The Wet Floor Sign

The morning of the incident, I was already on edge. The house had been feeling off for weeks—doors creaking on their own, the faint smell of ozone in rooms where no electronics hummed. But I chalked it up to old pipes and an older imagination. I was nineteen, home for the summer, staying with my aunt while my parents were overseas. The house was a Victorian relic on the outskirts of a town that had more trees than people. My aunt, a heavy sleeper, was still in her room at the far end of the hall. I had just woken up, and the plan was to shower before driving to meet a friend in the next town over.

I stepped into the bathroom and turned the shower knob, letting the water hiss into the tub. The mirror fogged slowly, and I left the room to grab a towel from the linen closet at the end of the hall. As I rummaged, I heard the bathroom door click shut. Not a slam—just a soft, deliberate click, like someone closing it gently. I froze, listening. No footsteps. No creak of floorboards. I walked back, my bare feet sticking slightly to the old wood, and pushed the door open. The shower was still running, steam curling out. The room was empty. I told myself the draft had done it, but the window was closed and the door had a strong spring. Still, I shrugged it off and stepped in.

The water was scalding, but I liked it that way. I closed my eyes, letting the heat wash away the morning. That’s when I heard the laugh. It was high and thin, like a child’s giggle, but muffled, as if it came from behind the wall. My eyes snapped open, and I scanned the frosted glass of the shower door. Nothing. I turned off the water, stepped out, and grabbed my towel. As I wrapped it around myself, I saw the bathroom floor was wet. Not damp from my recent shower—there were footprints, small, barefoot prints leading from the tub to the door. They were too small for an adult. I stood there, heart pounding, water dripping from my hair.

I called out for my aunt. No answer. I quickly dressed in yesterday’s clothes and went to her room. She was still asleep, her breathing deep and rhythmic. I shook her awake. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked. She blinked, groggy. ‘Hear what?’ I told her about the door and the footprints. She sighed, saying I read too many ghost stories. But her eyes lingered on the hallway, and I saw her hand tremble slightly as she reached for her glasses.

We went back to the bathroom together. The footprints were still there, but now they were joined by more, leading in a circle around the floor. My aunt’s face went pale. She said, ‘We need to leave.’ But we didn’t. We went to the kitchen to make tea, trying to calm down. I put the kettle on and turned to grab mugs from the cabinet. When I turned back, the kettle was already steaming, and on the counter sat a child’s drawing. It was a crude stick figure under a large sun, and beneath it, in wobbly letters, was my name: ‘Eliza.’ I didn’t have kids in the house. My aunt swore she hadn’t put it there.

Then the laughter came again, this time from behind us. We spun around, but the kitchen was empty. The refrigerator magnet letters, which spelled out a shopping list, were rearranged. They now read: ‘WET FLOOR.’ My aunt grabbed my arm. ‘This isn’t playful,’ she whispered. ‘This is something else.’

We decided to get out. We grabbed our coats and headed for the front door. As we reached the hallway, we saw the bathroom door was open, and the shower was running again. The sound of water was like an invitation. I couldn’t help but look inside. The floor was covered in a sheen of water, and the mirror had a message written in steam: ‘STAY.’ My aunt pulled me, but I was frozen.

Then the lights flickered. The laughter grew louder, surrounding us. We ran out of the house, into the damp morning air. We drove to the nearest diner and sat in silence, sipping coffee to steady our nerves. I haven’t been back there since. But even now, I sometimes find small puddles in my apartment, and if I listen closely, I can hear that same high, thin laugh echoing from the drains. The last time I saw my aunt, she gave me a rubber mat for the bathroom floor. She said, ‘Just in case.’ I never asked what she meant. But sometimes, when I step out of the shower, I see fresh footprints on the mat—too small for me—and I know that whatever it was, it found a way to follow me. And it’s always waiting for the next time I slip.