The Porcelain Cough

I’ve always prided myself on my lungs, though they’re more like a pair of old leather bellows these days. It was a habit I’d picked up in my late teens, and by twenty-eight, I was a connoisseur of rolling tobaccos, able to identify the blend by scent alone. That’s why I was at Marek’s place that night—we were discussing the merits of a new Turkish blend he’d ordered from a shady website, which he claimed had notes of cherry and leather. The hour was absurd, somewhere past one, and the old farmhouse creaked around us like a ship at sea.

We were perched on his bed, the window behind us open a foot, letting in the cold that had settled over the fields. The windowsill was deep, and I’d sat there many times, dangling my legs over the flat kitchen roof below. That night, we were too lazy to move, just sitting on the mattress, our voices low as we debated whether we could ever quit. The house was silent, save for the occasional sigh of wind and the distant bark of a fox.

That’s when we heard it: a cough. Not a polite throat-clear, but a deep, hacking, phlegmy cough that sounded like it came from a smoker twice my age. It came from behind us, through the open door, from the direction of the bathroom across the landing. We froze, mid-sentence. Marek looked at me, his eyes wide. ‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered. I nodded. It had been loud, unmistakable, as if someone were standing right outside the door.

We waited, breath held, listening. The house creaked again, but nothing else. Marek got up and peered into the hallway, his phone’s flashlight cutting through the dark. The bathroom door was ajar, just as we’d left it. He shut it firmly and came back, shrugging. ‘Probably a fox outside, through an open window,’ he said, but his voice was thin. I nodded, trying to convince myself.

We went back to our conversation, but the ease was gone. I lit another roll-up, the flame trembling slightly. Then it came again, louder, right from the bathroom. This time, it was followed by a wet, gurgling sound, like someone drowning in their own phlegm. We both jumped, and Marek’s phone clattered to the floor. ‘That’s not outside,’ I said, my voice shaky.

Marek, ever the pragmatist, grabbed a heavy flashlight from his nightstand and marched to the bathroom. He pushed the door open, the beam sweeping across the white tiles. The room was empty, but the air felt heavy, thick with the smell of damp and something else—an acrid, smoky scent that wasn’t from our cigarettes. Marek stepped inside, and I followed, my heart hammering.

The bathroom was small, with a clawfoot tub and a pedestal sink. The mirror above the sink was fogged, though the room was cold. Marek touched it, leaving a smear. ‘It’s just condensation,’ he said, but his hand was shaking. Then we saw the toothbrush holder—it was vibrating, as if something were gripping it. And from the open drain of the tub, a low, rumbling cough echoed up, like a giant clearing its throat.

We backed out, slamming the door. In the hallway, we looked at each other. ‘I’m calling it a night,’ I said, grabbing my coat. Marek didn’t argue. He walked me to the front door, and as I stepped outside, I heard it one last time, from within the house: a series of hacking coughs, followed by a distinct, wet slap against the window of the bathroom—as if something had coughed itself out onto the glass.

I drove home, trying to rationalize, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the cough was familiar, like an old acquaintance who had followed me home. The next day, Marek texted me: ‘The window in the bathroom was open an inch. Maybe some hobo crawled in.’ But I knew better. I’d heard that cough before, in the mirror, when I was alone and thought I was coughing out my innards after a long night of chain-smoking. It was the cough of a body slowly giving up, and it seemed to have found a home in that old house.

I never went back. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a dry hack from my own bathroom, even when I haven’t smoked in hours. And when I look in the mirror, I see a gray film on my tongue, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I cough something up that isn’t just smoke.