Her Ghost Showers At Midnight

Right before graduation, I ended up getting a new roommate: a senior from the local university.

Her name was Hannah. She was gentle, polite, and whenever she saw me in the kitchen, shed flash this incredibly sweet smile and say, Hey, Moore.

But lately, the dynamic in the apartment had shifted. Deep into the night, the unmistakable sound of the shower running would bleed through the thin drywall. Worse, it was always accompanied by a soft, breathy, and undeniably intimate moaning. It was the kind of sound that made my face burn in the dark.

After tossing and turning for nights on end, I finally broke down and shot her a text.

Hey, the walls in this place are paper-thin. Do you think you could shower a little earlier in the evening?

A minute later, my phone buzzed. She replied with a confused emoji.

Ive been buried in my senior thesis. Ive been crashing at the dorms for the past week. I haven't even been home.

Is the bathroom leaking? If it is, maybe call a plumber to look at it, and Ill Venmo you my half of the bill.

Hannahs follow-up text glowed on my screen.

A water leak and someone taking a shower were two entirely different sounds. I wasn't an idiot. And more importantly, a leaky pipe didn't moan.

This hadn't just been a one-time thing, either. It had been going on for days, severely cutting into my sleep and leaving me feeling like a zombie during my morning shifts. I was a grown man; I wouldn't have brought up something so painfully awkward with a female roommate unless it was genuinely disrupting my life.

But her reply threw me. Had she really been gone that long?

I worked a soul-crushing nine-to-five corporate gig and was usually dead to the world by nine in the evening. If I was being honest, I hadn't paid any attention to her comings and goings.

Rubbing my temples, I sighed, brushing the whole thing off as a weird misunderstanding.

"Hey, Moore. Don't ghost us after work. Whole department is going out for drinks," a coworker said later that afternoon, clapping a hand heavily on my shoulder.

Every bone in my body wanted to say no. I was running on fumes. But I was gunning for a promotion to supervisor, which meant playing the corporate game and making nice with the team. I forced a smile and agreed.

The "quick drinks" dragged on past midnight. By the time I left, the world was spinning.

When I finally reached the front steps of my apartment building, I practically collided with the heavy glass door, my legs feeling like lead as I began the climb up to the second floor. Thank God I lived low down in the building.

A few heavy steps, and the motion-sensor light flickered to life, casting a sickly yellow glow over the landing. I spent an embarrassing amount of time fumbling with my keys. Right as I managed to slide the key into the deadbolt, I glanced down.

Sitting perfectly centered on the welcome mat was a piece of paper. I picked it up, squinting. It was a piece of blackened, charred ritual parchmentthe kind of morbid, occult junk you'd find at an alternative witchcraft shop, usually burned to ward off spirits or mourn the dead.

What a sick joke.

I tossed it aside, muttering under my breath about bored teenagers in the neighborhood.

But the moment I stumbled into the pitch-black apartment, the oppressive silence of the living room hit me. Instantly, my alcohol-fogged brain latched onto the bathroom.

For an entire week, right around this time, the shower had turned on.

I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the empty room, and forced myself to look away from the hallway. Don't think about it.

Still, the adrenaline had sobered me up a fraction.

I hurried into my bedroom and threw the deadbolt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, my mind raced, echoing the text Hannah had sent me hours ago.

I haven't even been home...

The more I thought about it, the more the silence seemed to press against my eardrums. I couldn't sleep. I lay there, tossing and turning, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the edge of my blanket.

And then, exactly what I feared most happened.

Through the wall, the hiss of the bathroom shower roared to life.

A split second later, that cloying, breathy moan followed.

My heart slammed against my ribs. A cold sweat broke across my skin, a sudden, icy draft sweeping through the room. Listening to the crystal-clear sound of the running water, I knew I wasn't imagining things.

Hands shaking, I grabbed my phone and fired off a desperate text to Hannah.

Did you come back tonight?

The message sat on Delivered. No reply.

But the noise in the bathroom didn't stop. In the past, it usually faded out just past midnight. Tonight, it showed zero signs of slowing down.

In fact, it was getting louder.

I could hear my own rapid, shallow breathing. The pale moonlight sliced through my blinds, illuminating the floor, but my eyes were locked in a dead stare on my bedroom door. I was paralyzed, waiting for the handle to slowly turn.

Then, the sliver of space beneath my bedroom door lit up.

Flicker. Flicker.

It was the living room light.

This was a cheap, rundown apartment complex. The light switches were ancient, heavy plastic toggles that required a firm, loud clack to turn on.

But the light in the living room was flickering on and off, completely silently, with no warning at all.

Ive never been a brave guy. Put me in an empty house, and I won't even watch a horror movie.

But living it? It felt like every terrifying image I'd ever seen on a screen was suddenly downloading directly into my brain. The scream I wanted to let out was lodged like a stone in my throat.

I shifted onto my back, squeezing my eyes shut.

Breathe, Moore. Breathe.

I tried to rationalize it. I told myself that ghosts didn't exist, that this was either a bizarre plumbing issue, an elaborate prank, or the result of sleep deprivation and too much cheap whiskey.

It took ten agonizing minutes of mental gymnastics to convince myself I wasn't going to die. Whether it was a sudden surge of courage or just hitting the absolute ceiling of my fear, something inside me snapped.

I swung my legs out of bed and grabbed the heavy aluminum baseball bat I kept by the nightstand. My grip was tight enough to bruise.

Step by agonizing step, I moved toward my bedroom door.

The light under the crack was still pulsing. The water was still running.

I wrapped my sweaty fingers around the deadbolt, threw it back, yanked the door open, and stepped out, letting out a guttural roar.

"Who the hell is out here?!"

Instantly, a violent chill racked my body.

The living room was pitch black. The bathroom was dead silent.

It was as if someone had hit the mute button on the entire apartment. The noises, the lights, the sheer wrongness of the atmosphereit all vanished so abruptly it made my ears ring.

It felt exactly like waking up from a falling nightmare. One second, terror. The next, nothing.

I couldn't process it. My chest was still heaving, the terror still pooling in my gut.

Swallowing past the sandpaper in my throat, I kept the bat raised and reached out to flip the living room switch. It required a solid, forceful push, letting out a loud CLACK before the room flooded with cheap fluorescent light.

Looking at the switch, I realized something. If someone had been flicking that light on and off as fast as Id seen it under the door, they couldn't have done it without making a racket.

Still, the light made the space feel a fraction safer. I let out a shaky breath.

I turned my attention to the hallway. I had to know what was in that bathroom.

I slid open the frosted glass door of the shower.

Nothing. The tub was bone dry. There wasn't a single drop of water, let alone a leak.

But I knew what Id heard. This building was an ancient relic; the units directly above and below mine had been vacant for months. There was no chance I was hearing a neighbor.

What the hell is going on?

I turned on the faucet and splashed freezing water onto my face. I was completely, terrifyingly sober now.

To prove to myself that someone was just screwing with me, I walked over to Hannahs bedroom and knocked on the door.

Dead silence.

I tried the handle. Locked.

Since we were practically strangers sharing a lease, we both had a strict habit of locking our doors when we left. But I was already down the rabbit hole tonight. I needed an answer.

I walked over to the water cooler in the kitchen, filled a glass to the absolute brim, and set it carefully on the floor, right flush against her bedroom door.

Her door opened outward. If she was in there, the moment she opened it, the glass would tip, the water would spill, and I would hear the heavy thud of the glass hitting the faux-wood floor.

I wanted hard proof of whether she was in there or not.

Satisfied with my trap, I went back to my room, locking my own door behind me.

Even back in bed, sleep felt impossible.

I don't know what time it was when I finally started drifting into that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, but I was suddenly jolted awake by a sharp noise from the living room.

Thud. Clatter.

It was the unmistakable sound of a heavy glass tipping over and rolling across the floor.

A massive wave of relief washed over me. The tension left my muscles in a rush.

A prank. It had to be Hannah, or someone she brought over, messing with me.

With the adrenaline gone, a bone-deep exhaustion took over. I figured I would give her a piece of my mind in the morning, tell her that scaring the hell out of her roommate wasn't funny.

I closed my eyes and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

My alarm went off the next morning like a siren. Between the hangover and the emotional rollercoaster, my head felt like it was splitting open.

But I was a single guy trying to build a savings account, desperately working toward a future where I could actually afford a ring and a family one day. Calling in sick wasn't an option. I forced myself upright.

Before I even brushed my teeth, I marched out to the hallway, ready to confront her.

I froze.

The glass of water was sitting perfectly undisturbed, right where I had left it. It hadn't been moved a single inch.

A spike of genuine anger pierced through the confusion. A joke was a joke, but this was psychological torture.

I banged on her door, hard.

"Hannah, open up. We need to talk. Youve been scaring the absolute hell out of me for days. Can we drop the act now?"

Nothing.

"Hannah, I know you're in there! Stop playing games and come out."

I stood there for ten minutes, knocking and calling her name. The room behind the door remained utterly, completely dead.

I threw my hands up in exasperation. How could a brilliant, seemingly normal college kid be this twisted?

I had to leave for work, so I decided to drop it until tonight. I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I leaned over the sink, I noticed a ring of dried water droplets on the porcelain edge. It was from when I had splashed my face with cold water the night before.

At first, it didn't register.

Then, a cold realization slammed into me.

I took a slow step backward out of the bathroom, my eyes locking onto the glass of water in front of Hannah's door.

I heard that water spill last night. I heard the glass roll. So why was the floor bone dry?

Furthermore, I hadn't heard the sound of someone mopping it up or refilling the glass from the cooler.

Most importantly: her door opened outward. If she had opened the door, knocked the glass over, and then refilled it... there was physically no way she could have placed the full glass back in that exact spot, flush against the wood, and closed the door behind her without knocking it over again.

It was impossible.

A fresh layer of cold sweat erupted across my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I jumped, nearly biting my own tongue. Hand trembling, I pulled it out.

It was an iMessage from Hannah, finally replying to what Id sent her the night before.

I didn't come back. I told you, Im too busy to come home right now.

I practically ran out of the apartment, struggling to pull my jacket on as I took the stairs two at a time.

The crisp morning air hit my face, but my mind was stuck in the dark of that apartment.

The sounds had been so vivid. So clear. I couldn't have imagined them!

But if Hannah wasn't there... where the hell were those noises coming from?

"Hey! Moore."

I stopped in my tracks. It was Mr. Henderson, the building's elderly superintendent, dragging a mop bucket out of the utility closet.

He leaned on the handle, looking at me with a worried frown. "You get into some trouble recently, son? Ive found charred ritual paperswitchcraft looking stuffoutside your door more than once this week."

Right. The burned paper Id seen last night.

I rushed over to him. "Mr. Henderson... has anyone ever died in that apartment?"

He blinked, surprised, then gave a dry chuckle. "Kid, look at this building. People have died in every unit."

"No, I meanwas there a murder? A suicide? Something unnatural?"

Mr. Henderson narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment, before shaking his head firmly. "No. Nothing like that."

I didn't know if that made me feel better or worse.

I thanked him and hurried toward the subway. As for offending someone? I could say with absolute certainty that I hadn't. I kept my head down, paid my taxes, and minded my own business.

I spent the entire workday staring blankly at my monitor. I couldn't shake the creeping dread.

During my lunch break, I called the landlord. I asked him point-blank if there was a dark history to the unit. He swore up and down there wasn't.

But his denial only made the knot in my stomach tighter. I made up my mind right then: I was breaking the lease. I didn't care about the penalty. I couldn't spend another week in that place.

I don't know how I survived the workday.

The walk back to the apartment felt like a march to the gallows. My heart pounded against my ribs with every step. If this kept up, I was going to have a genuine psychotic break.

When I reached my door, I scanned the welcome mat. No charred paper. Clean.

I let out a breath and pulled out my keys. But just as I unlocked the deadbolt and pushed the door open, a heavy shoulder shoved past me, forcing its way inside.

It was a guy Id never seen before.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing? You've got the wrong place!" I yelled, dropping my bag and chasing him into the living room.

He ignored me completely, his eyes wild as he started screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Hannah! I know you're in here! Get out here and look me in the eye!"

He was looking for Hannah.

Judging by the desperation in his voice, he was one of her romantic orbiters. I remembered her mentioning a guy named Trevor who wouldn't leave her alone.

"She's at the dorms," I said, keeping my distance. "She's not here."

Trevor whipped around, glaring at me. He closed the distance between us in three aggressive strides.

"You really think you can compete with me for her? Look at you. You're pathetic."

I blinked, totally lost. "I think you're confused, man. We just share rent."

Trevor let out a dark, mocking laugh, his upper lip curling in disgust.

"So you're broke and you're a coward. You won't even admit it to my face." He shook his head. "Hannah told me to back off. She said she had a boyfriend now. And I know it's you."

The guy looked genuinely unhinged. His eyes were wide, and he couldn't stand still, his head twitching as he spoke.

I had zero desire to deal with this drama. I told him plainly that I wasn't her boyfriend and demanded he leave my apartment.

Instead of leaving, Trevor pulled out his phone, opened his messages with Hannah, and hit the voice memo button, holding it up like a microphone.

"Hannah, your taste in men is garbage. He won't even claim you. This is the loser you picked over me?"

He sent the audio, then looked me up and down.

"Im calling fair game. If I win her back, you pack your shit and leave. Or I'll knock your teeth down your throat."

With that final threat, he turned and stormed toward the door. As he turned, his jacket rode up, and I caught a glint of silver clipped to his belt.

A switchblade. He had flashed it on purpose.

I rubbed my face, exhausted beyond belief, and immediately texted Hannah.

Who the hell was that guy? What did you tell him? You know I have a girlfriend, please don't drag me into your mess.

A long while later, she sent back a single character: K.

I didn't push it. I had said my piece.

But looking out the window, the sun was already starting to set. The shadows in the apartment were lengthening. I didn't know if the terror from the past week would return tonight.

I glanced at the hallway. The glass of water was still sitting exactly where Id left it.

I knew for an absolute fact now that Hannah wasn't home. Nobody could stay locked in a room for twenty-four hours straight without at least coming out to use the bathroom.

Taking a deep breath, I decided to try a different approach tonight. I was going to use a camera.

I dug out my old backup phone, set it on the bathroom vanity, and made sure it had a full charge. Right before getting into bed, I hit record.

If there were noises, the mic would pick them up. If something was in there, the lens would capture it.

With the trap set, I crawled under the covers.

Between the corporate grind and the relentless anxiety, my body had reached its breaking point. Exhaustion pulled me under almost instantly, dragging me into a deep, dreamless void.

But sometime in the dead of night, a sharp, piercing ringtone ripped me out of my sleep.

It was the FaceTime ringtone.

I groaned, blindly slapping the nightstand until my fingers brushed my current phone. I pulled it to my face, squinting against the harsh glare of the screen.

When I read the caller ID, all the air left my lungs.

It was my backup phone.

My old phone was video calling my current phone.

But my old phone was sitting on the counter. Inside the empty bathroom.