When Ricky found the listing for the bathhouse job, he was ecstatic. "A traditional bathhouse in the countryside," he said, eyes gleaming. "Free lodging, decent pay, and a chance to escape the city for the summer—and they're hiring teens, too. We should do it, Sophie!"

I wasn't as enthusiastic, but his excitement was contagious. It was one of the things I've always loved about him. Ever since we were kids, Ricky had this knack for making everything feel like an adventure. When nobody else at school had any interest in talking to me—the shy girl who preferred to lose herself in books than actually interact with others—there was Ricky, asking me about my favorite Fae characters, dropping off DVDs of fantasy movies at my front door, insisting on staying with me during recess until I warmed up to him enough to play dragons. 

Ricky is one of the only people in my life who ever gave me a chance, so I'd never denied him one in return. We packed our bags and left the noise of the city behind, trading it for the quiet, misty hills of a rural village that seemed forgotten by time.

The bathhouse stood at the edge of the village, nestled against the woods like it had grown from the earth itself. Its wooden beams were weathered but sturdy, and steam curled endlessly from the chimneys. The scent of minerals, wet wood, and something more pungent—like rust, maybe—lingered in the air.

Our quarters were modest—a small room above the bathhouse with straw mats and sliding doors that stuck when it rained. The first night, we sat on the porch, sipping barley tea and listening to the cicadas.

"This place has a charm," Ricky said, gazing into the darkness.​

I nodded, though unease prickled at the edges of my mind.​

-

Our first day passed slowly. A few elderly locals visited, nodding politely but saying little. Ricky handled the reception while I cleaned the baths. It was peaceful, if a little eerie. The building creaked in odd ways, and shadows stretched long even at noon.

That night, I awoke to the sound of water running. I tiptoed downstairs and found Ricky in the men's bath, fully clothed, sitting on the edge and staring into the water.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, not looking at me.

I joined him, and we sat in silence. The steam curled around us like a ghostly embrace.

-

Ricky was quieter the next day. He moved through his tasks methodically, eyes distant.​

"Everything okay?" I asked.​

He nodded but didn't elaborate. That usual spark of life that made him Ricky had dulled, and I couldn't imagine why. No wry jokes. No yammering about books. No crooked, familiar smile. ​

That evening, I noticed a dark stain on the wall near the boiler room. I scrubbed at it, but no matter which soap I used, it wouldn't fade. 

"It's just old," Ricky said when I mentioned it.​ "Probably been there for a while."

But I hadn't seen it there before.​

-

Ricky's behavior grew more erratic. He'd disappear for hours, returning with vague explanations.​ That night, I found him in the boiler room, staring at the furnace.​ His dark hair was limp and hanging across his forehead in straggly waves. Gray eyes blank—almost lifeless. 

"It's warm," he murmured, still standing before the furnace.​ Not sarcastically. Not as a stupid joke. Just... monotone. 

"Of course it is," I replied, eying him warily. 

He didn't respond.​

-

I began to hear whispers—soft, unintelligible murmurs that seemed to emanate from the walls. I chalked it up to fatigue, even if they seemed to be calling my name. 

Ricky, however, had grown invigorated, like the past few days of lifelessness were simply a reset button for him—a light switch, flicked momentarily off. He spoke of the bathhouse as if it were alive, a sentient being that welcomed him.​

"It understands me," he said, eyes shining.​ Somehow, those three words sent an unexplainable chill down my spine. I didn't know how to respond.​

Ricky didn't come to dinner. I searched the bathhouse but found no sign of him.​

In the boiler room, the furnace roared, flames dancing wildly. The dark stain on the wall had spread, tendrils reaching out like grasping fingers.​

I called his name, but only the crackle of fire answered.​

-

The villagers avoided me, their eyes averted. I asked about Ricky, but they offered no answers.​

I spent the next day cleaning, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy, all while casting futile glances at the bathhouse door, hoping he would walk in. But the place felt different—heavier, as if burdened by unseen weight.​ I heard footsteps when I was alone. Saw reflections in the water that didn't match my own.

That night, I dreamed I was submerged in the baths. But the water wasn't water. It was thick and black, and full of eyes. Ricky was beneath it, smiling, reaching for me.

I woke gasping, my skin clammy and cold.

-

I decided to leave. I packed my belongings and stepped outside, only to find the path blocked by fog. The village was silent, the air thick with moisture.​

Returning to the bathhouse, I found the furnace extinguished, the room cold. The dark stain had vanished.​

Ricky's belongings were gone, as if he had never been there.​

-

I left the village the next morning, the fog lifting as I descended the hills. I never saw Ricky again.​

Sometimes, I dream of the bathhouse—of steam-filled rooms and whispering walls. I wake with the scent of damp wood in my nostrils and the feeling of being watched.​

I don't know what happened to Ricky. Perhaps he found the peace he was looking for. Perhaps the bathhouse claimed him.​

All I know is that some places are best left forgotten.