The Tub Reader

I was fifteen that summer, the year Dad took the night shift at the cannery and Mom started working doubles at the diner. The house on Birch Lane was ours, but it never felt like it after dark, especially when the floorboards groaned in rooms where no one stood. That evening, I was stretched out on the living room couch, devouring a dog-eared thriller with a flashlight under the blanket, ignoring the way the furnace clicked like something tapping its teeth. My bladder screamed at me, and I cursed the soda I’d chugged earlier. I dragged myself off the couch, my legs prickling with pins and needles, and shuffled toward the hallway bathroom.

I flipped the switch, and the fluorescent light buzzed to life, casting a sickly glow over the white tiles. The shower curtain was drawn, its plastic folds rippling slightly as if someone had just stepped out. I didn’t think much of it—old houses have drafts. I did my business, staring at the crack under the door, counting the seconds, when a flicker of movement caught my eye. I turned, and there, through the translucent curtain, I saw the outline of a body lying in the tub, propped up against the sloped end, holding something. A moment later, the curtain shifted, and I saw my brother Reed’s face, his brow furrowed as he read a magazine, his lips moving silently, as if mouthing the words. He didn’t look up, and something told me not to look at him for long.

I averted my gaze, finished up, and didn’t wash my hands. My heart was hammering, but my mind was oddly hazy, like I was waking from a dream. I stepped into the hall and took two steps toward my room, then stopped. Wait—Reed was in the bathtub. My pervert brother was spying on me. A wave of anger replaced the haze, and I spun on my heel, ready to yank the shower curtain aside and give him a piece of my mind.

I marched back into the bathroom, my footsteps loud on the linoleum. The bathroom was empty. The tub was bare, dry, not a single water droplet. The shower curtain hung limp, innocuous. I frowned, confused, and checked behind the curtain, half-expecting Reed to be crouched there, snickering. Nothing. I shook my head, blaming the thriller’s influence, and went to my room. For a long time, I couldn’t shake the image of his face behind the plastic, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

That was the first time. A week later, Mom came home early and said she’d seen Reed at the supermarket, but he hadn’t responded when she called his name. She described him wearing a blue jacket I knew was in his closet, but his face looked ‘pale, like he hadn’t seen the sun.’ I didn’t think much of it then. Reed was a moody nineteen-year-old, always coming and going. But the following Friday, Reed himself came into my room while I was doing homework. He leaned against the doorframe, a weird smile on his face. ‘Hey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he said. I asked if he’d been spying on me in the bathroom a week ago. He laughed—a dry, hollow sound. ‘I don’t even read magazines, man,’ he said. ‘That’s more your thing.’

The unease grew, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. Then, one night, I woke up parched and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. The hallway light was off, and I relied on the faint glow of the moon through the windows. As I passed the bathroom, the door was ajar, and I saw a figure standing inside, facing the mirror. It was Reed, but his reflection was wrong. In the mirror, he wasn’t looking at himself; he was staring at me, his face slack, his pupils blown wide. I froze. ‘Reed?’ I whispered. He didn’t move. I reached out to touch his shoulder, but my hand passed through him like smoke. The reflection—no, the figure—turned, and his mouth moved, but no sound came out. Then, as if a switch had flipped, he was gone.

I screamed and ran back to my room, but when I collided with something solid in the dark, it was Reed. He was standing right outside my door, looking alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. I told him what I’d seen—the thing in the bathroom, the mirror. He went pale, and for a second, I swear his eyes flickered, like a dying lightbulb. ‘I’ve been having dreams,’ he said slowly, ‘about a version of myself. Something that wears my face. It’s not me.’

We decided to search the house. Reed grabbed a flashlight, and I stayed close behind him. We checked the attic, the basement, every closet. Nothing. But as we returned to the hallway, we heard a scratching sound from inside the bathroom wall. It grew louder, rhythmic, like nails on a chalkboard, or like someone dragging a magazine across a tub. I looked at Reed, and his face was contorted in fear. ‘It’s in the walls,’ he whispered.

Then the scratching stopped, and the bathroom door creaked open. Inside, the shower curtain was drawn again. I could see the outline of a person—two persons, maybe—behind the plastic. One was shaped like my mother, the other like Reed. They were both reading magazines, their heads bobbing in unison, their pages flipping with an unnatural speed. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. Reed grabbed my arm, his grip too tight. ‘Don’t look,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘Whatever you do, don’t look at their faces.’

But I couldn’t help it. I peeked. The curtain billowed, and for a split second, I saw two identical faces—my mother’s and my brother’s—both smiling the same icy smile, both with eyes like black holes. They didn’t look human. They looked like masks. The magazine covers showed my mother on the front, and my brother on the back, their photographs distorted, their mouths wide in silent screams.

I blinked, and the scene vanished. The bathroom was empty again, save for the faint smell of mildewed paper. Reed was beside me, shaking, his face wet with tears. ‘It’s been here since we moved in,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen it too, for years. It mimics people I love. It takes their form to get to me.’ I asked why it would mimic him. He shook his head. ‘Maybe because I’m the only one who’s noticed it. It wants to be seen. It wants to be known.’

We didn’t sleep that night. We sat in the living room, all the lights on, talking in hushed tones. Reed told me more: how he’d seen it mimic our dad, our neighbors, even his girlfriend once. How every time, it was always in the same place—near the bathroom, or reflected in a mirror, or behind a shower curtain. ‘It’s feeding on our attention,’ he said. ‘It gets stronger the more we acknowledge it.’

The next morning, we decided to move. Mom and Dad thought we were being dramatic, but Reed convinced them to sell the house. I was relieved. We packed up boxes, and as I carried a stack to the moving truck, I passed the bathroom. I couldn’t help but glance at the shower curtain. It was plain white, new. I pulled it back. The tub was spotless, except for a single line of dust in the shape of a body. And on the edge, a magazine—one of Reed’s, but the cover was blank, save for a printing that said: ‘Read me.’

I dropped the curtain and ran. But even as we drove away, I could feel it watching, a presence that had latched onto our family, that had learned our faces, our habits, our names. Months later, in our new apartment, Reed disappeared. The police found his car abandoned near a lake, no traces. I know what happened. It followed us, and it took him. Sometimes, late at night, I hear the rustle of pages from the bathroom, and I see a shape behind the shower curtain, holding a magazine, waiting for me to look.