The Porcelain Throne

I never believed in ghosts until the summer I turned twenty-one, when my fiancé, Marcus, and I spent a week at his grandmother’s remote farmhouse in the dry, dusty hills of New Mexico. The house was a sprawling adobe structure, its thick walls and deep-set windows speaking of a time long past. Marcus’s family had owned it for generations, but it had been empty for years, only used for occasional family gatherings. We were there to help clean it out before it was sold.

On our first night, we chose the largest bedroom, the one that once belonged to the matriarch of the family. The room was sparse but clean, with a heavy wooden bed and a faded rug. Adjacent to it was a small, musty bathroom with a claw-foot tub and an ancient porcelain toilet. As we settled in, the wind outside howled through the gaps in the window frames, making the curtains dance.

I woke in the dead of night to a sound that chilled me to the bone: the toilet in the bathroom flushing. The sound was muffled, as if from a great distance, but unmistakable. I nudged Marcus, but he only grumbled and turned over. I lay there, listening, but the house was silent except for the wind. I told myself it was a plumbing quirk, an air bubble in the pipes, and eventually fell back asleep.

The next morning, I mentioned it to Marcus. He laughed and said, ‘Oh, that’s just the old ghost. Everyone says the toilet flushes on its own when the house is restless.’ I thought he was joking, but his casual tone made me uneasy. Over the next few days, we cleaned the house, and I heard the flush several more times, always at odd hours, always when I was alone in the room. Once, I even caught the sound of soft crying, like an infant’s wail, from behind the bathroom door. I opened it, but the room was empty, the toilet silent.

On our last night before leaving, Marcus was in the living room packing boxes, and I lay in bed, exhausted. The wind had died down, and the house was still. Then, the toilet flushed. This time, I got up, determined to investigate. I pushed the bathroom door open and froze. The toilet was not just flushing; water was rising from the bowl, spilling over the rim, turning reddish-brown, like rust, but thicker. A faint, sickly-sweet odor filled the air.

I stepped back, my heart hammering. The water began to churn, and from the depths, a skeletal hand emerged, grasping the rim. Then another hand, and a head—a gaunt, pale face with hollow eyes, seemingly made of the very water. It pulled itself out of the toilet, dripping, and stood before me, dripping on the tile floor. Its mouth opened, and a sound like a baby’s cry came out, but distorted, echoing.

I screamed, stumbling backward, but my feet were frozen. The figure took a step forward, and I saw that it was not solid; it was composed of swirling water, shimmering in the dim light. It reached out a dripping hand, and I felt a cold grip on my ankle. I tried to pull away, but it was strong. I opened my mouth to scream again, but no sound came.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the figure dissolved into a puddle on the floor, leaving only the toilet empty and the room silent. Marcus burst in, demanding what was wrong. I couldn’t speak; I just pointed at the bathroom. He looked, then shrugged. ‘Nothing there. Probably a night terror.’

But I knew what I saw. And to this day, I can’t hear a toilet flush without my blood running cold, especially at night.