The Lavender Menace

I was eight when the summer camp took us to the old Whitmore Arboretum, a sprawling, overgrown garden on the edge of town. It was a place of dusty paths, a crumbling stone fountain, and, most importantly, a pair of public restrooms that the older kids whispered about. They said a groundskeeper had hanged himself in the men’s room years ago, and now his ghost lurked in the lavender-scented soap dispensers, waiting for someone to use them alone.

My friends—Zoe, Marcus, and I—were too old to believe such nonsense, or so we told ourselves. But the arboretum was boring: the flowers were wilted, the fountain was dry, and the only thing that held any appeal was the forbidden thrill of the restrooms. They stood a little apart from the main paths, half-hidden by a tall hedge of unkempt laurel. The counselors, two college kids named Dave and Priya, were too busy flirting by the fountain to notice anything we did. So we hatched a plan: we’d take turns slipping off, one at a time, to peer inside the restrooms and report back.

Zoe went first. She was the bravest of us, with a wild mop of red hair and a grin that promised trouble. She jogged over to the women’s room, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and disappeared inside. Marcus and I waited behind a rhododendron bush, our hearts thumping. After a minute, she came back, her face pale. ‘There’s something in there,’ she whispered. ‘The mirror—it’s fogged up, but there’s a handprint on it. A big handprint.’

We didn’t believe her at first. We thought she was messing with us. But then she showed us her fingers—they were wet, and they smelled of lavender. ‘I didn’t touch the sink,’ she said. ‘The handprint was already there.’

It was my turn next. I was scared, but I couldn’t let my friends see that. I walked to the men’s room, my sneakers crunching on the gravel. The door was heavier than I expected, and it creaked open with a long, low groan. Inside, the air was cold and thick with the sweet, cloying scent of lavender. The tiles were grimy, the single window high up gave little light. I stepped in, my eyes adjusting. The mirror above the sink was clear, but as I looked at my reflection, I saw something behind me—a shadow that moved, not quite a shape, but there. I spun around, but there was nothing.

I turned to run, but the door had swung shut. The handle was wet, slippery with something that felt like soap. I pulled, and it wouldn’t budge. Panic rose in my throat. I banged on the door, shouting for my friends. From outside, I heard Marcus’s muffled voice: ‘The door’s stuck?’ Then I heard Zoe’s high-pitched laugh, but it sounded wrong—too high, too hollow, like a recording played at the wrong speed.

Then the mirror fogged up. I didn’t touch it, but suddenly it was clouded with condensation, and in the middle, a handprint appeared, pressing against the glass from the other side. The hand was huge, with long, twisted fingers, and it moved, dragging down the mirror with a screech that made my ears ring. I screamed.

The door flew open. Marcus stood there, his face ashen. ‘What happened?’ he asked. But I couldn’t speak. I just pointed at the mirror. When they looked, it was clear again, completely dry.

We all backed away from the restrooms. The counselors had finally noticed our absence and were calling us to the picnic tables. We went, but we said nothing. We ate our sandwiches in silence, each of us stealing glances at the restrooms. The door to the men’s room was slightly ajar, and I could see a dark shape lurking just inside the entrance.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. We played tag, but no one had the heart for it. When the camp van came to pick us up, we piled in, and I noticed that Zoe’s red hair looked darker, almost brown at the roots. She said she’d felt a cold spot in the women’s room, like a freezer aisle, but we all knew it was more than that.

That night, at home, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing that handprint. In the morning, I called Zoe. Her mother answered and said Zoe had a fever and wouldn’t be coming to camp. ‘She’s talking in her sleep,’ her mother said, her voice worried. ‘Something about a lavender garden.’

Marcus didn’t come to camp the next day either. I sat alone at the picnic table, watching the restrooms. A counselor came by and told us that the arboretum was being closed for the season, something about a pest problem. But I knew better.

I never went back to that camp. I grew up, moved away, and forgot about that day for years. But last week, I received a postcard in the mail. It was a photograph of the Whitmore Arboretum, now abandoned and overgrown. On the back, written in shaky handwriting, were two words: ‘We saw you.’ There was no return address. The postmark was from our town, dated a week ago.

I couldn’t shake it. Was it Zoe or Marcus? They had both died in a car accident ten years ago, just a few months after that summer. I had been at their funeral. So who sent the postcard?

I looked closer at the photo. In the background, near the restrooms, there was a figure—a tall, thin shape, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. It was wearing a camp counselor’s t-shirt, but the logo was wrong. And it was holding a bottle of lavender soap.

I dropped the postcard as if it were on fire. A cold dread settled in my stomach. I knew, with a certainty that defied reason, that the groundskeeper had never left. He had only been waiting, gathering strength, and now he had found me again. The lavender scent in my house was stronger than ever, and I knew he was not alone. He had Zoe and Marcus with him.