The Last Quarter

The shift at the Calloway Processing Plant always ended at five, but the rain that afternoon had turned the parking lot into a mirror of pale concrete and bruised sky. My father, who supervised the night crew, waved from the doorway of the maintenance garage, his voice barely carrying over the drumming on the corrugated roof. He wanted me to wait in his truck while he finished a round with the new hires. I agreed, sliding into the familiar scent of motor oil and old coffee.

An hour passed. The rain didn’t let up, and my bladder demanded release. I stepped out into the wet, the cold air licking at my arms as I crossed the slick lot toward the main building. The plant was vast, a maze of silent conveyors and idle machines, but the only restroom on this side was on the second floor, above the tool crib. I climbed the steel stairs, my footsteps echoing in the empty hall.

The door to the restroom was heavy, and it swung shut with a pneumatic hiss. The fluorescent lights buzzed, casting a stark pallor on the cracked tiles. I was alone, as expected. I chose the last stall, the one with the broken lock, and went about my business. The sound of the rain against the window was a distant patter, almost soothing.

Then I heard it: a clatter from the far corner, like a wrench dropped on the concrete. I froze, listening. Nothing. Probably a pipe. I finished and stood to button my pants, and that’s when I noticed the reflection under the gap of the stall door. A pair of shoes. Work boots, scuffed, wet. They were facing me, motionless.

I cleared my throat. ‘Hello?’ No response. I waited, heart thumping. The boots didn’t move. I slowly unlocked the door and pushed it open. The stall was empty. The entire restroom was empty. A cold draft traced my neck, and the lights flickered. I decided it was my imagination, a trick of the old building. I went to the sink, turned on the tap, and began to wash my hands. The water ran ice-cold.

As I looked up into the mirror, a shape stood behind me. It was tall, indistinct, like a column of dark smoke, but it had a face—a featureless, pale oval, tilted as if curious. I spun around, but there was nothing. The air felt heavy, charged. I turned back to the mirror, and the shape was gone.

I grabbed my phone, my fingers clumsy, and texted my father: ‘come to the 2nd floor restroom now.’ No reply. Panic gnawed at me. I wiped my hands on my jeans and made for the door. As I passed the last stall, the one I’d used, the door swung open on its own. Inside, written in condensation on the mirror that hung on the back wall, were the words: ‘Five more minutes.’

I ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the garage, where my father was talking to a technician. He looked at me, concerned. ‘You look pale. Everything okay?’ I told him what I saw. He frowned, rubbing his chin. ‘That’s odd. The second floor restroom has been closed for months. Pipes burst in the winter. There’s no water up there.’

I stared at him. ‘I just used it.’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe you were in the old locker room down the hall? That one’s still open.’ But I knew what I’d seen. I showed him my phone, the time: 5:44 PM. ‘I was in there for twenty minutes?’ He checked his own. ‘It’s only been ten since you left the truck.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of those boots, the reflection, the words—they played on loop. The next day, I went back to the plant, determined to find answers. The second floor hallway was dim, the air musty. The restroom door was chained and padlocked, a sign saying ‘OUT OF ORDER.’ I peered through the gap, but it was too dark.

A janitor walked by, an old man named Gus. He saw me and paused. ‘You looking for the ghost?’ I asked him what he meant. He told me a story: years ago, a worker named Hale had a heart attack in that restroom during a night shift. He was found slumped in the last stall, still holding a watch. The watch had stopped at exactly five minutes past the hour, but no one knew the minute. They said he lingered, waiting for his shift to end.

A chill ran down my spine. ‘The words said ‘Five more minutes,” I whispered. Gus nodded. ‘He’s still clocking out. Every time someone uses that stall, he thinks it’s his break. He leaves when the shift ends, but he’s stuck.’

I left the plant that day, but the memory clung to me. A week later, my father called. He’d been in the maintenance garage, and he’d found something: an old pocket watch, rusted, stopped at 5:05. He said it was in a corner he’d just cleaned. I didn’t need to ask where it came from.

Now, whenever I’m near water, or when I hear the hiss of a heavy door, I think of Hale waiting for his five minutes to be up. And I wonder if he’ll ever realize that his shift ended a long time ago—or if he’s still counting, one bathroom visit at a time.