The January Washroom

The January Washroom

It was the spring of 2011, and I was in fifth grade at Cedar Ridge Elementary, a school that had only opened two years prior. The building was still so new that the hallways smelled of fresh paint and the windows gleamed. But from the start, there was something off about the downstairs boys’ washroom, the one near the gymnasium. It was always colder in there, and the lights flickered, but we all figured it was just the old pipes and cheap wiring.

One rainy afternoon in late April, I had a sudden stomach cramp during PE. I asked Coach Barnes for permission to use the bathroom, and he waved me off with a grunt. I hurried through the double doors and down the corridor, my sneakers squeaking on the polished linoleum. The washroom was empty, as usual. I did my business in the last stall, and when I finished, I washed my hands and took a moment to fix my wet hair in the mirror, slicking it back like a rock star.

That’s when I saw him. A tall figure, well over six feet, dressed in a flowing white robe, standing near the third stall. He had no face, just a smooth, pale oval where his features should be. I blinked, and he was gone. I spun around, but the washroom was empty. My heart hammered. I ran back to the gym, but Coach Barnes just frowned and told me to get back in line. I couldn’t concentrate the rest of the day. I told my friend Marcus about it during lunch, and he laughed, but I saw him glance toward the hallway with a nervous look.

From that day on, I paid attention. I started calling the figure ‘the Warden’ because he looked like he was guarding something. In May, we had a fire drill during a thunderstorm. The alarm blared, and we all filed out into the rain, shivering under the awning. That’s when I saw it again—the Warden, standing at the window of the boys’ washroom, his white robe stark against the dark glass. He wasn’t moving, just watching us. No one else seemed to notice, but I knew what I saw. When we went back inside, I snuck a peek into the washroom, but it was empty, as always.

A week later, Marcus and I were the last ones in the classroom after school. He had to grab his jacket, and I waited by the door. He came out looking pale, his eyes wide. ‘Dude, there’s someone in the mirror,’ he whispered. ‘A face, all white, just staring at me from the back row of stalls.’ I didn’t wait. I grabbed his arm and we ran all the way to the bus loop, not stopping until we were safe on the bus. We never spoke of it again, but we both knew the Warden was real.

That summer, the school installed new motion-sensor lights in the hallways, and for a while, the phenomena stopped. I thought the Warden was gone. But on the first day of sixth grade, I walked past the boys’ washroom and the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and there, in the mirror, I saw my own reflection—but behind me, a white robe. I whirled around, and nothing was there. But in the mirror, the Warden was still standing, his faceless head tilted as if listening. I backed out, slamming the door, and I never used that washroom again.

I graduated from Cedar Ridge two years later, and the school remains open, but I heard from a younger neighbor that the downstairs washroom is still cold, still flickering. Sometimes, when the lights go out, the kids swear they see a tall figure in white watching them from the corner stall. I don’t know what the Warden wants, or why he chose that place, but I know this: every time I pass by a school, I look at the windows, half expecting to see his pale, welcoming form. And it shivers, even on the hottest days.