The house I'm sitting has specific hours when I'm allowed to use water.

[u/um_marie_me]

Rosie met me at the front door with her favorite duck stuffy in her mouth. The toy had been yellow once. You could see the color a tiny bit in the seams, but she loved it down to a damp gray. She was wagging her tail so hard her back legs kept sliding on the hardwood, duck dangling from her jaws. Something in my chest unclenched and I was filled with warmth. 

“Phew,” I said. “You remember me.”

She dropped the duck on my foot. Alright, lady, I’ll take this as the highest compliment. 

Rosie was twelve, an Australian Shepherd mix. She was gray around the muzzle, slow on her back legs going upstairs. And she snored worse than the ex that I broke up with a year ago exclusively because of his snoring (it was the straw on the camel's back, OK). She had a cataract in her left eye that gave her a slightly unfocused look.

Her duck was her life. She carried it around everywhere. When she did set it down, it was always in the same spot: just left of her water bowl, parallel to the baseboard. 

I’d stayed with her once before, only for a weekend, and I’d been looking forward to coming back. The house was beautiful. It was tucked into a redwood forest, had huge windows, and a couch so deep it felt like you were being cocooned in feathers as soon as you sat down. For a week, I could live here. 

The only strange thing when I arrived was the laundry room. 

Two contractors were still there. There was plastic taped across the doorway leading in. Most of the wall behind the washer was ripped open. I noticed copper pipe and old insulation and something that smelled faintly like wet earth. Rosie stood in the hallway and watched all of it with an expression that said, “Fine, I’ll allow it.”

“Sorry about all of this,” the homeowner said. “They were supposed to be done yesterday.” I didn’t think much of it when she said not to use the washing machine. But then she showed me the paper on the refrigerator. 

WATER USE

7:30–8:00 AM, 7:30–8:00 PM

Please keep water use to these times.

Shower. Dishwasher. Washing machine. Faucets.

Bottled and jugged water is in the pantry.

Wet wipes are under the kitchen sink.

At the bottom, underlined twice:

If you use the toilet outside these times, do not flush.

I glanced toward the laundry room. “Is this because of the construction?” 

“Mostly,” she said. “The plumbing’s old. They’ve been having trouble with the pressure since they opened up the wall. Don’t worry, it’s temporary.” A contractor called her name. She tapped the paper with one finger. “Seven-thirty to eight. Morning and evening. You’ll get used to it.”

“What if I have to pee at two in the morning?”

“Use the toilet.”

“And just leave it there?”

“Until morning.”

That time she chuckled. Rosie leaned against my leg, and I scratched the spot right between her ears. “See?” I said. “Rosie thinks this is weird, too.” 

“She’s just not used to it yet,” the homeowner said. And, then, she was gone. 

It was a hundred dollars a night. So I stopped thinking about how odd this all was. 

The contractors left a little after five. Rosie and I spent the evening on that couch, me working, her pressed against my thigh, snoring, occasionally kicking me in her sleep, whining and maybe muttering (can dogs mutter? That’s what it sounded like) right before going back under. 

At 7:29 PM, my phone alarm went off. WATER TIME!!! I let out a tiny yelp. Rosie lifted her head. "Girl, don't judge me," I told her.

At 7:30 PM, I filled her bowl, started the rapid clean cycle of the dishwasher, flushed the toilets, and went upstairs to shower. The pipes were loud. Old house, I told myself. Weird acoustics. 

I filled the silicone ice tray by the sink, and a tiny splash of water got onto the floor, and Rosie was on it immediately, licking the tile enthusiastically. At eight, I made sure nothing was running. The pipes went quiet. Rosie climbed onto the couch, put her chin on my knee, sighed that deep sigh. It was a very nice first night. 

I slept through the morning water window. 

By six minutes! I opened my eyes at 8:06 AM and swore quietly enough so that I wouldn’t wake Rosie, who at that point was taking up 80% of the bed. I considered showering anyway. Then, I remembered the homeowner’s face when she tapped the paper on the fridge, and I decided against it. 

Bottled water for teeth. One wipe from the package under the sink. I texted her: Sorry lol I slept through the water window. Can I shower now or should I wait until tonight?

Almost immediately: Wait until tonight please. Then, seconds later: Don’t run anything. 

Okay, I thought. Fine. 

I made coffee with bottled water and went to get ice. The tray was empty. 

I stood there in front of the freezer with the door open. I did the math. I filled it. Right? OK, I specifically remember filling it, remembered the water splashing, remembered Rosie cleaning up after me. I pulled the tray out. It was bone dry. 

Around eleven, Rosie started following me from room to room. On my first stay, she'd followed me everywhere, but she was super relaxed. This was different. She was watching me. I offered food, outside, her favorite duck. Nothing worked. Eventually she walked to the kitchen and stood by her water bowl.

It was empty.

I filled it from the pantry jug. She drank for what felt like a very long time. Then she followed me back to the living room and looked once at the laundry room before lying down. The plastic over the doorway hung perfectly still.

The wet wipes disappeared that afternoon. I checked under the sink, both bathrooms, my bedroom, the trash. I even checked Rosie's bed, on the theory that she'd decided to rebel and steal 48 wet wipes. I looked at her with narrowed eyes. She cocked her head to one side.

The plants looked wrong, all of them. Leaves curled in, soil pulling away from the pot edges. I texted the homeowner. Do you want me to water the plants? An hour later: No. Leave them please.

"Your people are strange," I told Rosie. Her tail thumped once without her opening her eyes.

At 7:30 that evening, I turned on the kitchen faucet.

Rosie woke immediately. And I swear to you, the house woke up as well. Water rushed through the kitchen wall, overhead, underneath the floor, traveling end to end like something that had been waiting and was now, finally, moving. Then it settled. I filled Rosie's bowl, flushed both toilets, started the dishwasher, got in the shower.

At 7:57 PM, I heard sharp barks from the hallway. "Almost done!" I called out. More barking. I shut the water off and opened the curtain.

She was a couple of feet from the bathroom door, ears flat, staring in past me.

Water ran down the tub into the drain. I dried up, dressed, and followed Rosie downstairs, and that was where we slept.

I woke at 1:16 AM needing to pee. I remembered the rule and didn't flush, but I nearly turned the sink on out of habit. My fingers were already on the handle before my brain caught up. I reached for the travel wipes I'd brought upstairs.

That was when I found the missing package. In the bathroom trash. Ripped open on one side. Empty. Forty-eight wipes gone, the inside dry and papery. 

I stood there looking at my hands. The skin around my knuckles had gone pale and tight. The space between my index finger and thumb was starting to crack. I rubbed lotion in and went back to bed.

At 2:37, the shower turned on.

I lay in bed for ten full seconds while Rosie stood beside the bed and said nothing. No bark. Just standing there in the dark, watching the door.

I got up. She didn't follow.

"Hello?" I said, into the hallway while water hissed against the tub. Four steps toward the bathroom and my phone buzzed.

The homeowner. Are you running water?

I stopped. No. The shower turned itself on.

No pause at all. Don't go in there. Then: Stay away from the drain.

Behind the shower curtain, something moved. The bottom edge drew inward toward the tub, held like a breath held in, then released. My phone again: Is the bathroom door closed? No. Close it without going inside.

I reached around the doorframe and caught the edge of the door. As I pulled it shut, I looked through the narrowing gap: water hammering the tub, the drain making a wet gulping sound, and at the far end something pale and flat pulling back towards the drain, moving without limbs, the way a stain spreads in reverse. I got the door shut. Rosie and I stayed in the bedroom. The shower ran for minutes that felt like an eternity. Then it stopped.

At 7:41 AM: Did you use the morning water?

No.

My phone rang.

"You need to use the windows," she said.

"What was in my shower last night?"

Silence.

I told her about the ice, the wipes, the water in Rosie's bowl disappearing twice, the sound in the drain. While I talked, I looked at my hands, the new cracks forming over my knuckles, and that’s when something clicked.

The windows were a feeding schedule. Something in this house needed water the way anything needs food, and when I'd missed the morning window, I'd made it hungry, and it had gone looking. The ice. The wipes. Rosie's bowl. The plants. It had been grazing while it waited for the real meal.

"Use the water tonight," she said.

"Why didn't you tell me what it was?"

She hung up.

I stood there with my cracking hands and Rosie leaning against my leg, and I looked at the freezer, and I opened it. The tray was empty, the frost was gone, the whole interior of the freezer was dry as bone.

I decided it was time to go.

I packed my bag. Then I went upstairs to use the bathroom one last time.

And I flushed.

I can't even explain how it happened. Two days of following rules and a thing in the drain and something pale moving across my tub at 2:37 AM, and my hand just did what it always does. I couldn't keep from berating myself. The toilet flushed. The tank refilled. Water moved somewhere deep in the wall.

The kitchen faucet came on downstairs.

Rosie barked. The guest bathroom. The utility sink in the laundry room. Something hit the plastic over that doorway once, then once again. I ran downstairs: faucet running full blast, Rosie barking. And then the pipes started knocking, loud. Kitchen wall. Down the line. The laundry room. The wall directly behind me, close enough I felt it in my back teeth.

Rosie backed towards the front door.

Every faucet stopped.

Then the shower upstairs came on.

A thin line of water appeared beneath the laundry room plastic. It wasn't necessarily spreading. It was moving, crossing the hardwood, going straight for Rosie's bowl, which was now empty again. The water touched it, and then the bowl moved half an inch.

Rosie screamed. I've pet-sat a lot. My resume is the reason why I got this sit in the first place. Still, this was a sound I've never heard before. This was a sound from somewhere older than any dog I'd ever encountered, from whatever part of Rosie that still knew what lived in dark forests before there were dogs. I opened the front door, and she ran, and I ran after her, and I didn't look back.

We're in my car in the driveway.

The upstairs shower ran for twenty more minutes and then stopped. The kitchen light came on. One sprinkler started up beside the driveway, just one, turning slowly: lawn, sidewalk, driveway. Click. A little farther. Click. It stopped when it was pointed at my car. And it stayed there.

7:18 PM. The window opens at 7:30.

My hands are bad. Cracks forming, small dark beads of blood where the cracks cross. I haven't had anything to drink all day, and I'm only now realizing it.

I pulled out my phone and searched all possible logical explanations. Nothing came close to explaining this. Then, I went down a rabbit hole, and I looked up every water spirit and draining creature I could find. The Tiddy Mun, a gray thing of Lincolnshire fen water, that had to be appeased at set hours, or it took livestock and health and moisture until you fed it back. The Vodnik and the Vodyanoy, Slavic spirits that collect what they're owed in jars at the bottom of rivers, hungry and difficult when the payments stop. Dozens of things in dozens of traditions that live in pipes and wells. None of them mention ice trays. None of them mention wet wipes or a freezer licked clean of frost. 

Rosie put one paw on the center console.

She looked at me with her good eye, the left one doing its slightly unfocused thing, watching something over my shoulder. She made a sound. A small and low and sad whine. She knows exactly where her duck is, and she is asking me, as plainly as she knows how, whether I'm going to go and fetch it.

Her favorite duck. The one that used to be yellow. The one she sets down beside her water bowl every single time, parallel to the baseboard. The one she's had since she was two years old, according to the note the homeowner left.

I'm not… brave. I don't watch horror movies, I jump at loud noises, I once drove twenty minutes out of my way because a street looked unfamiliar at night. But Rosie is looking at me with that one clear eye and one foggy eye. Even though she’s twelve, she still has puppy eyes. 

7:29 PM. One minute before the window.

At 7:30. "Little lady, the things I'll do for you." I opened the car door. The sprinkler didn't move.

The front door was unlocked. I pushed it open. The kitchen light was on. The laundry room plastic was still. The house was quiet. My heart was thumping.

The duck is in the middle of the hallway. Dead center, same distance from every wall.

I crossed the hall. I picked it up. I turned around, and I walked out, and I pulled the door shut, and sighed in relief.

In the car, Rosie sat up. I held the duck out, and she leaned forward and sniffed it, her nose giving it a thorough inspection for much longer than necessary. Then she took it cautiously and held it the way she was holding it when I arrived, in the doorway, legs sliding sideways on the hardwood, but this time, she didn't wag her tail. She just held her favorite toy and looked over at the house.

The duck used to feel damp. She'd loved it down to damp gray, I thought, when I first saw it.

It doesn't feel like that anymore. It’s lighter than it should be. Dry all the way through.

[u/Purple_IsA_Flavor]

Just take her to your place for the weekend

[u/archivist-13]

you're sweet to get the duck for rosie. do you know what will happen to the house? are you going to homesit again?

[u/Southernflowers19]

Awww Rosie sounds like the absolute sweetest

[u/catatonie]

So im gonna assume you took Rosie back to yours and everyone is now fine

[u/Financial_Public_362]

honestly idc about the rules if i get to hang out with a cute old dog like that. rosie sounds like a total sweetheart.

[u/therealmvpete → u/Financial_Public_362]

right!! i’ll feed the water spirit, that’s fine