The Bathroom Lock

I’ve always thought of our apartment as a sanctuary, a quiet refuge from the bustling city below. But lately, the silence has been anything but comforting. It started with small things, like the way the bathroom door would creak open on its own, or the feeling of being watched when I was alone. I tried to brush it off, blaming old pipes and an overactive imagination. But then the incident with my brother, Leo, happened, and I knew something was terribly wrong.

It was a Saturday morning, the kind where the sun filters through the blinds and promises a lazy day. I was still half-asleep when I heard my mother’s voice, loud and insistent, from the living room. She was talking to Leo about his chores, her tone sharp enough to pierce through my dreams. I dragged myself out of bed, heading for the bathroom, but Leo, as always, beat me to it. I heard the door click shut and the shower start, so I flopped onto the couch, waiting my turn.

A few minutes later, the water stopped. I heard Leo’s footsteps on the tile, then a strange thumping. Suddenly, the bathroom door rattled violently, and Leo’s voice, muffled but frantic, yelled, ‘Stop holding the door! Let me out!’ My mother and I exchanged confused glances. We were nowhere near the bathroom. I called out, ‘We’re not touching it!’ But the rattling continued, and Leo started screaming, ‘Let go! Let go of the handle!’ His voice cracked with panic.

Then I heard the lock click, and the door swung open. Leo stormed out, his face red with anger. ‘Why were you holding the door?’ he demanded. My mother shook her head. ‘We didn’t, sweetheart. We were right here.’ Leo’s anger turned to confusion. ‘But I felt it. Two hands, gripping the other side, pulling back.’ A cold dread settled in my stomach. The bathroom door is only wide enough for one person, and there was nothing behind it but the wall.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe the old handle stuck. Maybe his laundry bag had caught. But I couldn’t shake the image of Leo’s panicked face. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the sound of his voice, the way he’d said ‘two hands.’ I decided to investigate. I searched the bathroom for any sign of tampering, but there was nothing. Just the echo of that morning’s terror.

A week later, I was home alone. I needed to use the bathroom, so I walked in and closed the door. As I was about to turn the lock, I felt a resistance. The handle turned, but the door wouldn’t budge. I pulled, and it opened easily. I laughed nervously, shaking it off. But then, as I stood in front of the mirror, I saw it—a faint handprint on the wall, right behind the door, too small to be mine or Leo’s. It was like the outline of a child’s hand, pressed into the paint as if someone had tried to push the door open from the inside.

I reached out to touch it, and the air grew cold. The handprint began to fade, as if it were never there. I backed away, my heart pounding. That’s when I heard it—a soft giggle, high-pitched, like a child’s laugh, coming from the corner of the bathroom. I spun around, but there was no one. The door was still ajar, the hallway empty.

I haven’t used that bathroom since. I’ve tried to convince myself it was all in my head, but I can’t forget the feeling of that door fighting against me, or the giggle that still echoes in my mind. My mother says it’s just the old building playing tricks, but I know better. There’s something in that room, something that likes to play games. And I’m afraid, next time, it won’t just hold the door.