The Water Knobs

In the autumn of 1987, my family rented a small, sagging farmhouse on the outskirts of a town that no longer exists. It was a temporary arrangement, a waypoint until we could afford something permanent. My father, a quiet man who worked odd jobs, had found it through a friend of a friend. The landlord, a wizened old farmer with milky eyes, warned us that the house had ‘character,’ but we were desperate and took it at a bargain.

We moved in on a crisp October day. The house was a two-story structure with peeling white paint and a wraparound porch that groaned underfoot. The interior was dated, with dark wood paneling and musty carpets. My mother, always the optimist, tried to make it feel like home, but there was a chill in the air that no amount of heating could dispel.

I was only three, too young to understand the strangeness that would soon envelop us. My older brother, Marcus, who was seven, claimed he saw a face in the attic window on our first night. My parents dismissed it as a trick of the light, but I remember my mother’s hands trembling as she tucked us in.

The first incident occurred a week later. My mother was in the kitchen, preparing dinner, when she heard a faint, desperate cry for ‘Mommy.’ It sounded like my voice, coming from the backyard. She dropped the spoon and ran outside, calling my name. But I was in the living room, playing with my toy blocks. When she asked me if I had called her, I just shook my head, my eyes wide.

That night, the crying started again, but this time it came from the walls. It was a child’s voice, pleading and anguished. My father searched the house, but found nothing. He attributed it to the wind, but we all knew better. The cries became a nightly occurrence, echoing through the halls, always calling for a mother who never answered.

One evening, my mother decided to give me a bath, hoping the warm water would soothe my growing anxiety. She filled the tub and helped me in. I loved the water, the way it enveloped my tiny body, and I refused to get out. She turned off the faucet, but the moment she did, the handles rotated on their own, and the water burst out again, hot and strong. She turned it off, but it twisted back on. This happened three more times, each time the water getting hotter, until steam filled the room. My mother screamed and yanked me out of the tub, and as we fled, the water continued to run, splashing against the porcelain like a laughing demon.

After that, the incidents intensified. My mother would find her jewelry rearranged in the master bedroom, arranged in strange patterns. Marcus reported seeing a girl in a white dress standing at the foot of his bed, her face obscured by stringy hair. And every night, the cries grew louder, more insistent. Sometimes, they were joined by the sound of dripping water, even when all the sinks were dry.

My father, initially skeptical, began to lose sleep. He would pace the halls at night, muttering to himself. He even called a priest, but the priest took one look at the house and refused to enter, his face pale.

One evening, I was in my room, playing with my dolls, when I heard a soft voice whisper my name. I turned, and there she was—a little girl, maybe six, with dark, hollow eyes and skin the color of old parchment. She was drenched, water pooling at her feet. She pointed to the floor and said, ‘They won’t let me leave.’ Then she vanished.

I screamed, and my parents rushed in. They found me trembling, my clothes soaked as if I had been submerged. My mother cried, and my father finally admitted that the house was cursed. He decided we would leave the next morning.

That night, we packed our belongings in a frenzy, but the house fought back. Doors slammed shut, windows wouldn’t open, and the sound of water rushing filled the air. We huddled in the living room, listening to the cacophony. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. A single, clear voice echoed from the bathroom upstairs: ‘Thank you.’

We fled that night, leaving everything behind. We never looked back, but we carried the memory with us. To this day, I can’t hear the sound of running water without my heart racing. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear that little girl’s plea for her mother, and I wonder if she ever found her way home.

Years later, I learned that the farmhouse had been built over an abandoned well. The previous tenant’s daughter had drowned in that well, and her body was never found. The landlord had known, of course, but said nothing. He had hoped we would last longer than the others. But no one ever did.