The Puddle in the Morning

I remember the exact moment the house turned on us. It was three weeks ago, and I haven’t slept through the night since. My partner, Liam, and I had moved into a brand-new terraced house in a quiet suburb of Cork, Ireland. We were the first owners, the paint still fresh, the floors gleaming. For eight months, it was perfect. Then, the watching began.

I’d feel it in the kitchen, a cold stare from the corner of my eye, but when I turned, nothing. In the living room, the air would thicken, and I’d find myself holding my breath without reason. Liam dismissed it, said I was stressed from work, but I knew. Something had settled in with us.

The first incident was mundane. Our bathroom mat, a plush navy blue thing, would be soaked through every few weeks. We’d find it heavy and cold, even though no one had used the shower. We checked every pipe, every seal, but there was no leak. We laughed it off, blamed the humidity, but it kept happening.

Then the night came. I awoke to footsteps on the landing and the stairs. They were slow, deliberate, like someone testing each step. I sat up in bed, heart pounding, but the sound stopped. I listened for ten minutes, but the house was silent. I assumed it was a dream and lay back down, but I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, I told my mother about the presence I felt, and she urged me to burn sage. I did, but nothing changed. A week later, I found the bathroom mat not just wet, but shaped like a body, the impression of a torso and limbs pressed into the fabric, as if someone had lain there, saturated.

That’s when I started leaving the bathroom light on at night. It didn’t help. The footsteps came again, but this time they stopped at our bedroom door. I felt a pressure on the bed, as if someone sat on the edge. Liam slept through it, but I lay frozen, staring at the ceiling, until dawn.

One evening, I was in the bath, the water warm and comforting. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the water was ice cold, and the mat was lying on the floor, soaking, as if it had been wrung out. I got out, shivering, and noticed the mirror was fogged, but not from my breath. There was a word written in the condensation: ‘LEAVE’.

I told Liam, but he thought I was imagining things. He even suggested I see a doctor. But then, one night, he woke up screaming. He said something had touched his face, something cold and wet. He looked at me, his eyes wide, and I knew he believed me now.

We decided to move out immediately. We packed in one afternoon, the whole time feeling the house watching us, a malevolent presence pressing in. As we loaded the last box into the car, I saw the bathroom mat in the hallway, wet, a trail of water leading from the bathroom to the front door, as if something had followed us out.

We’ve been in a hotel for three weeks. I haven’t slept more than a few hours a night. Every time I close my eyes, I see the mat, the water, the word on the mirror. We’re looking for a new place, but every time we step into a new house, I feel it: a dampness in the air, a cold spot, and I know we can’t escape it. It’s in us now, like a stain that won’t wash out. And every morning, I wake up to find a puddle on the floor beside our bed, as if something has been standing there, dripping, watching us sleep.