Ghost in the Studio

No one believed me. Not a single soul. Every attempt to share my experiences fell on deaf ears, and I have no reason to expect anyone will believe me now. The only person who eventually came to accept it, on her own terms, and certainly not because of anything I said, was my sister, Julie. Even she was skeptical at first. That changed after one dark evening when she found herself alone in the studio. It was then she witnessed the strange occurrences firsthand. After that night, she refused to return, at least not after dark, and certainly never alone.

My first photo studio was located on Old Middlefield Way in Mountain View. It wasn’t large, just 1,200 square feet. But it was the best I could manage at the time. The space had once been a pipe warehouse. I had to transform it into something functional, and creative.

Inside, it was stark: four bare walls, 12-foot ceilings, and a single restroom tucked into the far back corner. The flooring was worn and needed covering, especially in the bathroom, where a large, dark stain refused to fade no matter what I tried. Still, none of that deterred me. I was determined to reshape the space into something entirely different from what it had been.

It began subtly.

From time to time, I would hear water running in the bathroom. At first, it seemed insignificant, hardly worth a second thought. But each time I walked to the back of the building, I would find the faucet fully on, water pouring into the sink.

The first few times, I dismissed it. I assumed I had simply forgotten to turn the faucet off properly. Still, it struck me as odd that these incidents began happening more frequently. Until one day, while I was alone, it seemed to occur repeatedly, throughout the entire day.

Finally, I called a plumber. He inspected everything thoroughly and found nothing wrong. No leaks, no faulty washers, the plumbing was perfectly sound. Reluctantly, I returned to my original conclusion: I must have been forgetful.  After that, the incidents slowed. Once a week, then less, until they seemed to stop altogether. Since the plumber had found no issue, and clearly didn’t believe the faucet could turn on by itself, I let it go.

Until the following year.

It started again. Subtle. Elusive. But this time, I paid closer attention. I became more observant, more deliberate. I kept track, noting patterns with greater care. And that’s when I began to notice things I couldn’t easily explain.

Often, I thought I heard water running. Yet when I walked back to check, the faucet would be off. During the day, I convinced myself it was my imagination. But at night it was different. I would see it clearly. The faucet running, sometimes at full blast. Each time, I shut it off firmly. Completely. And yet, sooner or later it would be running again.

As before, the activity gradually faded. Then it stopped. Another year passed.

By the third year, I began to recognize a pattern. The first occurrence always came in January, growing more frequent as the months went on. I had become attuned to it. Then one evening, while I was alone, something changed.  I felt it.  A presence.

It wasn’t frightening, not exactly. It was more like a quiet awareness, as if someone were there… trying to get my attention. Drawing me toward the back of the studio.  And once again, I heard the water running.

I walked slowly to the bathroom and arrived just in time to see the faucet turn itself off.

I swear it. I watched the handle move on its own as the water stopped. I froze, unable to move, not out of fear, but from sheer disbelief. I could still feel that presence, but it was strangely calm, almost reassuring.

Carefully, I reached for the handle and tried to turn it. It was firmly shut. Yet water still pooled in the sink, proof it had been running only moments before.  That was all the confirmation I needed. Something was there with me. And it would return.

The next day, I contacted my landlord. We had always gotten along well. He was friendly, cooperative and easy to talk to. That changed when I asked about the dark red stain on the bathroom floor.

He paused. Took a deep breath. Then apologized before answering.

Years earlier, he explained, the owner of the pipe company had been working late one night, alone. While cutting a pipe with a machine, he severed one or two fingers. In a panic, he went to the bathroom to wash the blood away. But he collapsed… and died there on the floor.  The stain, he said, never fully came out.

Though the man died that night, perhaps not all of him ever left.

And perhaps… he had been trying to let me know he was still there.

 No one believed me. Until my sister was alone, in the studio, at night. And it happened to her. 

I stayed in that studio another couple of years. I was not afraid. but I did not stay there late at night at certain times of the year.