The Vanishing Lacquer

I was at my friend Paige’s house, along with our friend Rachel, just hanging out on a rainy Saturday afternoon. We’d decided to watch a horror movie, something about a haunted carnival, but I’d been dreading it. Horror movies always got under my skin, and I had a habit of avoiding them with little tasks.

We settled into the living room, the movie started, and within the first ten minutes, I announced I needed a refill of my drink. I went to the kitchen, took my time, even rearranged the magnets on the fridge. When I came back, the movie had progressed to some creepy clown scene, and I felt my skin crawl. I couldn’t sit still, so I said I needed to use the bathroom.

In the bathroom, I locked the door and leaned against the sink, trying to calm my nerves. I noticed my nail polish in my purse, a deep blood-red color. I figured I’d paint my nails to distract myself, anything to avoid the clown. I shook the bottle, opened it, and started painting my left hand’s nails. I was on my middle finger when I reached for the brush again, but the bottle was gone.

I froze. I hadn’t put it down anywhere, and the bathroom was tiny. The only places it could be were the counter, the sink, or the floor. It wasn’t there. I even checked inside the sink—nothing. My heart started to race. I glanced at the shower, which was behind a clear vinyl curtain. The curtain seemed to billow slightly, even though the window was closed and no air was moving.

A cold knot tightened in my stomach. I whispered, ‘Hello?’ Nothing. I slowly approached the curtain, my hand trembling, and yanked it back. Empty. But as I let go, the curtain rippled again, and I heard a faint clinking, like glass against tile. I looked down, and there was my nail polish bottle, lying on the floor near my feet. I hadn’t dropped it; I would have heard it. And it was unopened, the brush still coated in polish.

I picked it up, my hand shaking. I checked the cap—it was snug. I looked around the bathroom, feeling watched. The mirror over the sink suddenly fogged up, though I hadn’t run hot water. A word appeared in the condensation: ‘LEAVE.’ I gasped and stumbled back, and the fog vanished as quickly as it came, leaving the mirror clear.

I ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, and rushed to the living room. Paige and Rachel looked up, annoyed. ‘What’s wrong?’ Paige asked. I tried to explain, but they just exchanged looks. Rachel said, ‘You’re probably just freaking yourself out because of the movie. Come on, sit down.’

I reluctantly sat on the couch, but I kept glancing toward the hallway where the bathroom was. The movie continued, but I couldn’t focus. After a few minutes, Rachel said she needed to pee, and got up. I watched her go down the hall, fearing for her. The bathroom door was still closed, and I saw her reach for the knob, but then she hesitated. She turned around and came back, looking pale. ‘The door’s locked,’ she said. ‘Did you lock it?’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t lock it when I left.’

Paige frowned. ‘Maybe it jammed.’ She went to the bathroom, and we heard her struggle with the knob. Finally, it gave, and she pushed the door open. She stepped inside, and we heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘There’s something on the mirror,’ she called out. I stood and went to her, Rachel behind me.

On the mirror, in the condensation that had reappeared, was a message: ‘YOU’RE NEXT.’ Underneath, in smaller letters, was a list of names: ‘Paige, Rachel, and me.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. Paige turned to me, her eyes wide. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

But I was looking past her, at the shower curtain. It was swaying gently, as if someone had just brushed past it. And then, the nail polish bottle I’d left on the counter started to slowly rotate, as if invisible fingers were turning it. It stopped, pointing at Rachel. She screamed.

We bolted from the house, not stopping to grab our things, and drove to my place. We haven’t gone back. But last night, I found the nail polish bottle in my purse, even though I’d thrown it away at the gas station. And when I opened it, the brush was clean, and the polish was gone. But there was a faint, powdery residue on my middle finger, and it won’t wash off. I can still smell it, like old copper and something sweet. And I can’t stop looking over my shoulder, because I know whatever was in that bathroom isn’t done with us yet.