The Stained Porcelain

The old farmhouse sat at the edge of the high desert, a hundred yards from the crumbling county road. Every autumn, the wind carried the distant sound of the Harvest Festival from the valley below, but the house itself seemed to swallow sound. I’d inherited it from a great-uncle I’d never met, and it had that dried-out, sun-bleached feel of a place too long abandoned. My friend, Marcus, a junior auditor in the city, asked if he could stop by to shower before a client dinner, saving himself the two-hour round trip. I said sure, even though my wife and I wouldn’t be there. I told him the key was under the ceramic toad by the back door, and he could let himself in.

When we got home that night, we found Marcus’s suit bag and briefcase on the back porch, neatly placed, but the door was slightly ajar. I called his office, and he answered, his voice tight. ‘I’ll pick them up later, but only if you’re home. Something happened. I’ll explain when I see you.’ He arrived an hour later, pale, his hair damp as if he’d just showered. He sat at our kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, and told us.

‘I got to your place around six,’ he began. ‘The sun was low, casting long shadows from the cottonwoods. I walked up the gravel path, and I got this awful feeling—like I was being watched. I figured it was just the old house, you know? So I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The air was stale, and there was a strange smell, like wet clay and copper. I went straight to the bathroom off the hall. The light flickered, but I just wanted to get clean. I turned on the shower, and while it was warming up, I looked at the mirror. There was a message written in the steam, but I hadn’t turned the water hot enough yet to steam the glass. It said, ‘THEY’RE IN THE WALLS.’ I laughed it off—maybe a friend of yours playing a prank? But then I noticed the bathtub.

The tub was an old clawfoot, white porcelain, but the bottom was stained with a dark brown residue, like dried blood. I thought maybe a pipe had leaked. I stepped in, and the water felt fine, but as I washed, I noticed the drain was clogged. Something was blocking it—something soft. I reached down and pulled out a clump of what looked like hair, but it was too coarse, and it was tangled with a small bone. A finger bone, maybe. My heart started racing. I turned off the water and stepped out, and that’s when I saw them. In the mirror, behind my reflection, there were faces—pale, gaunt, with black hollow eyes—pressing against the wall like they were trying to push through. I spun around, but the wall was smooth. When I looked back at the mirror, they were gone.

I threw on my clothes as fast as I could. I didn’t even dry off. I grabbed my stuff and bolted out the back door, but I tripped on the porch steps and fell. I must have dropped my suit bag. I saw the faces again, this time in the window of the bathroom, staring at me. I didn’t look back. I just drove to the office and changed in the parking lot.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘Marcus, we’ve lived here for three years. Nothing like that has ever happened.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not going back in that house. I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t your imagination. Maybe it’s the old mineshafts that run under the property? I heard the previous owner went missing.’ I hadn’t heard that. I looked at my wife, and she was pale. We decided to investigate the next morning.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept glancing at the bathroom door. Around 2 AM, I heard a drip. I got up and went to the bathroom. The faucet was off, but there was a puddle on the floor. I looked into the tub—the stain had spread, forming a pattern like a crude map. And the walls—they were bulging, like something was pushing from behind. I put my hand on the wall, and it was cold, and it seemed to pulse. I backed away, and then I saw it: a tiny hole in the plaster, about the size of a dime. I leaned in, and I could hear a faint rasping, like breathing. And then a whisper, so low I almost missed it. ‘Let us out.’ I stumbled back, and the hole sealed itself as if it had never been there.

I woke my wife, and we packed a few things. We’re staying at a motel tonight. But as we were leaving, I saw that the ceramic toad by the back door had been turned over, and there was a key in the lock—our spare key, which was supposed to be hidden. And on the front door, in a scratchy script, it said, ‘WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.’ We drove to the motel, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not over. The walls in this motel room are thin, and I keep hearing voices—not words, just whispers. And I’m scared to look in the mirror.