The Tile That Breathed

I’ve always had this irrational fear of public restrooms, especially the ones tucked away in the basement of our university’s oldest building. The lighting is always flickering, the pipes groan like they’re in pain, and the air smells of damp concrete and bleach. I know it’s silly, but I can’t help feeling like something’s waiting in those stalls. That’s why I never go alone. My friend Dana, bless her heart, she humors me. She says I’m just paranoid, but she still comes along.

It was a Thursday, last period free, and we were the only ones down there. The rest of the student body was either in the common room or out on the quad soaking up the rare autumn sun. Dana and I pushed open the heavy door, and it swung shut behind us with a click that echoed too long. The fluorescents buzzed, one of them strobing, making the white tiles look like they were pulsing. I tried to shake off the unease, focusing on the mundane task at hand.

We chose our stalls, Dana two doors down from me. I did my business quickly, eager to get out. As I was about to flush, I heard it: a wet, slapping sound, like something heavy and damp hitting the floor. It came from the direction of the empty stall between us. I froze, my hand hovering over the handle. Dana must have heard it too, because she asked, ‘You okay in there?’ Her voice was muffled, but I could hear the concern. I said I was fine, just a pipe, probably.

But then I saw something that made my blood run cold. Under the gap of the stall door, a dark, viscous liquid was seeping out from the empty stall, spreading across the tiled floor like a slow, black tide. It wasn’t water. It was too thick, too oily, and it had a faint, sickly sweet smell, like rotting flowers. I stumbled out of my stall, nearly slipping in the ooze. Dana came out too, her face white. We stood there, side by side, staring at that closed stall door as the liquid kept coming.

The door to the stall creaked open on its own, slowly, as if something was pushing it from inside. The stench intensified, making me gag. Inside, the floor was covered in that black substance, and on the toilet, there was a shape. It was like a human form, but wrong, too tall, too thin, its skin glistening like wet coal. It had no face, just a smooth, head-like shape, but I could feel it looking at us, a gaze that pressed against my skull. I wanted to run, but my legs were jelly. Dana grabbed my arm, her nails digging in, and whispered, ‘Don’t move.’

The thing shifted, and the black liquid slid off its body, pooling on the floor. It took a step towards us, and the lights flickered violently. In the strobing dark, I saw it had too many joints, bending at impossible angles. It raised a hand, or what passed for one, and pointed a long, dripping finger at me. And then it spoke, not with a voice, but with a vibration that shook the room, a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to come from inside my own head. It said, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

I don’t remember what happened next. One moment we were in that restroom, the next we were outside, collapsed on the grass, gasping for air. The sun was warm, the sky was blue, and there was no sign of the black liquid on our clothes. We didn’t talk about it on the way back to our dorms. We didn’t talk about it for weeks. But sometimes, late at night, I hear that thrumming in my ears. And when I close my eyes, I see that faceless thing, and I know it’s still there, waiting in that empty stall, wanting me to come back and finish what we started.