The Tiled Mouth

When Lena and I signed the lease on that apartment, we thought we’d found a miracle. The price was almost insultingly low for a place that sprawled across an entire floor of an aging building on the outskirts of the city. The building itself was a relic of a bygone era—a hulking mass of discolored concrete and rusted iron, its facade adorned with faded posters of films I’d never heard of and advertisements for products that had long since vanished from the shelves. The hallways were vast and empty, echoing with the sound of our footsteps, and the air carried the faint, acrid smell of something that had been left to rot.

Lena and I were ecstatic. We’d been living in cramped studios, me with my growing tabby, Miso, and Lena with her growing collection of half-finished paintings. This place had three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen that could fit a table for six, and a balcony that wrapped around a corner of the building. We could finally breathe. The landlord, a wiry man with sunken eyes, handed us the keys with a warning that seemed almost comical: ‘Some say the building sleeps. Best not to wake it.’ We laughed it off, too caught up in our good fortune to pay him much mind.

Our first night, we ordered takeout and sat on the floor of the living room, surrounded by cardboard boxes and the sharp smell of fresh paint. Miso explored every corner, her tail flicking with suspicion. It was then that I noticed the tiles in the kitchen. They were a dull, mottled green, arranged in a pattern that, at first glance, seemed random. But as I stared, I began to see a shape—a mouth, wide open, with the tiles forming jagged teeth. I pointed it out to Lena, who just shrugged and said, ‘Looks like a face. Maybe it’s a sign of a good cook.’ I tried to laugh, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the mouth was watching me.

The first odd thing happened on the third morning. I woke to find the kitchen sink full of water, the faucet still dripping, and a single strand of dark hair floating in the basin. It wasn’t mine—my hair was blonde—and Lena’s was cropped short and dyed red. I dismissed it as a clogged pipe, but a nagging doubt persisted. Then the doors started sticking. The bathroom door, which had opened smoothly the day before, now refused to budge unless we threw our weight against it, and when it did give way, it swung open with a groan that sounded almost human.

A week later, we had our first real scare. We were in the living room, watching a movie, when the balcony door slid open on its own. A cold draft swept through, carrying with it a faint, sickly sweet smell, like overripe fruit. Miso hissed and bolted under the sofa. Lena and I exchanged nervous glances, and I got up to close the door, but as my hand touched the handle, I heard a whisper from the kitchen—so faint I thought I’d imagined it. ‘Don’t.’ I spun around, but the kitchen was empty. The tiles, however, seemed darker, the mouth more pronounced.

We tried to rationalize it. Old buildings settle, drafts happen, and the whisper was just the wind. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the building’s bones, and the occasional patter of Miso’s paws as she explored. Around 3 AM, I heard a sound from the kitchen—a low, rhythmic scratching, like nails on tile. I crept to the doorway and peered in. The light from the streetlamp cast a pale glow across the floor, and I could see the pattern of the tiles clearly: the mouth was open wider now, and it seemed to be moving, the teeth shifting ever so slightly. I knelt down, transfixed, and that’s when I saw it—a thin line of moisture seeping from the grout, as if the mouth were salivating.

I backed away, stumbling into the hallway, and ran to Lena’s room. She was sound asleep, but I shook her awake. ‘There’s something wrong with the kitchen,’ I said. She looked at me groggily. ‘You’re just tired. Let’s look in the morning.’ But I couldn’t wait. I dragged her to the kitchen, and we both stared at the tiles. The mouth was closed now, a perfect grid of green. Lena yawned. ‘See? Nothing.’ I wanted to believe her, but I noticed that the tile pattern had changed. I was certain the mouth had been on the wall behind the stove, but now it was lower, on the floor near the sink. I didn’t say anything, just nodded and went back to bed.

Over the next few weeks, the occurrences escalated. The elevators in the building, which were already unreliable, began to act even stranger. Once, Lena and I got stuck between floors, the lights flickering and a deep hum filling the car. When the doors finally opened, we were on a floor that didn’t exist in the building’s floor plan—a dim corridor with peeling wallpaper and a single door at the end, slightly ajar. I called out, but no one answered. The door was locked. We took the stairs down, heart pounding.

Miso, my once-playful kitten, grew increasingly agitated. She would sit in front of the kitchen tiles and stare, her pupils dilated, her fur bristling. Sometimes she would meow, a sharp, insistent sound, and then fall silent, as if listening for a response. One evening, I found her pawing at the grout, her claws digging in. I pulled her away, and she let out a scream—a sound I’d never heard from her before. I looked at the tiles, and for a split second, I saw the mouth open, a dark void behind it, and I could have sworn I heard a voice, low and guttural, say, ‘Feed me.’

I told Lena we had to move. She laughed. ‘We just signed a year lease. And it’s so cheap. You’re reading too much into it.’ But she was wrong. I could feel the presence growing stronger. I started sleeping with the lights on, but the darkness seemed to seep through the edges of the room. I avoided the kitchen as much as possible, ordering takeout every night, but I couldn’t avoid the sound of the water running in the middle of the night.

The end came when I finally broke down. It was a Tuesday, and I had come home alone. The apartment was eerily silent, save for the hum of the fridge. I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water, and I noticed the tiles had rearranged themselves again. This time, the mouth was huge, covering the entire wall, the teeth jagged and crooked. As I stared, a small, dark object began to emerge from the grout, pushing its way out. It was a key—old, rusted, with a tag that read ‘Basement.’ I felt a compulsion to take it, but I resisted. I ran to the phone to call Lena, but the line was dead. I tried my cell, but there was no signal.

I decided to leave, to take Miso and go to a hotel, but when I reached the front door, it wouldn’t open. The knob was cold and slick, and no matter how I tugged, it wouldn’t budge. I heard a faint giggle from the kitchen. I turned, and the mouth was moving, its lips curling into a smile. The voice came again, clearer now: ‘You’ve been so generous. But I’m still hungry.’ At that moment, Miso let out a yowl from the bedroom, and I saw a shadow slither across the floor, toward the kitchen.

I don’t remember what happened after that. I woke up in the hospital, the police and a social worker asking me questions. They said I had been found wandering the building, covered in scratches, speaking in a language they didn’t recognize. Lena was missing, and the apartment was sealed off pending investigation. They never found her. They did, however, find Miso—or what was left of her, a pile of fur and bone in the kitchen, arranged in the shape of a mouth.

I moved to a different city, far away from that place. I live in a tiny studio now, with no kitchen tiles, only a small electric burner. But sometimes, late at night, I catch a waft of that sickly sweet smell, and I look at the floor, half-expecting to see a pattern emerging in the linoleum. The building sleeps, the landlord said. But I know better. It’s not sleeping. It’s dreaming. And I’m afraid that one day, it’ll wake up and come for me.

I still have the key, though. I don’t know why I took it, but I keep it in my pocket, a constant reminder of that gaping, tiled mouth that promised something horrible. I haven’t dared to return, but I know that someday, I will have to. Because the key must be meant for something, and the hunger is not just for food—it’s for a soul. And I’m worried that I’ve already been marked.