The Stain That Wouldn’t Wash

The air in the dormitory wing of St. Agatha’s Convent School for Girls was thick with the smell of floor wax and the nervous static of two hundred teenagers cramming for their final examinations. We were all form five students, marooned in our own school for a five-day intensive study camp, our sleeping bags spread out across the polished wooden floor of the central library, the only room blessed with air conditioning. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the night, and the only light came from the green-shaded lamps on the study tables, casting a sickly glow over piles of textbooks and index cards.

Outside, the school grounds stretched towards the cliff edge, where the South China Sea gnawed at the rocks below. Our school was a relic of a bygone era, a sprawling colonial building with high ceilings and long, echoing corridors, its once-whitewashed walls now stained with salt and time. We were proud of our clean toilets, the best on the island, and of our manicured gardens, but that Thursday evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, a strange unease settled over me.

I was sitting with my friend Mira on a wooden bench by the koi pond, trying to memorize the intricacies of Malay literature while the frogs began their nightly chorus. The pond was a mirror of dark green, reflecting the last of the twilight, and the air was heavy with the scent of frangipani. I had just asked Mira to quiz me on the difference between metaphor and simile when I felt a sudden, wet splat on my shoulder.

I looked down to see a streak of white, semi-liquid bird droppings sliding down my blouse. I laughed, wiping it with a tissue, but Mira’s face was pale. ‘That’s bad luck,’ she whispered, her eyes fixed on the retreating silhouette of a large black bird disappearing into the banyan trees. I shrugged it off, but a chill that had nothing to do with the evening breeze ran down my spine. I felt a sudden, irrational urge to go back to the library, to the safety of the crowd.

After dinner, as the clock in the hall struck nine, the familiar pressure in my bladder grew. Mira, ever my companion, agreed to accompany me to the toilets. The nearest ones were at the end of the east corridor, a long, dimly lit hallway lined with classrooms, their doors shut and locked. The lights were on a timer, and as we walked, they flickered on ahead of us and off behind us, leaving pools of darkness that seemed to swallow the echoes of our footsteps.

The toilet block was at the very end, just before a heavy fire door that led out to the back courtyard. We pushed open the door, and the stench of disinfectant hit us—a smell that was supposed to be clean but tonight seemed cloying, almost sickly sweet. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh white light on the white tiles, which were spotless, as always.

We entered the first two stalls. I heard Mira’s door click shut, and then a long silence. I did my business, flushed, and washed my hands. When I looked into the mirror, I saw that the white stain from the bird had somehow reappeared on my shoulder, even though I had scrubbed it off with a wet wipe. It was more pronounced now, a stark white blot against the dark blue of my school blouse. I rubbed at it with a paper towel, but it only seemed to spread, like a liquid stain.

‘Mira?’ I called out, my voice echoing off the tiles. ‘Are you okay?’

There was no answer. I pushed open her door. It swung open to reveal an empty stall. The toilet seat was down, and on it sat a single black feather, slightly oily. I felt a prickle of fear. ‘Mira!’ I shouted, my voice bouncing off the walls. I checked the other stalls, all empty. The exit door at the far end of the toilet was ajar, leading to the courtyard. I pushed it open, and the cool night air hit me.

The courtyard was a square of bare concrete, surrounded by high walls, with a single dead tree in the center. A security light above cast a stark, bluish glow, revealing nothing but the tree and the frosted glass of the windows looking back at the toilet. Mira was nowhere to be seen. But on the ground, beneath the tree, lay my friend’s school shoe, a white canvas with a purple stripe. It was new, and I remembered her showing it to me just that morning.

I sprinted back to the library, my heart pounding against my ribs. Inside, the other girls were still studying, their heads bent over their books. I spotted our class teacher, Miss Tan, a stern woman with auburn hair, and rushed to her, breathless. ‘Mira is missing! I couldn’t find her in the toilets, and I found her shoe outside.’

Miss Tan looked at me with a mix of concern and irritation. ‘Calm down. Maybe she went to the dormitory wing. You know how girls are.’ But when I showed her the shoe, she paled. She organized a search. We split into groups, combing the school grounds: the dormitories, the classrooms, the canteen, the library’s back rooms. Nothing. Mira had vanished.

The teachers called her parents, who arrived within the hour, frantic. The police were called. Officers walked the grounds with flashlights. I was questioned, but I told them exactly what I had seen. When they checked the toilet, they found no sign of struggle, but on the floor of Mira’s stall, there was a small smear of white, like the bird droppings, only thicker. The police officer, a man with tired eyes, took a sample and sent it to a lab. The school was abuzz with whispers. Some girls claimed they had seen a tall, shadowy figure in the courtyard that night.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling, the AC humming. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the black bird flying away, and the white stain on my shoulder. At some point, I must have drifted off, because I was woken by the sound of sobbing. It was coming from the direction of the toilets. I sat up, listening. The library was dark, lit only by the nightlights on the wall. The sobbing grew louder, clearer—a girl’s voice, choked with fear.

I shook the girl sleeping next to me, but she just mumbled and turned over. I knew I had to go. I crept barefoot down the corridor, the cold tiles biting my soles. The lights flickered on as I approached, and I pushed the toilet door open. The fluorescent lights flickered on with a hum, and there, in the mirror, I saw not my reflection but that of Mira. Her face was as white as the bird’s dropping, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent scream.

I spun around, but the toilet was empty. I looked back at the mirror, and she was still there, but now she was mouthing the words, ‘Get it off me.’ I looked down at my shoulder, and the white stain was gone, but on my hand, I saw a small black feather stuck to my palm.

I fled back to the library, and I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. The next morning, the search continued, but no trace of Mira was found. The police questioned me again, but I had nothing more to tell them. A week later, they found her body in the school’s underground water tank, a forgotten cavern that had been sealed off decades ago. The water had been drained, and there she was, sitting against the wall, her eyes open, a black feather clasped in her hand.

The autopsy report said she died of asphyxiation, but there were no marks on her neck. The only anomaly was a white, gelatinous substance coating the inside of her throat and lungs, which the lab could not identify.

I never returned to that school, and I stopped going to school altogether. My parents moved us to the mainland, but even now, years later, I sometimes feel a cool breeze on my shoulder, and I glance down to see a faint white stain appearing on my shirt, as if the bird is still watching me, waiting for me to finish what it started.