The Static in the Plumbing

I’ve called this apartment home for nearly seven years, ever since my mom and I moved into the third floor unit of a faded brick building on the corner of Meridian and 5th. The city hums outside, but inside these walls, there’s a stillness that feels wrong, like the air is holding its breath. I first noticed it on my twenty-first birthday, when I overheard my dad chatting with my aunt and her new boyfriend on the phone. He was recounting the day, and at one point he said, ‘While she was in the shower, I asked her mom if she wanted something to drink for dinner. And clear as day, I hear a little boy’s voice from the bathroom: “I want cream soda, Daddy.” I figured it was the kid downstairs, but the walls are thick. When I got out, I asked him if he’d called out for a drink. He said no, and we both got a chill. He tried to laugh it off, said it must’ve been the pipes or the neighbor, but I saw his eyes dart to the corner of the room.

That night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard a soft, high-pitched voice from the closet: ‘Do you want to play?’ My blood turned to ice. I fumbled for the remote and clicked on the TV for comfort. The screen buzzed to life, showing static, and then the whole thing just clicked off. I hadn’t touched the remote again. The silence that followed was thick, and I swear I could feel something watching me from the shadows. I didn’t sleep a wink.

Since then, the bathroom has become my own private horror show. Every time I take a shower, I make it a point to keep my hands still, to avoid scratching my skin, because every single time, I step out to find long, angry scratches across my stomach, my thighs, even my arms. They look like claw marks, too precise to be accidents. My mom says it’s because I take scalding-hot showers, but I’ve switched to lukewarm, and the marks still appear. She doesn’t want to believe it, but I know better.

To make sense of it all, I started digging through the building’s history. Old newspaper clippings at the library painted a grim picture: a family had lived in this very apartment before me, and the father had gone crazy, drowning his six-year-old son in the bathtub before turning the gun on himself. The boy’s name was Ethan. He wore a striped shirt and always asked for cream soda.

I can’t prove it, but I feel him. Sometimes, when I’m in the bathroom, the showerhead sputters and changes temperature without me touching the knobs. I’ll see a small, wet footprint on the bathmat, and I’ll hear that same little voice echo through the tiles: ‘Join me.’ Last week, I found my rubber duck floating in the toilet, turned to face me. I know this house is haunted, and this little boy wants company. But I won’t give in. I can’t. I just have to learn to live with my invisible roommate, and hope he never decides to get physical.