The Wraith in the Cistern

Every night, the ritual repeats. I pad down the hallway, my bare feet whispering against the cold linoleum, past the faded family photos that seem to watch me with hollow eyes. The bathroom light flickers, casting a sickly yellow glow that doesn’t quite reach the corners. I tell myself it’s just an old bulb, but I know better.

As I stand at the sink, I feel it first—a prickling at the back of my neck, a weight in the air. I avoid looking at the mirror, but my eyes betray me, darting to the reflection of the bathtub behind me. The shower curtain is a translucent white, and I imagine a silhouette waiting behind it. I hum a tune to break the silence, but it does nothing to quell the dread. I turn to leave, and in that second, I catch it—a figure, tall and impossibly thin, standing in the tub, its head tilted as if considering me. I whip around, but it’s gone. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I flee, leaving the light on, a useless beacon against the dark.

Back in my room, I burrow under the covers, my breath shallow. The hallway light glows through the crack under the door, a thin line of safety. I watch it, counting the seconds, feeling the familiar pull of sleep. Then, the light blinks out, replaced by a deeper blackness. A shape blocks the gap, a dark stain against the dark floor. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying it’s just a trick of my tired mind. But when I peek, the shadow remains, motionless.

Then, the impossible happens. The wall before me becomes transparent, and I see the night sky, a pale moon hanging low. But between me and that moon, there is a figure—a woman, her hair like dry straw, her eyes like voids. She mouths something, a word I can’t hear, and then she points at me. Her finger is long, too long, and it bends at an unnatural angle. I try to scream, but my voice is a phantom, lost in the silence of the house.

I’ve tried everything—sleeping with the lights on, covering every reflective surface, even moving to the guest room. But she follows, and the bathroom is her throne. I’ve told my sister, but she laughs, says I’m seeing things. She doesn’t see the way the tiles crack after I’ve been in there, or feel the cold draft that snakes around my ankles in the dead of night.

Tonight, I’ve decided to confront her. I enter the bathroom, the air thick and heavy, and I stand before the tub. I will not turn away. The curtain stirs, though the window is shut. I reach out, my hand trembling, and pull it aside. There is a puddle of water, no drain, and the water swirls, revealing a face beneath the surface—a face that is mine, but older, more tired, and utterly horrifying. It smiles, and I understand. She isn’t a ghost; she’s a future self, trapped in a loop, warning me of a fate I cannot escape. But she doesn’t speak, she only points, and I see in the mirror behind me the shape of a man, the one from the bath, waiting with open arms.

I scream, and the scream becomes a whistle, a high-pitched note that shatters the mirror, and I am left in the dark, standing alone, the water now still. I step out, my legs like jelly, and I crawl back to bed, but I know I will not sleep. The house is quiet, but I can hear a dripping, steady and patient, from the bathroom. And when I close my eyes, I see the moon, and behind it, the woman, pointing, always pointing.