The Wet Towel

I was fifteen when my parents left me alone for the first time over the summer. They had to attend a family emergency in another state, and since I was ‘mature enough’ to handle a few days by myself, they left me with a list of emergency contacts and a freezer full of frozen meals. The house felt different without them—the silence was heavier, and every creak of the floorboards seemed louder.

My bedroom had always been a source of unease, even though I couldn’t remember why. There were times I’d wake up with a start, gasping for air, and feel a lingering chill, as if someone had just pulled their hand away from my shoulder. I’d never told anyone about those moments, not even my mom. She’d always had a strange look in her eyes when she talked about my childhood, and I didn’t want to worry her.

That night, after a long day of junk food and bad TV, I decided to take a shower. The water was hot, soothing, and for a while, I felt calm. But as I lathered the soap, a strange sensation crept over me—like I was being watched. I turned off the water and listened. Nothing. I wrapped a towel around my waist and stepped out onto the cold tile, leaving wet footprints as I padded to my room.

The hall was dark, and the nightlight by the bathroom was the only source of illumination. I pushed open my bedroom door, and the light from the hallway spilled in, casting long shadows. I fumbled for the light switch, but before I could find it, I saw something that made my blood run cold: on the floor, in the middle of the room, was a wet patch, exactly the shape of a person lying down, with long, stringy outlines like hair.

The patch was fresh, glistening under the dim light. My heart pounded. I wanted to scream, but my throat constricted. I backed away, my feet sliding on the linoleum, and ran to the living room, where I spent the night on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, shivering despite the summer heat.

The next morning, I forced myself to inspect the bedroom. The wet patch was gone, leaving only a faint, musty smell. I tried to convince myself it was a leak from the ceiling, but the shape was too deliberate. I called my mom, but she didn’t pick up. I left a voicemail, my voice shaky, telling her about the ‘water stain’ but not detailing the horror I felt.

That night, I decided to sleep in my parents’ room, as I hadn’t done since I was a child. I locked the door, but the lock seemed flimsy. I lay in their bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle. At around 2 AM, I heard a soft sound—a wet, slapping noise, like footsteps on a damp floor. They grew closer, stopping outside the door. I held my breath, gripping the sheets.

The doorknob turned slowly. I had locked it, so it rattled but didn’t open. Then, the sound retreated, and I started to breathe again. But then I felt a dampness on my leg, and I looked down to see a handprint, dark and wet, on my calf. I screamed, but no sound came out. I scrambled out of bed, tripping over a towel that had somehow materialized on the floor—a towel drenched in cold water, as if it had just been removed from a shower.

I fled to the bathroom and turned on every light, my back against the wall, my chest heaving. The mirror reflected my terrified face, but behind me, I saw a dark shape—a figure with long, wet hair, obscured by steam that had no source. I spun around, but there was nothing. The figure was gone. But the shower curtain was drawn, and from inside, I heard a drip, drip, drip.

I didn’t sleep that night. When morning came, I saw that the wet patch in my room was back, but this time it was on my bed, in the exact outline of a body, with a darker spot where the head would be. And on the pillow, there was a single strand of long, black hair.

I called my mom again, and this time she answered. I broke down, telling her everything. There was a long pause, and then she said, in a low voice, ‘I was afraid of this. When you were little, you would cry at night, and we thought it was just nightmares. But I had that dream, the one with the woman. The priest blessed the house, and it stopped. But I guess she didn’t leave. She’s been waiting for you to be alone.’

I asked her what the priest said, but she just said, ‘We’ll be home tomorrow. Stay with the neighbors if you can.’ I didn’t want to burden anyone, so I stayed in the living room with all the lights on, watching the door.

That night, I heard the wet footsteps again, but this time they came from the hallway, and I saw a shadow blocking the light under the door. The door rattled, but I had put a chair against it. Then the chair slid, as if pushed, and the door inched open. I saw a pale hand with long fingers curling around the edge, and then a woman’s face peeked through. Her eyes were black, and her hair hung in wet strands. She opened her mouth, and a sound came out—a high-pitched, wailing cry that sounded like a child’s sad, endless weeping.

I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, but when I turned, she was right there, dripping water on the floor, her head tilted. She reached out, and her touch was cold, like ice, making my skin pucker. She didn’t hurt me; she just placed her hand on my cheek and stared into my eyes with a twisted sorrow. Then, she turned and walked back to my bedroom, leaving a trail of water.

I followed, compelled, and saw her lie down on my bed in the exact spot of the wet outline. She looked at me one last time, and then faded into the sheets, leaving only a wet stain that slowly dried.

My parents came home the next day, and I didn’t tell them I saw her clearly. But now, every time I shower, I feel her presence, and sometimes I find wet towels scattered on the floor, even though I never left them. I’m seventeen now, and I still sleep with the lights on. And in the quiet, I sometimes hear that childlike crying from my room, and I know she’s still there, waiting for me to come back, to finally cry with her.