The Last Bell

My name is Elias, and this is what happened to me when I was eight, in the autumn of 1987, at St. Jude’s Elementary. The school was an old, sprawling brick building with a labyrinth of hallways that smelled of floor wax and old paper. That evening, the annual Harvest Fair was in full swing in the gymnasium. My parents were supposed to pick me up by six, but they were late, as usual. I wandered away from the fading sounds of the fair, down a corridor I had never been allowed to enter. There were locked doors, some with dusty glass windows, and I felt a mix of excitement and unease.

I had just passed a door marked ‘BOILER ROOM – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY’ when a sudden pressure in my bladder reminded me I had drunk too much apple cider. I knew there was a staff bathroom at the end of the hall, but it was off-limits. But I was desperate. I pushed the door open, and the smell of pine cleaner hit me. As I entered, I heard a toilet flush. I froze. The bathroom was empty – a row of white stalls, all doors slightly ajar. I figured it was a janitor or a teacher, so I went into the third stall, locked the door, and did my business.

As I flushed, I heard another flush, from the stall next to mine. I waited. The flush stopped, but no one left. I finished, washed my hands, and stepped out. The bathroom was still empty, but the flushing continued – not from any stall, but from the entire wall, as if the pipes were alive. Curious, I walked to the last stall, whose door was closed. I knocked. No answer. I pushed the door slightly.

Inside, the toilet was not there. Instead, there was a small, circular room, maybe six feet wide. The walls were covered in black tiles that seemed to absorb light. In the center, there was a child’s chair, and on the chair sat a porcelain doll, about my size, with cracked white skin and glass eyes. Its mouth was open in a silent ‘O’. And around its neck, a chain with a metal tag, like a dog’s tag. I leaned closer to read it. It said: ‘ELIAS’. My name. My heart hammered. Then the doll’s head slowly turned toward me, and its jaw unhinged with a soft click.

I stumbled back, tripping over nothing, and fell against the opposite wall. The flushing grew louder, a deafening roar, and the floor began to tremble. The doll rose from the chair, its arms dangling, and took one jerky step, then another. Its feet made a hollow clack on the tile. I scrambled to my feet, bolted out of the bathroom, and ran down the hallway. But the hallway stretched on, longer than I remembered, the doors repeating: ‘BOILER ROOM’, ‘BOILER ROOM’, ‘BOILER ROOM’.

I ran past the gym doors, but the sounds of the fair were gone. The building was silent, except for the flushing, which followed me, growing louder, until it seemed to come from inside my own ears. I found the main entrance, but the door was locked. Through the window, I could see the parking lot, empty, under a black sky. A single light flickered. And in the reflection, behind me, I saw the doll standing at the end of the hall, its head tilted, its tag glinting. It spoke in a voice like the winding of a music box: ‘Don’t you want to know why you’re here?’

I pressed my back against the door, sobbing. The doll started walking, its steps echoing. Then it stopped, and raised its hand, which was a white glove, and pointed at me. ‘You were late,’ it said. ‘Just like the others.’ And then, the lights went out.

I don’t remember how I got out. My parents found me hours later, huddled in a janitor’s closet, shivering, with a high fever. I was sick for weeks. They thought it was the flu. But I know what I saw. And every time I hear a toilet flush, I see that doll, and the empty room with no exit, and the tag with my name, waiting for the next child who wanders too far. Some say the old boiler room still has a toilet that flushes on its own. But I know better. It’s not a toilet. It’s a door. And the doll is always waiting on the other side.