The Ladies’ Room on the Meridian Floor

The chime for the final period had barely faded when the pressure in my bladder became an emergency. I was on the seventh floor of the Merriam Building, the oldest and most hated structure on campus. The elevators were out for maintenance, so I took the stairs two at a time, my sneakers squeaking on the worn linoleum. The seventh floor hallway was empty, lit by flickering fluorescents that hummed a low, sick note. I knew the drill: the girls’ restroom at the end of the west wing was off-limits. The janitor had warned us, ‘No one goes in there after the lights dim.’ But the science wing’s restrooms were locked for cleaning, and the library’s were a floor down. I had no choice.

I pushed through the heavy door, which swung with a soft sigh, and the smell hit me: damp plaster and bleach mixed with something sweet that made my stomach turn. The room was lit by a single naked bulb that buzzed over the row of stalls. I locked myself in the first stall, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the latch. The moment I sat down, I felt a wave of relief so intense that I closed my eyes. That’s when I heard it: the door to the hallway opened and closed again, so gently that I might have imagined it. But the click of the latch was unmistakable. Then footsteps—soft, deliberate, like someone walking on tiptoe—moved across the tile floor, heading straight for my stall.

I held my breath. The footsteps stopped right outside. I waited for a knock, a cough, a voice. Nothing. Just the sound of breathing, slow and wet, like something gargling. I glanced under the stall door and saw nothing—no shoes, no shadow, just the pale checkerboard of the floor. The footsteps resumed, circling to the next stall. The door creaked open, then shut. I heard the rustle of clothing, the unmistakable sound of someone settling on the toilet. Then the rip of toilet paper, a flush that gurgled like a drowning man, and the stall door opening again. More footsteps, this time heading toward the sinks. I heard the water run, a sputter, then stop. The air grew cold, and the light bulb flickered.

My legs were numb. I pulled up my pants, my heart hammering, and peered under my door again. The bathroom was empty. The stalls were all open except mine. The paper towel dispenser was empty, and the mirror—I caught a glimpse of it in my periphery—was fogged over, even though no steam had risen. That’s when I noticed the writing on the wall next to the sink, scratched into the paint like long nails: ‘COUNT THE STALLS.’ I froze. I’d entered through the first door, counted four stalls total. But now, as I forced myself to look, there were five. The fifth stall was at the far end, its door slightly ajar, and from inside came a low, rhythmic scraping, like fingernails on a chalkboard, but slower. The scraping stopped, and a child’s voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘You’re squatting in my spot.’

I shot out of the stall and ran for the door, but the door wouldn’t budge. The handle was ice cold and slick, like it was coated in oil. The lights went out completely, plunging me into a darkness so absolute that I could feel it pressing on my eyeballs. I heard the faucet turn on, then off, then on again, in a deranged rhythm. The scraping resumed, louder this time, and I felt a breath on the back of my neck, damp and rotten. A voice, now closer, right behind me, said, ‘You should have used the bushes.’ I screamed and threw my shoulder against the door, and it slammed open, so suddenly that I tumbled into the hallway, landing on my hands and knees. The door swung shut behind me with a final, smug click.

I scrambled to my feet and ran, not stopping until I reached the stairwell. I didn’t look back. The next day, I tried to tell the principal, but he just smiled and said, ‘That’s the ghost of Mary Mowbray. She died in that stall in 1965. She’s still waiting for the janitor to unlock her.’ I never went to the seventh floor again. But sometimes, when I’m in a crowded public restroom, I’ll hear that same soft footsteps, and I’ll glance under the stall next to me, and there will be nothing. And I’ll hear a whisper, so quiet I could be imagining it: ‘I see you, dear.’