The Tally Mark in the Wet Paint

My friend Margo and I were deep in a late-night chat on an old forum we’d both joined years ago. She lived in a creaky farmhouse on the edge of a dried-up riverbed, a place her grandmother had left her, and she swore it was haunted by a kid named Eli. She said he’d been there since before she moved in, a little boy who liked to make the pipes knock and the radiators hiss. We were joking about it, trading ghost stories like kids at a sleepover, when she typed: ‘He’s here now. It just got cold.’

I laughed, but then she went quiet for ten seconds. When she came back, she wrote that Eli had turned on the bathroom faucet, and the shower head had come loose, spraying her before she could wrestle it back. I pictured her soaked in her pajamas, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘How old is he?’ I asked. She said, ‘I don’t know. Let me ask.’ A moment later she wrote, ‘He keeps showing me the number 6. Like he’s holding up six fingers, or there’s something with a six.’ That hit me like a cold draft, because my own ghost, a little girl I called Billie, was the same age. I’d told Margo about Billie before, but I never connected them.

Suddenly, Margo said, ‘He wants to talk to us. Both of us. I think he knows about Billie.’ Before I could respond, the chat window flickered, and the cursor in the box began typing on its own. It spelled out a word I didn’t recognize: ‘MOTHER.’ Then it stopped. I felt a chill crawl up my spine, even though my apartment was warm. Margo said, ‘He’s using the mirror in the hallway. He’s moving like he’s made of static.’ She said she could see him now, a translucent boy with dark hair, and he was pointing at something behind her. I asked what it was, but she didn’t answer for a long time.

When Margo finally replied, her tone had changed. She wrote, ‘There’s a number six painted on the wall behind the mirror. It’s in red, like dried blood, but it smells like paint. I never noticed it before because the mirror usually covers it. He’s part of something bigger.’ She went quiet again, and I could hear a faint sound in the background—a dripping, rhythmic, like a tap left on. Then she said, ‘He’s asking if we know about the others. The ones who were taken. He says there were six of them, and they’re all here, but they can’t leave until someone counts them all.’

The chat died. My screen went black, and I saw my reflection in the glass, but for a split second, my reflection didn’t move. It just stared back, and there was a red tally mark on the wall behind me, where no wall should be. I turned around, and the room was empty, but I felt a cold hand touch my shoulder. I heard a child’s whisper, not Margo’s, not mine: ‘One, two, three, four, five… you’re the sixth.’

I spent the rest of the night with every light on, trying to rationalize it, but when dawn broke, my phone buzzed with a message from Margo. It was just a photo of her mirror, and on the wall behind it, now clearly visible, were six tally marks in a row. The sixth one was still wet, as if painted just moments ago. And in the reflection, I could see the faint outline of a little boy, and behind him, a little girl who looked exactly like my Billie.

Now I understand. They were all part of something, a chain that started years ago, and my connection to Billie wasn’t coincidence. We were all linked to that number, drawn together to bear witness. I don’t know what happens when the final mark dries, but I’m afraid to find out. I checked my own wall this morning, and sure enough, there’s a fresh tally mark in wet paint, and it spreads a little every day. I think they’re counting down to something, and we’re not just observers. We’re part of the tally.