The Custodian’s Regret

It was the autumn of my sixth grade year when we moved to the town of Millbrook, a place so small that the only notable landmark was the old textile mill that had been converted into our school, Millbrook Elementary. The building was a maze of narrow corridors and creaking floors, with a peculiar smell of dust and old machinery. The bathroom on the third floor, however, was a place we all learned to avoid.

It started with the sounds. Every time you’d step into that bathroom, you’d hear the stall doors groan as if someone had pushed them, and the toilets would flush without warning. The sinks would turn on by themselves, the water cascading down the porcelain in a steady stream, and then abruptly stop. We all dismissed it as the pipes, or maybe the wind rattling the old windows. But then something happened that changed my mind.

I was in the middle of washing my hands one afternoon when I heard it—a rush of footsteps behind me, like someone sprinting across the tiled floor. I spun around, expecting to see one of my classmates, but the room was empty. The stall doors were all ajar, and the air was cold. I stood there, frozen, as the door to the bathroom swung open on its own, as if inviting me to leave. I bolted, my sneakers squeaking against the floor, and I didn’t stop until I reached the safety of my classroom.

A few weeks later, my friend Jamie came back from that same bathroom, her face pale. She told us in a hushed voice, ‘I was alone, and I heard the bathroom door open. But no one came in. Then a stall door closed, the toilet flushed, the stall door opened again, and the water turned on by itself. I swear, I was the only one there.’

We began to ask questions, and eventually, a teacher told us the story. Years ago, a custodian named Arthur had worked at the school. He was a quiet man, always humming to himself, and he took great pride in keeping the building spotless. One evening, after the students had left, he was cleaning the bathroom on the third floor. He slipped on a wet patch, hit his head on the sink, and died. The school board, in its haste to reopen, never even acknowledged his death. They just hired a new custodian, as if Arthur had never existed.

From that day on, whenever I heard the toilet flush or the sink turn on, I felt a pang of guilt. It was as if Arthur was still trying to finish his job, forever trapped in that bathroom, reliving his final moments. One day, I decided to confront him. I walked into the bathroom, my heart pounding, and spoke to the empty air. ‘Arthur, I know you’re here. I’m sorry they forgot you.’

The room went silent. Even the dripping faucet stopped. I waited, my reflection staring back at me from the grimy mirror. Then, softly, the paper towel dispenser rolled out a single sheet, and the water turned on, just enough to make a small puddle on the sink. I smiled, took a paper towel, and wiped the puddle away. And from that day on, the bathroom was quiet. But sometimes, just sometimes, I’d catch a whiff of Arthur’s cologne, a cheap, woodsy scent, and I’d know he was still watching over us, grateful to be remembered at last.