The Wet Sheet

I’ve never been one to believe in the supernatural, not really. A few creaky floorboards and a flickering light were always enough to explain away any unease. But there was one morning, about eight years ago, that left a mark on me I can’t scrub out. It happened at my father’s girlfriend’s cabin, a place I’d only visited twice before.

The cabin sat on the edge of a man-made lake, its wooden planks gray and warped with age. The bedroom I used was small, with a single window that looked out onto the water. I remember the smell of damp pine and the constant hum of the dehumidifier in the corner. I’d slept in late that Saturday, the kind of sleep that feels heavy and thick, like you’re sinking into the mattress.

I woke with the blanket pulled over my head, a cocoon of warmth against the cool morning air. I stretched lazily, then flipped the covers off in one swift motion. My breath caught in my throat. At the foot of the bed, kneeling on the worn carpet, was a woman. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, her hair plastered to her scalp and shoulders, dripping wet. Her nightgown, once a pale blue, clung to her skin, stained with mud and something darker. Her eyes were wide and glassy, like a doll’s, and they stared straight at me, unblinking.

I saw all of this in the split second it took me to yank the blanket back up, pulling it over my head so tight that the edges tucked under my body. I counted to ten, then twenty, trying to steady my breathing. The air under the blanket was stuffy, but I didn’t dare move. Finally, I worked up the courage to peel the fabric back, just a crack, and peek out.

She was still there, but now she was closer. Her face was inches from mine, her lips parted slightly, and I could see water dribbling from the corner of her mouth, pooling on the pillow. Her hand reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the edge of the blanket. It was cold, so cold it made me flinch, and I snapped the blanket down again, this time screaming into the mattress.

I don’t know how long I lay there, frozen, listening for any sound. The dehumidifier hummed. A bird chirped outside. Nothing else. When I finally emerged, the room was empty. The only trace was a wet patch on the carpet at the foot of the bed, shaped like two knees.

I told my father’s girlfriend about it, but she just smiled and said the lake sometimes ‘plays tricks’ on visitors. I never stayed there again. But that wet patch, and the chill I felt when she touched me, stayed with me. Even now, on warm nights, I find myself pulling the covers over my head, just to be safe.