The Painted Door and the Missing Bolt

I’ve worked at the Meridian Textile Mill for the better part of a decade, and in all that time, the women’s restroom on the third floor has been a source of quiet dread for me. It’s not the grime or the flickering fluorescent light that bothers me; it’s the door. Over the years, layer upon layer of industrial-grade paint has been slapped on, so many coats that the wood has swollen and bowed, making it a stubborn, unyielding slab that fits the jamb about as well as a square peg in a round hole. You have to put your shoulder into it, plant your feet, and shove with all your might to get it to budge. And when it finally gives, it doesn’t just open—it slams, a thunderous crack that echoes down the hallway, announcing your arrival like a herald’s trumpet. It’s a small indignity, but one I’ve learned to live with.

Inside, the three stalls are relics of a bygone era, their doors held shut by rusty barrel bolts that you have to slide with a brisk click to lock, and another click to unlock. The hinges are loose, and the doors groan on their pins, complaining with every movement. The whole place feels like a tomb, a forgotten corner of the building where sound behaves strangely, where every scrape and whisper seems amplified and distorted.

Yesterday, I had one of those days. The kind where your stomach knots up and you know you need a moment of peace. I made my way to the restroom, took a deep breath, and gave the door that familiar, forceful shove. It resisted, as always, then gave way with a bang that rattled the walls. I stepped inside, and the first thing I noticed was that the middle stall was closed, its bolt clicked into place. Good, someone else was in there. I didn’t pay it much mind; I went to the stall on the left, the one farthest from the door, and slid the bolt shut with a satisfying click.

I did what I needed to do, and then I reached for the toilet paper. My fingers brushed against the empty cardboard roll. The dispenser was bare. I let out a frustrated sigh. Of course. The one stall that’s out of paper, and I’d chosen it. I could feel the cold of the porcelain seeping through my clothes, and a shiver ran down my spine. I’d have to ask the person in the next stall for a roll. It was awkward, but necessary. I cleared my throat and called out, ‘Excuse me? Could you pass me a roll of toilet paper? I’m out.’

There was no response. Just silence, heavy and thick, like the dust that gathered on the ceiling tiles. I waited a moment, then tried again, a little louder. ‘Hello? I’m sorry to bother you, but I really could use some toilet paper.’

Still nothing. Not a rustle, not a cough, not the soft shift of someone adjusting their position. The silence was oppressive, pressing in on me. Maybe the stall was empty? But the bolt was shut from the inside. I couldn’t tell from my angle. I’d have to peep under the divide, but that felt wrong, like some kind of invasion. Yet, I was stuck. I couldn’t exactly leave with my pants down.

A moment of selfishness took over. I decided to check. I leaned down, my cheek pressing against the cold metal divider, and peered through the crack between the partition and the floor. What I saw made my blood run cold.

There, on the floor of the next stall, were two bare feet—not flesh, but a ghastly shade of grey, like plaster or old bone. The feet were facing the door, as if the person was standing, not sitting. And they didn’t move. Not a twitch, not a shift of weight. The toes were perfectly still, almost unnaturally so, like they were carved from stone.

I pulled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. ‘Hello?’ I called out, my voice wavering. ‘Are you okay? Do you need help?’

The feet didn’t budge. But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the feet began to turn. They swiveled on the balls, the heels lifting slightly, until they were facing me, directly pointed at the partition. And then, they started to walk. Step by step, the grey feet padded closer to the divider, until they were right at the edge, so close I could see the tiny cracks in the skin, the missing toenails, the faint webbing between the toes. That’s when I noticed the smell. It was like old pennies and damp earth, a metallic tang that made my stomach lurch.

I stood up abruptly, my head spinning. I fumbled with the bolt, my fingers clumsy, and slid it open with a click that seemed deafening. I pushed the door open, and it swung outward with a groan. I half-expected to see someone standing in the other stall, but it was closed. The bolt was still engaged.

I didn’t care. I just wanted out. I ran to the exit, my shoes squeaking on the tile, and I threw my weight against the painted door. It didn’t budge. I pushed again, harder, panic rising in my throat. The door was stuck, as if the swollen wood had swollen even more, sealing me in. I could feel the cold radiating from the stall behind me, and the smell of pennies grew stronger. I glanced back, and I saw the bolt of the middle stall slowly sliding open, from the inside, with a soft, deliberate click.

The door swung open, and there was nothing there. The stall was empty. But the toilet paper dispenser was full, a fresh roll of white paper untouched. And on the floor, right where those feet had been, was a small, grey object—a child’s toy, a rubber duck, but it was old and decayed, its squeaker broken.

I slammed my shoulder into the door once more, and this time it gave way, sending me stumbling into the hallway. The door banged shut behind me, the sound echoing like a gunshot. I didn’t look back. I walked straight to my desk, my hands shaking, and I didn’t use that restroom again for the rest of the day.

But I knew, deep down, that the painted door would always be waiting, and that the barrel bolt would click open for no one, waiting for the next person who chose the wrong stall.