Bath Time

The bathroom always smelled faintly of lavender and damp. Not fresh lavender, but the cloying, synthetic kind that tried to cover mould and failed. It clung to the cracked tiles, the rust-flecked radiator, the blackened corners of the old tub. Hannah didn’t love the bathroom. But then again, she didn’t love the house, either.

Still, it had been all she could afford after the separation. A two-bed terrace in a forgotten street at the edge of town. The estate agent had called it “vintage” and “full of character.” That usually meant “neglected” and “creepy,” and in this case, both were true. The boiler rattled like a shopping trolley full of rocks. The walls had too many doors that didn’t lead anywhere. The upstairs carpet had a footprint-shaped stain that never quite scrubbed out.

But it had a bath, and Mia—three years old and full of stories—loved baths. So here they were, Tuesday evening, Hannah crouched by the tub with a sore knee and the water running. She twisted the cold tap tighter. The pipes groaned, slow and heavy, like someone shifting their weight behind the wall. The water came out clear for a few seconds, then blurred, not brown like rust but cloudy. Oily. She leaned closer, blinked, and it cleared. Old house. Old pipes. No big deal.

“Mia!” she called, keeping her voice light. “Time for your splashy time!”

Thudding footfalls answered—fast, eager. Mia appeared in the doorway, stark naked, holding her yellow rubber duck and grinning with all the pride of a child who’d undressed herself.

“Ducky’s mucky,” she said solemnly.

Hannah smiled, but her neck prickled. “Then Ducky gets a bath, too.”

She helped Mia in, lifting her gently. The little girl didn’t splash like she usually did. She sat down stiffly, holding her duck close to her chest.

“It’s cold,” Mia whispered.

“I only just ran it,” Hannah said, dipping her fingers in. It was cold. Not cool—cold, like water left outside all night. She turned off the taps and added more hot water, but the chill clung to the surface. Beneath it, the water hardly moved, thick and heavy like syrup.

Mia didn’t complain again. She just stared down into it.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” Hannah crouched again. Her back ached. “You love bath time.”

“She’s looking up,” Mia said softly.

Hannah blinked. “What?”

“From down there.” Mia pointed at the drain.

The water swirled gently around her, but not in circles. It pulled, always toward the plughole, like the whole tub slanted inwards.

“Who’s down there, sweetie?”

“The lady.” Mia’s eyes stayed locked on the centre of the bath. Her voice dropped, barely a whisper. “She watches with her hair floating.”

The air shifted. Not colder, exactly—but thicker. Hannah felt like she’d stepped into a room where someone had just been crying. Stale and wet and wrong.

“There’s no lady, Mia. That’s just the water. Look.” Hannah leaned over the bath, peering into the drain.

A black circle. Still water. Perfectly smooth.

Then it moved.

She jerked back. Just a bubble, she told herself. From the pipes. Still—

“She talks to me sometimes,” Mia said.

Hannah laughed—too loud. “You’re imagining. Just like when you said the fridge sang songs.”

Mia shook her head, curls bouncing. “No. She says she’s hungry.”

The bathroom light flickered. Once. Twice.

Enough.

“Okay, out you come.” Hannah reached for her daughter. “Time for jammies.”

Mia didn’t move. She hugged the duck tighter. “She said not to leave.”

Hannah froze. “What?”

“She said don’t go. She said she’s been waiting.”

Water lapped at Mia’s sides, slow and silent. The sound of it wasn’t right. It didn’t splash. It slithered.

The duck slipped from Mia’s hands. It bobbed for a moment, then began drifting toward the drain.

“Mia…” Hannah leaned closer. “Just take the duck.”

Mia didn’t. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the toy as it spiralled closer to the plug.

Then the duck stopped.

It hovered, nose-down, like something had caught it from beneath. Then slowly, it began to spin.

“She’s here,” Mia whispered. “She’s coming.”

The water rippled outwards. A small eddy formed where the drain was, and the duck sank without a sound.

“No,” Hannah said sharply, grabbing for her child. Her fingers found Mia’s wrist. She pulled. Mia didn’t budge.

She was stuck.

“Come on, baby—” She yanked harder. Mia’s expression didn’t change. Her eyes had gone glassy, unfocused.

Then a hand rose from the water.

It broke the surface like something long-dead surfacing from a black lake. Bloated. Grey-blue. Fingers thin as twigs, knuckles split, nails like chips of coal. It wrapped around Mia’s ankle.

Hannah screamed.

She plunged both arms into the tub, the cold biting into her skin like needles. She tried to grip Mia’s waist. The water pulled back. A second hand surfaced, clutching the edge of the tub, translucent skin peeling away as it flexed.

Hannah punched at it, but her fist passed through—like trying to strike mist.

Mia screamed. Her body twisted, tiny hands gripping the edge of the bath, knuckles white.

“Let her go!” Hannah howled.

The room dimmed. Not like a light going out. Like something had swallowed the light. The shadows grew deeper. The mirror warped. Hannah swore she saw something move behind her reflection.

The water rose. Not from the taps. It surged, slow but steady, reaching Mia’s chest. Then her shoulders. Then her chin.

“No! No, no, no!” Hannah pulled with every ounce of strength. “Let her go!”

The water stilled.

Then, all at once, it drained.

The tub emptied in a single rush, like someone yanked a stopper from the bottom of the world. Mia coughed and gasped. The duck lay on the bottom of the now-empty bath.

Hannah wrapped her daughter in a towel and ran.

They didn’t sleep that night. Mia clung to her like a baby koala, whispering about the woman with no eyes and hair that drifted like seaweed. About cold hands and hunger.

At three a.m., Hannah went back into the bathroom with a towel and stuffed it into the plughole. She pulled the plug chain out and snapped it off. She shut the bathroom door and jammed a chair under the handle.

But the next night—
And the one after—
She woke to the same thing.

Gurgling water. Pipes groaning.

From beneath the floor.

And, just at the edge of hearing, a whisper curling like steam through the wood:

“Still hungry.”