The Steamed Mirror

I was midway through lathering my hair when the bathroom door slid open with a low, grinding sound. The air was thick with steam, and the mirror was fogged into a milky oblivion. I froze, the shampoo dripping down my back, because I knew I had locked that door. The lock was a heavy brass bolt, the kind you have to wrestle with, and I had thrown it with a satisfying clack. There was no way it had slipped.

The door was a solid slab of oak, nearly two inches thick, set in a track that required deliberate, firm pushing to move. It didn’t rattle in drafts. It didn’t slide on its own. And yet here it was, three-quarters open, the gap a dark mouth waiting for me to step through.

I turned off the water, the silence sudden and heavy, and grabbed a towel. My heart was doing something erratic in my chest. I wrapped the towel around me and crept into the hallway, the cold air raising goosebumps on my wet skin. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the old furnace in the basement. I checked each of the three bedrooms. My husband, Sam, was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. Our daughter, Rosie, was a lump under her blankets, her stuffed rabbit peeking out from the covers. Our son, Lucas, was in his room, his laptop still open, but he was asleep, glasses askew on his face. Everyone was where they should be.

I returned to the bathroom, my mind churning. I pulled the door shut again, but this time I didn’t lock it. I was too unsettled. I stepped back under the warm spray, trying to dismiss the incident. The steam began to build again, and I closed my eyes, letting the water run over my face. When I opened them, I saw it: a message written in the condensation on the glass shower door. Not in any hand I recognized. The letters were long and spidery, as if traced by a trembling, elongated finger. It said: ‘GET OUT.’

I stood there, water beating against my shoulders, and stared. I didn’t know what to think. I tried to convince myself that I had written it myself, some weird sleepwalking thing, but I had never done anything like that. And the handwriting was not mine. It was too elegant, too deliberate. I wiped a hand across the glass, smearing the words, but they remained ghostly afterimages.

I turned off the water again, my hands shaking. I wrapped the towel tighter and looked around the bathroom. The sink, the toilet, the mirror. On the mirror, the fog was starting to clear, but something caught my eye: a thin line, like a crack, but it was too straight. I leaned in. It was writing, etched into the fog with a sharp edge. It said, ‘IT’S IN THE WALLS.’

A chill ran down my spine. I backed out of the bathroom, my bare feet leaving wet prints on the wood floor. I checked the hallway walls, running my hand over the wallpaper, looking for any signs of movement. Nothing. But I felt it, a presence, a pressure, like the air itself was holding its breath. I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and sat at the table, trying to calm down.

Sam came down an hour later, rubbing his eyes. ‘Morning,’ he said, his voice raspy. ‘You look pale. Didn’t sleep?’

I shook my head. I wasn’t ready to tell him. I felt foolish. But as I sat there, I noticed something on the kitchen window. Frost had formed in a pattern that resembled letters. I narrowed my eyes. It said, ‘LEAVE NOW.’

I don’t know what came over me. I stood up and grabbed Sam’s arm. ‘We need to go,’ I said. ‘Now.’ He looked at me, confused, but something in my voice made him comply. He went to wake the kids while I grabbed our coats. We made for the front door, but as we reached for the handle, the lock clicked. It was a deadbolt, and it turned on its own, sealing us in.

We all heard the click. Rosie started to cry. Lucas stared at the door, his face pale. Sam tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. I turned back to the hallway, and there, on the wall, the wallpaper was bulging, as if something was pushing from behind. The bulges moved, like beads under the surface, traveling toward us.

Then I heard a voice, thin and reedy, close to my ear. ‘You should have listened.’ It was not a human voice. It was the sound of ice cracking, of wood splitting, of the house groaning in a storm.

The lights flickered. The temperature dropped. In the mirror at the end of the hall, I saw a figure reflected, tall and wrong, its limbs too long, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. It was standing in the doorway of our bedroom, right where Sam had been sleeping.

I grabbed my family and ran for the back door. It, too, was locked. But I didn’t think. I threw a chair through the glass of the sliding patio door, and we scrambled over the broken shards, out into the cold morning air, never looking back.

As we stood in the yard, shivering, I looked at the house. Every window was now covered in thick frost, and the words ‘GET OUT’ were written on every pane. But we were out. And I decided then that we would never return.

We drove to my mother’s house, and I never spoke of it again. But sometimes, at night, I hear a scratching in the walls, and I see a message in the fog of my breath on a cold window: ‘I FOUND YOU.’