The Shadow in the Bathroom

I was five years old, and my brother was eight. One evening, our parents went out, leaving us with a babysitter. She was a teenage girl who lived nearby.

Our house was small, just one floor with an attic. The bathroom was down a short hallway, and for some reason, that night, I felt uneasy about going there alone. We were sitting at the kitchen table, drawing, when I told my brother I needed to use the bathroom but was too scared to go by myself. He shrugged and kept drawing. I asked again, almost begging, but he ignored me.

The babysitter sighed and told me to go alone, saying there was nothing to be afraid of. So, I got up and walked down the dimly lit hallway. The bathroom door was slightly open, and I hesitated before pushing it wider. I reached inside to turn on the light.

The old light flickered for a moment before fully turning on. In that brief second, I saw something standing by the sink. A tall, shadowy figure, darker than the room itself. It had no eyes, no face—just a deep, black void. It didn’t move. It didn’t make a sound.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat, and I couldn’t scream. The light kept flickering, and for what felt like forever, I was stuck staring at that thing. Then, suddenly, the light stopped flickering, and the figure was gone.

I don’t remember running back, but I found myself in the kitchen, shouting, “There’s something in the bathroom!” My brother and the babysitter just laughed. My brother even went to check, pushing the shower curtain aside, finding nothing.

When our parents came home, I ran to my dad and told him what I had seen. He didn’t laugh. He just patted my head and said, “I believe you.”

That was the first time I saw something I couldn’t explain. But it wasn’t the last.