The Ever-Present Watcher

When I was eight, at Oldfield Primary, the girls’ bathroom near the art room was a place I dreaded. It wasn’t the typical fear of being caught smoking or the stale smell of bleach. It was her. She stood in the farthest stall, behind the cracked door, not using the toilet, just standing there, facing the wall. She wore the old school uniform – a green plaid skirt that hung just above her scuffed black shoes, a white blouse with a frayed collar, and a maroon V-neck sweater with the school’s crest. Her hair was in two neat plaits, tied with green ribbons, and she never moved. Not an inch. I saw her for months, every time I was alone in that bathroom. I told myself it was a trick of the light, that I was going crazy, but she was always there, a frozen photograph in a world of motion. I even tried humming to distract myself, but the air around me would grow cold, and I’d rush out, heart pounding.

My mum, ever the pragmatist, suggested I talk to her. ‘She’s probably just lost, sweetie. Ask her what she wants.’ I thought it was absurd, but one afternoon, with my hands shaking, I whispered, ‘Can you leave me alone, please?’ She didn’t reply. She didn’t even blink. Her eyes, I noticed, were fixed on a small, faded ink drawing of a ship on the wall, just above the toilet paper dispenser. It was a childish drawing, probably years old, and she seemed utterly transfixed by it. That was the first time I saw her move – her head tilted slightly, as if she were trying to remember something.

I confided in the school caretaker, Mr. Bellows, a gruff man who smelled of cigarettes and paint. He frowned, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. ‘Oh, that’s just the Watcher,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Happens every few years. A girl sees her, and then she’s stuck with her until she leaves the school. There’s a story that a girl drowned herself in that stall back in the ’60s. She was obsessed with a ship her father was on, a merchant vessel that never came back. She used to draw it everywhere. They say she’s waiting for news, but she’s become a sort of… guardian of that bathroom, watching over all the girls. Harmless, really, as long as you don’t try to leave while she’s looking.’

But I was determined to be rid of her. I remembered a story a girl in Year 5 told me about ‘Bloody Mary’ – saying her name three times in front of a mirror summons a spirit that claws your face. I thought, why not? If I could summon a worse ghost, maybe she’d go away. I brought a compact mirror from home, locked myself in the bathroom, and stood in front of the mirror, facing the stall where she stood. ‘Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary,’ I chanted, my voice echoing. Nothing happened at first. Then the light above me flickered. The girl turned – fully turned – to face me, her movement stiff, like a marionette. And she spoke. Her voice was dry, like rustling leaves: ‘That is not my name.’

I screamed. I dropped the mirror and ran, but the door wouldn’t open. I was trapped. The girl took a step forward, and then another, her shoes making no sound on the tiles. ‘You tried to summon another to displace me,’ she said, her lips barely moving. ‘Now you will join me.’ Her hand, cold and grey, reached out to touch my face. I shut my eyes, bracing for the end. But then I heard a hum – a tune, soft and lilting, like a lullaby. I opened my eyes. The drawing of the ship on the wall was glowing, and from it, a faint light emerged, taking the shape of a man in an old naval uniform. The girl stopped, her eyes widening. ‘Papa?’ she whispered.

The man smiled, and the girl turned back to me, her expression softening. ‘You freed me,’ she said. The man nodded, and they both began to fade, like mist in the morning sun. The door swung open, and I stumbled out, gasping. When I looked back, the bathroom was normal, empty. The drawing was gone. I never saw her again.

Years later, I learned that the school had been built on the site of an old orphanage, and that a girl named Evelyn had indeed drowned in the bathroom, waiting for her father’s ship. Some say her ghost still wanders the halls, but now, it’s only on rainy days, and she’s often seen holding hands with a tall figure in a sailor’s cap. I think they finally found each other. But to this day, I avoid mirrors in school bathrooms, and I never say any name three times.