The Blue Stall Door

It was the autumn of my final year, and the university’s newest building, the Meridian Hall, loomed over the eastern edge of campus like a monolith of glass and steel. My classes ran from 2 PM to 9 PM, and the corridor on the third floor always felt sterile and overly bright, as if the fluorescent lights were trying to burn away any hint of the outside world. I remember that evening clearly: Dr. Ashford was droning on about post-structuralist theory, and I was shifting in my seat, trying to ignore the growing pressure in my bladder. Fifteen minutes before the final bell, I knew I couldn’t hold it any longer. I whispered to Maya, my friend beside me, ‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ but she just rolled her eyes and shook her head, mumbling something about ‘always at the worst time.’ So I slipped out alone, the door hissing shut behind me.

The corridor was empty, and my footsteps echoed on the polished linoleum. The women’s restroom was at the far end, next to a janitor’s closet that always smelled faintly of bleach and something else, something sweet and rotting. I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside. The room was lit by a single flickering bulb, casting shadows that danced across the tiled walls. There were five stalls, each with a rusted metal lock that looked like it had seen better decades. To my irritation, four of the stall doors were shut, their locks showing red—occupied. The fifth, at the far end, was ajar, but as I approached, I saw a pair of slim ankles and white sneakers beneath the door. Someone was in there, but the lock was still showing green, meaning they hadn’t latched it properly. I hesitated, not wanting to intrude, but the pressure was unbearable. I decided to wait for the student to finish, leaning against the sink.

A few moments later, I heard the toilet flush. The sound was unnaturally loud, almost aggressive, and then there was silence. I expected her to emerge, but the door remained shut. I cleared my throat, but no one moved. I tapped lightly on the stall door. ‘Excuse me?’ I said, my voice echoing. No response. The silence grew thick, and I noticed that the sink’s faucet was dripping, each drop hitting the porcelain like a tiny drumbeat. I peered under the door again. The sneakers were still there, but now they seemed slightly turned, as if she was facing the door. And then I saw something that made my blood run cold: the sneakers were hovering an inch above the floor.

My heart pounded. I took a step back. ‘Hey, are you okay?’ I called out, my voice trembling. I pushed the door gently, and it swung open with a creak. The stall was empty. The toilet paper was untouched, the seat was down, but there was no one there. The only thing out of place was a wet footprint on the floor, as if someone had stepped out of a bath. I backed away, nearly tripping over my own feet. I turned to run, but as I reached the door, I heard a low, guttural laugh from behind me. It seemed to come from all the stalls at once. I yanked the door open and fled down the corridor, not stopping until I crashed into the classroom.

Maya looked up, alarmed. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ I couldn’t speak. I just sat down, my hands shaking. The professor continued, oblivious. After class, Maya insisted I tell her what happened. I described the empty stall, the hovering sneakers, the laugh. She went pale. ‘You went into the blue stall?’ she whispered. ‘Everyone knows it’s cursed. A girl died there years ago—she hung herself with her own scarf. They say her ghost still haunts that bathroom, waiting for someone to acknowledge her.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. I hadn’t noticed, but the stall door was painted a different shade of blue than the others.

I tried to put it out of my mind, but over the next few days, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following me. I’d catch glimpses of a shadow in my peripheral vision, and at night, I’d dream of a girl with hollow eyes standing at the foot of my bed. I became paranoid, avoiding the restroom on the third floor entirely. But one evening, after a particularly long lecture, I had no choice. I told myself it was just psychological, that I needed to face my fear. I pushed open the door to the restroom, and all five stalls were wide open, clean and empty. I chose the one farthest from the blue stall, but as I was about to sit, I heard a faint sobbing from the blue stall. I froze.

The sobbing grew louder, and then I heard a young woman’s voice, pleading, ‘Please, don’t leave me here.’ I looked under the stall door, and there they were again—the white sneakers, clearly visible, but this time they were blocking the door. I knew I had to get out, but my legs wouldn’t move. The voice turned into a cackle, and the door to the blue stall slowly creaked open, revealing a dark, empty interior. But then, something moved in the darkness—a pale, slender hand reached out, gripping the edge of the door. A face emerged, pale and gaunt, with black hair covering half of it. It smiled, a too-wide smile, and said, ‘Now you see me.’

I screamed and bolted, but when I reached the exit, the door wouldn’t open. I could feel cold fingers brushing my neck. I turned, and the ghost was right there, inches from me, her eyes bleeding black tears. ‘You sat in my seat,’ she hissed. ‘Now you must take my place.’ I closed my eyes, bracing for the worst, but then I heard the door slam open behind me. Maya was there, pulling me out into the bright corridor. ‘What are you doing?’ she yelled. ‘You’ve been in there for half an hour!’ I looked at my watch—it was 9 PM. But I had only been inside for a few minutes.

I never went back to that restroom, and I transferred to the morning section the following week. But I still hear that laughter sometimes, late at night, echoing in my dreams. And sometimes, when I pass by a mirror, I catch a glimpse of a girl with white sneakers standing behind me, her reflection not quite matching my own. The blue stall door is always locked now, but I know it’s waiting, and one day, it might just open for you.