The Empty Stall

In 2016, I was a temp archivist at the Meridian Life Insurance building, a squat, concrete relic from the 1970s on the edge of downtown. My office was on the fifth floor, a warren of cubicles and filing cabinets that smelled like old paper and floor wax. The building had a reputation, of course—everyone who worked there had a story about the fifth-floor bathroom. They said a woman in a blue dress haunted it, that you could hear her crying in the last stall, that she’d flush the toilet when you were alone. I dismissed it as office folklore, the kind of thing people invent to make a dull job interesting.

On my third day, I had a cup of coffee too many, and my bladder demanded relief. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, its door heavy and painted with chipped green enamel. I pushed it open, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the white tiles. There were four stalls, all with their doors ajar, and the room was empty. I took the fourth stall, the one farthest from the door, because it felt private. I closed the latch, and as I sat down, I heard it: a distinct, echoing flush from the first stall.

My heart skipped. I froze, listening. The only sound was the drip of a faucet and the hum of the light. I knew I was alone—I’d seen the empty room, and the heavy door would have groaned if anyone had come in. Curiosity and dread battled in me, and I found myself unlocking my stall and stepping out. The first stall was closed, so I pushed it open. The toilet bowl was swirling, water spiraling down as if just flushed, the porcelain gleaming wet. The seat was dry, no footprints on the floor, no hint of anyone having been there. A cold trickle ran down my spine.

I ran out of that bathroom, my hands shaking, and I didn’t stop until I was back at my desk. My coworkers saw my pale face and exchanged knowing glances. One of them, a senior clerk named Margaret, told me, ‘You used the fourth stall, didn’t you? That’s her favorite.’ She explained that the woman in blue had been a secretary in the 1980s who had an affair with a manager. She got pregnant, and when he refused to leave his wife, she hung herself in that bathroom. The stall she used was the fourth, and now she haunts it, playing tricks on anyone who sits there. I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t shake what I’d seen.

For the next few days, I avoided that floor’s bathroom entirely, using the one on the ground floor, even though it meant a long walk. But the incident had burrowed into my mind. I started hearing things—a faint sobbing at night, the sound of a toilet flushing when I was alone in the archive room. My sleep became fitful, and I felt a constant, uneasy presence. One evening, working late to finish a backlog, I heard the unmistakable sound of a flush from the direction of the fifth-floor bathroom. I was the only one on the floor. I decided I had to confront it, to prove to myself it was just pipes or my imagination.

I walked to the bathroom, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The door was ajar, which was odd. I pushed it open, and the lights flickered. The first stall was closed. I approached it, my breath shallow, and slowly pushed the door. The toilet bowl was full of water, perfectly still, and then, without warning, the water began to churn and drain, a gurgling sound that seemed to laugh at me. I stumbled back, and as I did, I caught a glimpse in the mirror: a faint reflection of a woman in a blue dress, standing behind me, her face pale and streaked with tears. But when I spun around, there was no one.

I fled the building that night, never to return. I quit the next morning, giving no explanation. My coworkers understood; they’d seen it before. To this day, I still avoid public restrooms, and I can’t hear a toilet flush without a shiver running down my spine. The Meridian building was demolished in 2018, but I know that somewhere, in the rubble, the fourth stall still holds its spectral occupant, waiting for the next person who dares to sit in her place.