The Lavender Stall

The old science building at Westbrook University had a reputation. Not for ghost stories or tragic accidents, but for its peculiar architecture—a labyrinth of narrow halls, sudden stairwells, and restrooms that were always too cold. We spent our lab sessions on the seventh floor, a dimly lit expanse where the fluorescent lights hummed a constant, nervous song. My friends—Mara and Jules—and I had our own routine. During the long three-hour labs, we’d slip away to the women’s restroom at the end of the corridor, the one with the cracked lavender tile. We’d lean against the sinks, our voices low, gossip and laughter echoing off the stained mirrors. It was our sanctuary, even though we knew the stories—the janitor who swore she saw a girl in a white dress staring out the window on nights when no one was there, the maintenance man who claimed the pipes moaned like someone in pain.

We never believed them. But the toilets were a different matter. Within minutes of our entering, a cubicle would flush. Not with the whoosh of a faulty valve, but a deliberate, measured swirl, as if someone had pressed the handle with intent. The first time, it scared us half to death. We fled, hearts pounding, and didn’t return for weeks. But as time passed, we got used to it. It became a quirk, a reason to laugh nervously. ‘Maybe it’s the ghost of a girl who had too much water,’ Jules would joke. But the flushes always came from the same stall—the third one, the one with the door that didn’t quite shut properly.

Then, on a humid Tuesday in March, the lab ended early. I had been holding it for ages, and I dashed to the restroom, relieved to find the line short. Only a few girls were ahead of me. I waited, squirming, as each cubicle emptied. Finally, only the third stall was occupied. I asked the girl in front of me, a silent freshman with braces, ‘Is someone in there?’ She nodded, her eyes fixed on the closed door. I peeked through the gap between the door and the frame. The stall was not empty. I saw two feet, white and still, pointed toward the toilet. The legs above them faded into shadow. I blinked, and the feet were gone. The toilet flushed. The door creaked open, revealing nothing but an empty stall. The girl in front of me turned pale and ran.

I stepped forward, my heart slamming. I needed to pee so badly. I entered the stall and locked the door. The air was cold, frosty, smelling of bleach and something sweet, like rotting flowers. I did my business, but as I finished, I heard a soft whisper, as if from right behind me: ‘You took my place.’ I spun around, but there was no one. The mirror showed only my terrified face. The toilet flushed by itself, the water swirling with a faint pink tinge. I yanked open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. It was as if someone was leaning against it from the other side, giggling softly. I pounded on the door, screaming. Then, the pressure released, and I stumbled out. Mara and Jules were standing in the doorway, their faces ashen. ‘We heard you screaming all the way from the lab,’ Mara said.

After that day, I couldn’t bring myself to enter that restroom again. I used the one on the ground floor, which was always crowded and noisy. But my classmates began to talk. They said that on the seventh floor, the third stall in the women’s restroom was always locked, but sometimes the toilet would flush. The janitor refused to clean it, saying it always smelled like a corpse. I went to the dean to complain, but he laughed it off, saying, ‘It’s just old pipes, Miss Collins.’ I didn’t believe him. I knew what I saw, and I knew what I heard. That whisper, that ‘You took my place’—it felt like a curse.

A week later, I found an old yearbook in the library. It was from 1989, the year the science building was completed. In the senior photos, there was a girl named Emily Hartley, who had died in the women’s restroom on the seventh floor. According to a small news clipping, she had locked herself in the third stall and overdosed on pills. They said she wanted to become a ghost, to haunt the school. I stared at her photo, and she seemed to be staring back, her eyes hollow, her smile frozen. I closed the book, my hands trembling.

Now, whenever I walk past that restroom, I hear the flush. And sometimes, in the faintest reflection of the window at the end of the hall, I see a girl in a white dress, her back to me, standing before the third stall. She never turns around. But last week, as I hurried past, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and a voice saying, ‘Soon, you will be ready.’ I didn’t look. I ran. And I haven’t stopped running since.