The Unwiped Glass

The house had stood on the corner of Maple and Second for over half a century, its white clapboard siding now weathered to a gray that matched the winter sky. My great-aunt Eleanor had called me the night before, her voice thin and reedy through the phone line, explaining that our great-grandmother Ruth was starting a new medication for her heart, and it might make her dizzy. She asked if I could stay the night, just to be safe. I agreed, of course. I had fond memories of that house from my childhood, of the smell of cinnamon and old wood, and I harbored no thoughts of anything other than a quiet night helping an elderly relative.

I arrived at dusk, the porch light casting a weak yellow glow onto the frosted steps. Great-grandma Ruth was already in her nightgown, her white hair a faint halo against the floral wallpaper. She smiled warmly, and I helped her into her recliner, the one that used to be her husband’s, where she now spent most of her evenings watching old game shows. I made us both a cup of tea, and we sat in the living room, the clock ticking loudly on the mantel, until she grew drowsy and I helped her to her bedroom.

After she was settled, I decided to take a shower. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, added on by her late husband, Walter, in the sixties. He had built it himself, and the tile work was meticulous, but the fixtures were old. There was a bucket in the corner, under a slow drip from the ceiling, and a framed picture of a lighthouse on the wall. I turned on the water, letting it heat up, and stepped in. The water pressure was weak, but the spray was hot and soothing. I stayed longer than I meant to, letting the day’s tension wash away.

When I got out, I wrapped a towel around myself and reached for my clothes, which I had left on the toilet lid. That’s when I remembered Walter’s rule: always dry the shower walls and door with the squeegee he kept on the little hook. He had been meticulous about it, almost obsessive. My dad had mentioned it once, laughing, saying Walter would check after anyone used it. I had forgotten, and a wave of nausea suddenly hit me, so strong that I had to brace myself against the sink. The room seemed to tilt, and I felt a cold sweat bead on my forehead. I glanced at the shower, the glass door still beaded with water, and I remembered the rule. But that didn’t explain the nausea.

I grabbed my clothes and rushed out, the feeling passing as quickly as it had come. I thought maybe it was the heat or the old pipes. I dressed in the hallway, trying to shake off the unease. I decided to go downstairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I passed the bathroom, I noticed the door was ajar, though I was sure I had closed it. I pushed it open, and the room was exactly as I had left it, the shower still wet, the sink dripping. I shut it firmly and went down.

In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, still feeling a little off. That’s when I heard it: the faint squeak of the recliner in the living room, the one Ruth used. I froze. She had been in bed for over an hour. I crept to the doorway and peered in. The recliner was empty, but it was gently rocking, as if someone had just gotten up. My heart hammered. I told myself it was the house settling, the old springs.

I returned to the kitchen, but a sudden urge pulled me back to the bathroom. I don’t know why, but I needed to see the shower again. I walked down the hall, and the bathroom door was open again. I stepped inside. The shower glass was now completely dry, as if wiped down, but there was a strange, sweet smell, like pipe tobacco and Old Spice. My grandfather’s scents. I backed out, my breath catching. The nausea returned, stronger this time, and I doubled over, gripping the doorframe.

I stumbled to the living room, trying to calm myself. The recliner was now motionless, but the TV was on, showing a baseball game, though I had turned it off earlier. The volume was low, but the images flickered. A player rounded the bases, and I distinctly heard a man’s voice, low and gruff, say, ‘That’s the way.’ I spun around, but the room was empty. The game ended, and the screen went to static.

I decided to check on Ruth. I walked to her bedroom and eased the door open. She was breathing steadily, asleep. I closed the door, but as I turned, I saw a shadow at the end of the hall, near the bathroom. It was indistinct, just a darker patch of darkness, but it seemed to move. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, it was gone.

For the next few hours, I sat on the couch, trying not to fall asleep. The clock struck eleven, then twelve. At one in the morning, I heard the shower turn on upstairs. Water ran, and then a man’s voice hummed a tuneless melody, a song I didn’t recognize. I was frozen, my mind racing. There was no one else in the house. I crept up the stairs, my legs barely holding me. The bathroom door was wide open, and I could see the shower curtain drawn. The water stopped. The curtain was pulled back, and the shower was empty, but the glass was wet again, and a fresh bar of soap lay on the ledge, half used.

I felt a presence behind me. I turned slowly, and I saw him. He was a tall man, middle-aged, with thinning hair and a gentle face. He wore a flannel shirt and slacks, and he looked at me with a sad, apologetic expression. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I just want to watch the game.’ Then he faded, like a mist dispersing.

I woke up on the couch at four in the morning, the TV off, the house quiet. The shower was off. The recliner was empty. I went to the bathroom. The shower glass was spotless, dry, shining under the dim light. On the sink, there was a note in my great-grandmother’s handwriting, though she slept all night. It read, ‘Thank you for remembering to dry the shower. He doesn’t mind anymore.’

I left as soon as the sun rose, and I never spent the night there again. But sometimes, when I think about that night, I still feel the nausea, and I remember the man who just wanted to watch the game. The house on Maple and Second stays in my mind, but I never speak of it. Some things are better left unwiped.