The Lavender Sink

I worked as a quality inspector at Meridian Plastics, a sprawling factory that churned out thousands of injection-molded parts daily. The facility had recently expanded with a new annex, a gleaming two-story structure that housed the engineering and quality departments. I was one of the few women on that floor, a fact that became painfully obvious every time I used the restroom. The women’s restroom on the second floor was a pristine, almost eerie space: five stalls with gleaming white porcelain, five sinks with automatic faucets, and a large mirror that stretched across the entire wall. It was always empty, a silent sanctuary that felt more like a mausoleum than a convenience.

I remember the first time I noticed something wrong. I was washing my hands, watching the water swirl down the drain when I caught a glimpse of the mirror. The reflection showed the row of stalls behind me, their doors all ajar, revealing the empty interiors. I felt a prickle at the back of my neck, a sense of being watched. I turned around, but the room was empty. Just the soft hum of the ventilation system and the faint squeak of a drying paper towel. I chalked it up to long hours and a vivid imagination.

But it happened again. A week later, I was in the third stall when I heard the main door creak open. I assumed it was a cleaning lady, but the footsteps were odd—heavier, slower, and they stopped at the sink area. The faucet turned on, and I heard water splashing, but then the sound went on for too long. I finished, flushed, and stepped out. The room was empty, but the middle sink’s faucet was still running, water pooling in the basin and spilling over the edge. I turned it off, my hands trembling. The mirror above it was fogged, as if someone had just been breathing on it. I didn’t see anyone leave.

My friend Lisa from accounting, who also worked on that floor, assured me I was just stressed. She suggested we use the restroom together from time to time. I agreed, and for a while, the odd occurrences stopped. But then came the day Lisa was out sick, and I was alone in the restroom. I was in the last stall when I felt a draft from the vent above. I looked up and saw the ceiling tiles were slightly shifted, creating a dark gap. Nothing unusual there, but then I heard a faint, rhythmic sound, like scratching inside the wall. I hurried out, my heart pounding. I bent over to adjust my shoe, and when I looked up, the middle sink was filled with a foul, dark water, and a strand of long, black hair was coiled around the drain.

I ran back to my office and called maintenance, but they found nothing. They said the plumbing was fine and left. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of that hair, so out of place in the pristine room, haunted me. The next day, I forced myself to go back. I decided to inspect every inch of that restroom. I checked the stalls, the sinks, the mirrors. Everything seemed normal. But then I noticed the floor grate near the door. It was a small, metal grate, barely noticeable—the kind that covers a floor drain. I knelt down and peered through the slats. In the darkness below, I saw movement. Something was alive down there, something that glistened and writhed.

I staggered back, my mind racing. I knew I should call the authorities, but I was terrified they’d think I was mad. That evening, I stayed late, determined to get to the bottom of it. I entered the restroom armed with a flashlight. The grate was still there, and as I shone the light through, I saw a pair of pale, dead eyes staring back at me from the darkness. They blinked. I screamed and fell back, my flashlight clattering to the floor. The lights flickered, and the door to the restroom slammed shut, locking itself. I ran to the door and tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. The sink faucets turned on all at once, and the water came out black, splattering into the basins and onto the floor. The mirrors began to fog, and in the condensation, letters appeared: ‘LET ME OUT.’

I pressed my back against the wall, watching as the floor grate lifted, and a gnarled, wet hand reached out, its fingers long and clawed. A figure pulled itself partway through, a creature that looked human but was completely coated in black sludge, its skin translucent, revealing veins and bones. It made a gargling sound, and the restroom filled with the stench of rot. The lights went out completely, and in the darkness, I felt its cold breath on my neck.

Miraculously, the door burst open, and Lisa’s voice cut through the darkness: ‘What’s happening?’ The lights flickered back on, and the thing retreated, sinking back into the grate, which sealed itself shut. I was on the floor, trembling, soaking wet. Lisa helped me up, and we ran. We told security, and they found nothing. But I knew what I saw, and I knew it was real.

I quit shortly after, leaving Meridian Plastics behind. But that restroom haunts me. I can’t use a public restroom without checking the drains, without looking for that glint of eyes in the darkness. And sometimes, when I’m alone and I hear a faucet drip, I whisper, ‘I’ll let you out,’ and pray that I never see the lavender sink again.

Years later, I heard that the annex was demolished due to ‘structural issues.’ I drove past the site and saw the rubble. I felt a glimmer of relief, but then I noticed something in the debris—a familiar shape, half-buried in concrete. It was the middle sink, its basin still stained with black residue, and the drain seemed to be moving, pulsing like a living throat. I turned and ran, and I’ve never looked back. But some things are better left buried, and the lavender sink is one of them.