The Painted Lady of Room 14

It happened during my junior year at St. Anselm’s Preparatory Academy, a private school tucked in the hills of New Hampshire. The campus was an old converted estate, with sprawling granite halls and drafty corridors that smelled of lemon polish and stale chalk. We had two restrooms on the west wing: the one downstairs near the cafeteria, always crowded, and the one on the second floor, which everyone avoided because of the flickering light and the strange, persistent chill.

I was heading to my third period class, AP Literature, when the need hit me. The upstairs restroom was closer, and despite its reputation, I didn’t believe in ghost stories. I pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the tiled room. It was pristine, with white porcelain and brass fixtures, but the air was colder than the hallway, and the only sound was the low hum of the ventilation and the occasional drip from a leaky faucet.

I finished my business and went to wash my hands at the row of sinks. I was scrubbing my knuckles, watching the suds swirl, when I heard a soft, dry cough from behind me. I looked up into the mirror. Reflected in the frosted glass was a girl I’d never seen before, leaning against the window frame by the far stall. She had lanky, dark hair that fell over her pale face, and her eyes were a striking, pale gray. She wore a vintage-style blue dress, incongruous with our school’s uniform of navy blazers and plaid skirts. She looked thin, almost gaunt, with dark circles bruising her under-eyes.

I turned around, startled. She met my gaze and coughed again, a raspy, phlegmy sound that seemed too deep for someone her age. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked, my voice echoing in the empty room.

She nodded slowly, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then she raised a hand, pointing toward the window. I followed her gesture, but there was nothing outside but the bare branches of an old maple tree, scratching against the glass. When I looked back, she was gone. The window was empty, and I was alone, the faucets dripping steadily.

I shook it off, thinking I’d imagined it, maybe a trick of the light. But as I exited into the corridor, the cold air of the restroom followed me like a shroud. I walked to Mr. Alderman’s classroom, but my mind was elsewhere. I slid into my seat beside my friend, Clara. She looked at my face and asked, ‘Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I wanted to tell her, but the words stuck. Instead, I whispered, ‘There was a girl in the bathroom. I’ve never seen her before.’

Clara shrugged. ‘Maybe a transfer student?’

‘No, she looked… sick. And she was wearing an old-fashioned dress.’

Clara’s eyes widened. She leaned closer and said, ‘You know, there are rumors. They say a girl died here, in the fifties. She was a student who fell ill with tuberculosis and had to be quarantined. She used to look out that window, waiting for her parents to come take her home. They never did.’ She paused. ‘They say she still roams the halls, looking for someone to listen.’

A chill ran down my spine, but I forced a laugh. ‘That’s just a story.’

The next day, I decided to investigate. After school, I stayed behind, pretending to study in the library. When the last bell rang, I slipped into the administrative office and found the archival records. Buried in a dusty folder, I found a yearbook from 1957. I flipped through the black-and-white photos until I saw her: the same girl, with dark hair and pale eyes, her name printed beneath: Eleanor Whitfield. The caption read, ‘Eleanor passed away in November, after a long illness. She will be remembered for her kindness and her love of art.’

I also found a faded photograph of a painting, a portrait of Eleanor, holding a paintbrush, her face serene. The painting was said to hang in the school’s attic, which had been sealed off for decades. Curious, I traced the records to the maintenance room, where a janitor gave me a key to the attic, warning me not to go up there, saying the floor was unstable.

But I couldn’t resist. I climbed the narrow, creaking stairs to the attic. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old wood. There, against a wall, was the portrait. It was larger than I expected, and it was stained with something dark, like dried blood. But what caught my eye was the background: in the painting, Eleanor was standing in front of a window, and behind her, reflected in the glass, was a face. My face, contorted in terror.

I stumbled backward, tripping over a loose board. As I fell, I heard a soft cough, and then a voice, barely a whisper, ‘I’ve been waiting.’ I turned to see Eleanor standing at the top of the stairs, her pale hand reaching toward me, her finger pointing at the portrait. ‘You see it too?’

I scrambled up and fled, leaving the portrait behind. I ran down the stairs, through the halls, and out into the cold dusk. I never went back to that restroom. I transferred to another school at the end of the semester. But sometimes, when I’m alone, I catch a whiff of that lemon polish and a chill, and I see her face, mirroring mine in any reflective surface, her lips silently mouthing, ‘You’ll be my next.’