The Bathroom

  The washroom was dimly lit, the air thick with humidity as steam curled from the edges of the old stone walls. Cave Sears stood beneath the freezing cascade, his breath hitching as the shock of cold water coiled around his body like creeping tendrils.

  Droplets traced intricate patterns along his skin, sliding over the ridges of his collarbone, pooling in the hollow between his chest muscles before dripping onto the tiled floor below. The camera follows the stream of water, tracing the curve of his thigh, traveling upward to the taut planes of his torso, each droplet accentuating the tension in his weary frame.

  His fingers flexed against his sides, the water slipping over his arms, down his back, before streaming toward the dark iron drain. The camera follows the water, shrinking into the abyss of the metal grate, swallowed into the network of pipes beneath the house. The scene transitions.

  The pipes groaned with age as the water flowed through them, twisting through the underground system until it reached the source—a borehole tank, rusted around the edges, sitting outside the house on wooden stilts. The tank drew water from a nearby stream, its surface rippling under the pale glow of the Crescent Dust sky. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and mist-wrapped, its towering trees shifting with an unseen presence. Something moved beyond the veil of fog, a shape just out of reach of perception.

  Then—the scene snaps back.

  Inside the washroom, Cave leaned forward, resting a hand against the wet wall as his mind drifted. He had been standing there for far too long, forty-six minutes had passed, his exhaustion merging with the fragments of the nightmare still lingering in his thoughts.

  Suddenly—

  Knock.

  A sharp, deliberate tap at the window.

  Cave’s breath caught. His head turned slowly, droplets clinging to his dark lashes as he peered toward the fogged glass. Nothing.

  The mist outside thickened, shifting like ghostly fingers against the glass.

  Then—

  Knock. Knock.

  This time, from the other side of the bathroom.

  A shiver crawled down his spine. His pulse spiked as tension clawed at his chest.

  Then—the alarm.

  A shrill, piercing sound erupted from his bedroom.

  His body jerked in response. Instinctively, he reached for the towel, fumbling as his fingers slipped against the damp fabric. He barely wrapped it around his waist before his foot caught on the slick tiles—

  He nearly fell.

  His breath escaped in a sharp gasp as he caught his balance at the last second. Without wasting another moment, he pounced out of the washroom, his movements swift and silent. He rushed toward his dormitory, his heart hammering in his ears.

  “I forgot to turn it off.”

  Another mistake.

  His mother was going to be furious.

  **Cave’s Dormitory**

  The dim glow of an old oil lamp flickered against the rough wooden walls, casting shifting shadows that danced like restless spirits. Cave’s room was small but filled with personality—a reflection of a young mind shaped by curiosity, solitude, and the burden of his unseen gift.

  Against one wall, a rickety wooden shelf, barely held together by old nails and twine, stood proudly with its collection of hand-carved wooden figures. Each sculpture told a story—heroes, mythical beasts, strange creatures only his mind could conceive, all etched into the oak bark he gathered from the surrounding forest. Some figures were complete, polished with care, while others still bore the rough texture of unfinished work, their forms trapped in mid-creation like frozen souls.

  His drawing desk, cluttered with parchment, charcoal pencils, and half-finished sketches, sat beneath a narrow window covered with a thin, yellowed curtain. The pages fluttered slightly from the draft seeping through the cracks in the wooden panels. Outside, the mist clung to the glass like pale, ghostly fingers, blurring the boundary between the safety of his room and the unknown darkness beyond

  Cave’s breath was still unsteady as he silenced the alarm. His hand lingered over the device, fingers trembling slightly.

  “Another night, another warning.”

  The echoes of his nightmare still gripped his mind, like spectral hands reaching from the darkness, but reality had called him back—first with the strange knocks, and now with the sharp consequences of his forgetfulness.

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  His mother would be waking up soon, and he had just made the mistake of disturbing her rest.

  He sat on the edge of his creaky bed, its mattress worn and lumpy from years of use. His breath was still unsteady as he slammed his hand onto the alarm, silencing the sharp, piercing chime that had rattled through the house.

  His fingers lingered over the tiny clock, trembling slightly.

  “Another night, another warning.”

  The nightmare’s grip hadn’t fully loosened. It clung to him, curling around his thoughts like smoke, whispering that it wasn’t finished with him yet.

  Then there was the knock.

  It had come from the bathroom window. At first, he thought it was his mind playing tricks on him, still tangled in the web of sleep. But then—another knock.

  He swallowed.

  His mind raced through the possibilities. A rat? A bird? The wind? All logical answers. All safe answers. But something about the weight of that sound, the way it came at the precise moment of his thoughts unraveling, made his skin prickle.

  A cold sensation crawled up his spine.

  He cast a glance toward the old wooden door of his dormitory, slightly ajar, leading into the hallway beyond. From there, he could hear the faint shuffle of his mother waking up, her irritation drifting through the silence like a warning.

  “Switch That Damn Thing Off!” His mother yelled out; her voice rough from sleep. Her sharp, irritated groan broke the silence of the house. “You Already Wake Up Every Morning Before the Sun Shakes You Out of Bed, So Why Bother?” She called out to him; her voice still thick with exhaustion. “And I Already Told You A Thousand Times!”

  Cave exhaled sharply, forcing his body to relax. His mother was up now.

  He could hear her shuffling out of bed, her slippers dragging lazily across the wooden floor as she made her way toward the kitchen. The air in the house was still thick with the cold of early morning, the warmth of the hearth yet to fight back the night’s lingering chill.

  He winced. “SORRY, MOTHER!” Cave called from his room, a tinge of frustration in his voice. He was just as annoyed as she was.

  It wasn’t the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last.

  The clock was small, barely the size of his palm, yet it had been the source of so many morning arguments. His father had given it to him on his 13th birthday, a gift meant to teach him discipline and structure. Instead, it had become an object of resentment—something he constantly forgot to silence before it disrupted the house.

  Maybe that was a good thing.

  Maybe he shouldn’t check the window.

  Maybe—

  THUD!

  The sound came from the other side of the bathroom. A second knock, but not from the window.

  His heart slammed against his ribs.

  A rush of cold air seemed to pulse through the room, making the oil lamp flicker for a brief moment.

  Then—

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

  The alarm in his room shrieked again.

  Cave jumped, his hand knocking over a small wooden figure from his shelf. He had forgotten to turn off the secondary alarm.

  “CAVE SEARS, did you hear what I said, Young Man?” His mother’s footsteps grew louder.

  “I SAID SORRY, MOM!” he shouted, scrambling to silence the clock once more.

  As he did, his gaze flickered back to the door. The knocks had stopped.

  But that didn’t mean whatever had caused them was gone.

  **Hot Morning Coffee**

  From the kitchen, the clink of ceramic and the soft hiss of boiling water filled the air, accompanied by the familiar, slightly bitter aroma of brewing coffee. His mother was making her morning coffee, the routine as predictable as the sunrise. The scent curled through the small cottage like an old, unseen companion, settling into every worn wooden corner, filling the space with an artificial warmth against the crisp morning air.

  Cave stood near the doorway, he sighed rubbing his temples, still battling the fog of his mind—the lingering images of his nightmare. His thoughts were still clouded with the remnants of his nightmare. The strange knocks at the bathroom window, the eerie mist outside, and the creeping sensation that something had been watching him in the mist outside—all of it sat uncomfortably in his chest, a weight he couldn’t shake.

  His mother, still in her thick woolen gown, moved about the kitchen with slow, practiced motions. The oil lamp on the dining table flickered, its dim light casting elongated shadows across the stone hearth and the modest wooden cabinets that lined the walls. She took a careful sip from her clay mug, eyes narrowing as she turned toward him.

  "Or maybe you should throw that thing away,” she said flatly, her voice still thick with sleep. “I am already sick of your racket.”

  Cave sighed, gripping his chair as he sat down at the table.

  “I forgot to turn it off,” he muttered.

  His mother gave him a look over the rim of her cup, the kind that carried silent lectures heavier than words. Then she exhaled, setting her mug down with a hollow thud.

  “Forgot? You wake up before the sun even rises, Cave. Every single day. That clock hasn’t been useful since your father bought it for you,” she said, leaning on the counter. “So why do you still need it?”

  Cave hesitated. He traced the rim of his wooden bowl of morning cereal, watching as the soggy oats swirled around lazily in the milk. His spoon rested untouched.

  “I had another nightmare,” he finally admitted.

  His mother was silent for a moment.

  She knew. Of course, she knew.

  It had been years now. The first time was when he was twelve. At first, they were sporadic—horrible but manageable. But as time passed, they grew worse. More frequent. More vivid. The kind that left him breathless, cold sweat clinging to his skin, the kind that refused to fade even when the sun rose.

  She sighed, running a tired hand down her face before reaching for the kettle again.

  “The same one?” she asked, pouring more hot water into her cup.

  Cave shook his head.

  “No,” he said, voice quieter now. “This one was... different.”

  His mother didn’t press further, but she didn’t have to. The air in the room had shifted, the warmth of the coffee no longer enough to push back the creeping unease curling between them.

  She grabbed an apple from the wooden fruit bowl, passing it to him without another word.

  “Eat up, then” she said simply.

  Cave took the apple, rolling it between his fingers. He glanced at the small window above the sink, its glass fogged from the steam of the kettle. Outside, the mist still lingered, stubbornly clinging to the world as if refusing to retreat.

  Something about it made his stomach twist.

  Brushing the feeling aside, he quickly finished his breakfast, gathering his school materials—a few parchment scrolls, his charcoal pencils, and the old, slightly worn leather satchel his father had gifted him. He slung it over his shoulder, tightening the strap as he stepped toward the door.

  “I’ll be back before dark,” he said, avoiding his mother’s gaze.

  “Cave.”

  He paused.

  “Stay away from the fog,” she said, her tone firm but laced with something else—concern, perhaps. Fear.

  Cave swallowed.

  “I Will” He nodded once, before stepping outside.

  This wasn’t just another morning.

  Something felt different.