed again, closer, as if someone was right at my ear. I scrambled out of the tub, slipping on the wet floor, and grabbed my towel. I didn’t even bother to dry properly. I yanked my clothes on, leaving my hair dripping, and fled downstairs, nearly tripping over my own feet.

Daniel was in the kitchen, reading a book. I burst in, shaking, and told him what I’d heard. He laughed, a nervous chuckle. ‘It’s just the pipes, babe. The old plumbing makes all kinds of noises. Especially when the pressure changes.’ But his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and his smile didn’t reach them. He suggested I use the downstairs bathroom from then on. I agreed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that what I’d heard was not plumbing. It was too human, too intimate.

The next week, I had to go back up there because Daniel had thrown out his back and I needed some towels from the linen closet, which was right next to that bathroom. I told myself it was broad daylight, nothing to fear. I walked past the door, and I swear, I saw the handle turn, just a fraction, before I touched it. I stood frozen, my heart in my throat. The handle turned back, and a soft, rhythmic tapping started from inside. It sounded like a finger drumming on the tiles, impatient, waiting. I grabbed the towels and ran.

I tried to convince myself it was all in my head. The isolation was getting to me. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the house settle. At 3 AM, I heard the bathroom door upstairs creak open, and then footsteps—slow, dragging steps that moved across the floor, stopped, and then moved back, as if pacing. I got up, determined to face whatever it was. I tiptoed up the stairs, the old wood groaning under my weight. The bathroom door was closed. I stood there, pressing my ear to the wood. Inside, I could hear the faint sound of water dripping, and then that grunt again, followed by a wheezy sigh.

I pushed the door open. The room was empty. The shower curtain was drawn, and the mirror was completely fogged, a single clear spot in the center, like a face had been pressed against it and breathed. But there was no one. I moved to the shower and yanked the curtain back. Nothing. Then I heard a faint, mocking laugh, coming from the toilet. It bubbled up from the bowl, as if someone had their head in it. I screamed and ran.

Daniel was already awake, standing at the foot of the stairs, his face pale. ‘I heard it too,’ he whispered. ‘It’s been happening since I was a kid. My grandmother said it was the ghost of a man who died in that bathroom. He was a drunk, fell asleep on the toilet and choked on his own vomit.’ I didn’t know whether to believe him, but the truth was, I couldn’t stay in that house anymore. We packed our bags and left that very night, driving down the long gravel road, the headlights cutting through the fog.

But as we reached the main road, I looked back through the rear window, and I saw something that turned my blood to ice. The upstairs bathroom window was lit, a dim yellow glow, and through the glass, I saw the silhouette of a man standing at the toilet, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, as if he were relieving himself. And then he looked up, straight at me, and his mouth opened into a wide, silent scream. The light flickered out.

It’s been a month since we moved. We rented a small apartment in the city, and Daniel refuses to talk about it. But I can’t get that image out of my head. And last night, as I was brushing my teeth in our new, bright, modern bathroom, I saw the mirror fog up, even though the water was cold. And in the center, a clear spot appeared, and I could have sworn I saw the faint outline of a face pressed against the glass, breathing.

I dropped my toothbrush and ran out. Daniel was watching TV, and he looked at me, and I knew he saw it too. He said nothing. We just sat there in silence, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound, and I knew that no matter where we went, he would find us. That grunt, that splash, that sense of being watched—it wasn’t the pipes. It was him. And he was waiting.