The Steam-Locked Visitor

The desert heat usually made our little tract house feel like an oven, but that morning the air inside was cold and heavy, like a held breath. I was fifteen, doing online school in a house that always seemed to be settling, groaning, clicking. The only sound was the faint hum of the swamp cooler, which had been acting up all week. My mom, a realtor, had just left for a showing, leaving me alone with my laptop and a growing sense of unease.

I decided to take a shower to shake off the chill. The glass doors of the shower were old, with a thin film of soap scum and mineral stains. As the hot water cascaded, steam began to rise, fogging the glass. I was soaping my hair when I noticed a word forming on the frosted pane, as if a finger had traced it from the other side. It was ‘HELL,’ but the letters looked wrong, slightly too elongated, the ‘L’s crooked. My heart lurched. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen things like this, but it was the first time it had been so direct.

I got out, wrapped a towel around me, and stared at the word. The steam faded, but the letters remained, etched into the glass like a scar. For days, I avoided the shower, using the sink to wash. But the terror was worse than the inconvenience. I started sleeping with the bathroom light on, and the door cracked open. My name is Maya, and I’ve always been sensitive to things others aren’t. But this was different.

Finally, I worked up the courage to respond. I took a dry-erase marker and wrote on the glass, ‘Who are you?’ I placed the marker on the edge of the tub and left. The next morning, I found scratch marks on the glass, but no words. So I tried again, with a piece of chalk this time, ‘Your name?’ The chalk broke in my hand, and I felt a cold breath on my neck. I spun around, but nothing was there.

A week later, I found the word ‘ALEXANDER’ scratched into the wood of the bathroom door, fresh splinters still sticking up. The letters were crude, as if made by a claw. My stomach dropped. Even though I knew better, I asked aloud, ‘Are you friendly?’ And I swear I heard a whisper from the vents, ‘Yes.’ But the way it said it made my skin crawl.

From that day on, I felt him everywhere. Not just a vague presence, but a specific weight, like eyes on me from every corner of the house. My computer would shut down at odd times, and my bed would shake in the middle of the night, the mattress vibrating as if something was under it. One afternoon, I was eating a sandwich in the kitchen when the fridge door swung open on its own, and I saw a face in the frost—a gaunt, hollow-cheeked face with empty eyes, staring at me. I screamed and slammed the door shut.

I called my dad, but he didn’t answer. My mom is the only one who seems to understand, but even she said, ‘Maya, that house has a bad history. The previous owner… he died there, but not peacefully.’ She never told me more.

Now, I’m home alone most of the day, and I can’t shake the feeling that Alexander is not just friendly—he’s possessive. I hear footsteps in the hallway when I’m in my room, and I see shadow standing in my peripheral vision, always just out of focus. Last night, I woke up at 3:33 a.m. and the bathroom light was on. The glass door was covered in steam, and on it were the words, ‘YOU ARE MINE.’ My breath fogged my own face as I read it. I don’t know what he wants, but I don’t think he ever had any intention of being my friend. He’s waiting for something, and I’m terrified to find out what.