James Takes A Bath

James sank deeper into the clawfoot tub, the steaming water soothing his aching muscles. The day had been long—moving boxes, assembling furniture, and navigating the eerie corners of the house had left him exhausted. He had been completely drenched in sweat and covered in dust and grime from head to toe. For the first time since they’d arrived, he allowed himself to relax, closing his eyes and letting the heat seep into his bones.

The faint scent of lavender from the soap mingled with the steam, creating a cocoon of calm. The fragrance reminded him of Margot and the night before. Despite the inglorious outcome, he couldn't help but imagine what might have become of the encounter. He hummed contentedly and let himself be carried away by his fantasies. His thoughts wandered lazily until a sudden chill prickled his skin. James’s eyes snapped open, and he glanced around. The temperature in the room had dropped dramatically.

“Must’ve left a window open,” he muttered, sitting up slightly and scanning the frosted panes. But no, the windows were firmly shut, and there was no sign of a draft. The flame of the candle on the counter burned calmly and steadily, casting elongated shadows on the tiled walls.

Then, for no apparent reason, the flame began to flicker, as if caught in an invisible draft. A ripple coursed through the water, though James hadn’t moved. His heart began to race, and he sat up straighter. “Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing faintly off the walls.

No answer. The room was silent save for the faint drip of water from the faucet.

James exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Get it together,” he muttered to himself. He reached for the towel draped over the edge of the tub, but as his hand closed around it, a whisper brushed past his ear.

“Leaving so soon?”

He froze. The voice was soft, playful, and unmistakably close. He spun around, water sloshing over the tub's edge, but the room was empty.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice a mix of fear and irritation. He stood up, dripping and exposed, scanning every corner of the room. The shadows seemed to deepen, the flickering candlelight playing tricks on his eyes. The water in the tub rippled again, and James could swear he felt the faintest touch, feather-light and impossibly cold, against his shoulder. He spun around quickly and almost lost his footing on the slippery floor of the tub. A low, melodic laugh filled the air, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Enjoying your bath, James?” the voice teased, its tone dripping with amusement. James looked around, alarmed, his breath coming in short gasps. He grabbed the towel and wrapped it around himself hastily, his mind racing. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the house. Either way, he wasn’t staying in that tub another second. He hastily stepped out of the tub, water cascading onto the tiled floor as he fumbled with his towel, which threatened to slip off his hips. He wrapped it tighter around his waist and reached for another one to dry his face, trying to shake off the strange sensation that had lingered after the whisper.

The door creaked open behind him.

“Helen, is that you?” he started, turning around, but the words caught in his throat. Standing in the doorway was Silvia, his eldest daughter.

But it wasn’t the Silvia he knew.

Her strict ponytail, her signature style since middle school, was gone. Her dark hair fell in loose, messy waves around her shoulders, framing her face in a way that made her look ... different? Her blouse was unbuttoned just enough to reveal more than he was used to seeing, and she was barefoot, her legs bare — no jeans, no socks. There was a languidness in her posture, a casual confidence that seemed utterly unlike her usual bookish demeanor.

James’s face flushed crimson. “Silvia! What the hell? You can’t just barge in here! I'm bathing.”

She tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint, almost teasing smile. “Sorry, Dad. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Her voice was soft, measured, but there was something strange about it — something unexpected ... sultry.

James backed up instinctively, clutching the towel tighter around his waist. “I—uh—you need to go. This is—this isn’t appropriate.”

Silvia stepped further into the room, her bare feet making no sound on the cold tiles. “You look... tense,” she said, her eyes lingering on him for a moment too long. “Rough day?”

“Silvia,” James said firmly, his voice a mix of rising embarrassment and cracked authority, “this isn’t the time. Or the place. Get out of here!”

His attempt to shoo her away failed miserably. Instead, she stepped closer, her smile widening just slightly. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen me before. Relax, Dad. It’s just me.”

James’s unease deepened. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t his Silvia — not the focused, no-nonsense young woman who always had a book in hand and a to-do list on her phone.

“Silvia,” he repeated, his tone nearly ****, “Leave, now! Go put some clothes on and let me finish here.”

Her eyes gleamed with something he couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Mischief? “Of course, Dad, but not until I've got what I came for.” With that, she reached out and took hold of his towel.