The Lime Green Door

My name is Juniper, and I’m twelve. I go to a private school in the English countryside, housed in a sprawling Victorian manor with creaking floorboards and drafty corridors. My great-aunt was a medium, and my uncle, who I adore, spent years chasing ghosts before settling down to write about them. So I guess it’s in my blood to notice things others might dismiss.

This is my first post, and I’m typing this on a school laptop in the library, hoping I finish before my hour is up. Last time, the screen went blank just as I was getting to the good part. I’ve learned to save.

It started when I was in Year Two, so about six years old. Our classrooms were on the ground floor then, and I desperately wanted to move up to the first floor like the older kids. The junior toilets were at the end of a dimly lit corridor, and they had no windows. The air was always cold, even in summer, and the fluorescent lights hummed with a sickly drone. I refused to go alone. I’d drag my best friend, Clara, with me, and we’d stand side by side, whispering about the ‘lady in the mirror’ we swore we saw in the reflection.

The day I turned seven, something happened. I had a new dress, pale yellow with daisies, and I was proud of it. During break, I ran to the toilets, and Clara was absent. I couldn’t hold it. I pushed open the door, and the cold hit me like a wall. The lights flickered. I went into the first stall, and as I sat, I saw a pair of small, scuffed shoes under the gap of the next stall. They weren’t Clara’s. They were old-fashioned, button-up boots. I called out, ‘Hello?’ No answer. The shoes vanished. I heard a faint, giggling voice, like a child, but not quite human, say, ‘You’re not allowed in here.’ I yanked up my knickers and ran, not looking back. For weeks, I had nightmares of a girl with wet hair and no eyes.

Years passed, and I moved up to the first floor. The junior toilets were sealed off, deemed ‘unsafe.’ A new block was built, but the old ones remained, their doors locked, and the windows painted over. I tried to forget, but my uncle’s stories had taught me that such places cling to their secrets.

Last month, our class was assigned a project on local history. I chose the school building, and while rummaging through the archive, I found a black-and-white photograph from 1895. It showed a group of schoolgirls in high-necked blouses, standing stiffly in front of the manor. The girl in the front row had a blurred face, as if she’d moved during the exposure, but something about her posture made my skin crawl. On the back, in faded ink, was written: ‘The girl who drowned, 1895.’ I asked the librarian, Mrs. Hartley, about it. She paled and said, ‘Oh, that’s just a myth. They say a girl named Elspeth fell into the well and her ghost haunts the old lavatories.’ My blood went cold.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I crept into the hallway and saw the door to the old toilets was open, a sickly green light spilling out. The light pulsed, like a heartbeat. I heard a sound, a child’s sobbing, and a rhythmic scrubbing, as if someone was washing their hands over and over. I tiptoed closer, my heart pounding. The door creaked. Inside, standing at the sink, was a small girl in a Victorian pinafore. She had mousy hair, and her hands were bloody, scrubbing at the porcelain with ferocious energy. She turned, and her face was a mass of raw, water-bloated skin. She had no eyes, just white pits. She spoke, and her voice was the same one from the stalls: ‘Help me clean it. It never comes off.’ I screamed and ran.

The next morning, I told my uncle. He listened, his face grave, and then he said, ‘Some stains are not on the surface. They’re in the bones of the building. You have to face it, Juniper, or it will follow you.’ He gave me a vial of salt and a small iron cross, but I knew the real tool was my own courage.

Last week, I gathered my nerve and returned to the old toilets during lunch, when the school was quiet. The door was locked, but I had a key I’d borrowed from the janitor’s office. The key was old and heavy, and it turned with a click that echoed. Inside, the air was stale, and the lime green tiles were cracked, water stains dripping down the walls. The mirror above the sink was splintered, and the reflection was warped. I approached the first stall, the one where I’d seen the shoes. The door was ajar. I pushed it open, and there, in the corner, was a small puddle of water, and a single, rusted hair clip. I picked it up, and the mirror behind me fogged up. In the condensation, letters formed: ‘RY.’ I wiped it away, and then I heard a cry, muffled, as if from the walls.

I knelt and pressed my ear to the tiled floor. I heard a faint melody from a music box, tinny and off-key, and then a whisper: ‘They buried me here. Under the tiles. Find me.’

I flipped up a loose tile with my fingers, and underneath, there was a shallow hollow. Inside, a bundle of rags, and a small, white bone, a finger bone. I screamed, dropping the tile. But then I heard a sigh, and the sobbing stopped. The air warmed. The green light faded to a dull gray. I stumbled out, and I knew, somehow, that the spirit had been eased. But before I left, I saw one last thing: the girl’s reflection in the cracked mirror, now smiling, her eyes intact, and she mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

I haven’t told anyone except my uncle. He said, ‘You’ve done a good thing. Now let it rest.’ But I still see the lime green door from time to time, and I know that some stains may lighten, but they never truly disappear.

I’m sharing this because I hope someone understands. I’m not afraid anymore, but I’m cautious. If you ever see a lime green door in a school, don’t go in alone. And if you hear the scrubbing, run. Or, if you’re brave, kneel and listen.