The Wet Sidewalk

My brother Leo and I stepped out of our house on Birchwood Lane, ready for our evening walk with our little terrier, Biscuit. Our house was the third one from the corner where Birchwood met Crescent, and as we walked down our sloped driveway, I glanced to my right. Across the manicured lawns of our neighbors, all the way to the last house on the corner, I saw a figure watering the front yard.

It was an old woman, her silhouette stark against the fading light. She wore a long, shapeless nightgown, and her hair was a wild halo of white, so thin I could almost see through it to the porch behind her. She held a green garden hose, and a steady stream of water arced from the nozzle, hitting the sidewalk with a rhythmic hiss. I nudged Leo and said, ‘The sidewalk’s gonna be wet.’ Leo gave me a puzzled look, as if the thought had never crossed his mind, but he said nothing.

We continued our walk, Biscuit tugging at his leash, eager to explore. The air was still, and the only sound was the distant hum of a lawnmower from several blocks away. As we approached the corner, I noticed something odd. The water from the old woman’s hose was not pooling on the sidewalk or running into the gutter; instead, it seemed to soak into the concrete instantly, leaving dark, irregular stains that spread like oil on water. Leo, seeing it too, slowed his pace, a frown creasing his forehead.

The woman did not look up. Her face was hidden beneath the brim of a floppy sun hat, but I caught a glimpse of her hands gripping the hose, knuckles white. The water stream wavered, and for a moment, I thought I saw shapes moving within it—tiny, undefined forms that twisted and vanished. I blinked, and it was just water again.

We reached the end of the block and turned onto Crescent. Biscuit suddenly stopped, crouched low, and let out a low growl. The old woman turned her head ever so slightly, and I saw her smile—a thin, knowing grin that chilled me. ‘Let’s go the other way,’ Leo whispered, and we retraced our steps, our pace quickening.

That night, I couldn’t shake the image of the woman and the wet sidewalk. I dreamed of water creeping under our door, spreading across the floor, and forming dark, human-shaped puddles. I woke in a cold sweat, and for a moment, I heard the faint sound of a hose hissing outside. The next morning, as I walked to the kitchen, my bare foot touched something cold and wet on the hallway carpet. A trail of damp footprints led from the front door to my room.

I told Leo, and he laughed it off, blaming a leaky pipe. But when we passed the corner house that evening, the old woman was there again, watering the same spot. This time, the water was darker, almost black, and it bubbled on the sidewalk as if boiling. Biscuit refused to go near, barking furiously. The woman looked directly at me, and I heard her voice in my head, thin and reedy: ‘You’ll be part of the water soon.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. At 3 a.m., I heard a soft knock on my door. I opened it to find Leo, wide-eyed, whispering that there was something in his room. I followed him, and saw his floor covered in a viscous, dark liquid that shimmered with an oily sheen. It was moving, flowing toward him as if alive. We fled the house, barefoot, and ran to the corner. The streetlights flickered, and the old woman stood there, the hose dangling from her hand, the end not even dripping. She smiled and pointed to a puddle on the sidewalk. In the reflection, I saw our own faces staring back, but distorted, as if they were sinking into a deep well.

I don’t remember the rest of that night, only waking up on our lawn, soaked to the bone, with Biscuit licking my face. The house on the corner was dark, empty, and condemned. A For Sale sign stood in the yard, but the grass was dead and brown. Leo and I never spoke of it again, but every time it rains, I see her face in the puddles, and I hear the hiss of water, calling me to that sidewalk. And I know, one day, I’ll find myself there, hose in hand, waiting for the next person to walk by.