The Last Cubicle

Take my advice. Stay out of the restrooms at night. Especially when you’re alone.

Why?

Don’t ask. It was terrifying. I knew ghosts were real, but I thought I will be safe. I was wrong.

My stomach was already grumbling when I entered my 7:10-8:40 night class. After thirty minutes of tribulation, I asked my closest friend Carl for toilet paper, told him to shut up and wipe that smirk off his face, and went out of the classroom.

Don’t get me wrong. I found the restroom scary. In fact, I hesitated before entering, but I have no choice. Like the typical guy, I chose the stall farthest from the door. The floor was wet and walls were smeared with vandalism, but otherwise the cubicle was surprisingly clean. I did a double take. If the janitor had already cleaned the restroom, why was the door open?

At this time of the night, the air was cool and eerily silent. I knew I should be scared or suspicious, but at the moment I got nothing on my mind except to let everything out. I felt the familiar tingling sensation as I relieved myself. I sat in introspection for a while, as one would normally do when sitting on a toilet seat. And then suddenly, as if by an unspoken mystical consensus, all noise around me was muted. There was an ethereal silence for several minutes.

I started feeling uneasy. And then the lights began to flicker.

“Carl!” I called, grasping the cubicle walls in surprise. Only my friend knew I’m here. “It’s not funny.”

There was no reply. I held my breath and listened intently. The lights did not flicker again, but suddenly the temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees lower.

I had just found my breath when the door slammed shut. The sound magnified in the empty restroom. I cringed and completely lost my nerve.

“Carl!”

I’m gonna kill him, I swore. Trying to scare the lights out of me.

It was as if nature suddenly stopped calling. To hell with my upset stomach; I’m leaving.

I hurriedly cleaned myself while thinking of the terrifying scenarios that would happen if I stay longer. I was midway when I started noticing the vandals on the walls. I have been looking at them for the past minutes, but now that the air had turned sinister, I remembered the story.

A boy once joined a gang and had the time of his life destroying things and defacing walls. Then in a tragic gang fight, he lost his lower jaw and died. At present day, the ghost of the boy finds solace drawing on restroom walls. They said he’s asking for help, but since his lower jaw was gone, he could not speak. And so he writes.

Every hair on my body stood on its end. I told myself that it’s not real. It’s just a story. But suddenly, every ghost, monster, and horrifying creature found their way into my imagination.

I was already zipping my pants when I heard a sound one would never want to hear when alone in the restroom.

The toilet in the adjacent cubicle flushed.

I clenched my fists and closed my eyes in fervent prayer. Now I know I’m not alone. And I know by gut instinct that whoever is with me is not human. Good God, give me strength.

I listened intently and heard footsteps splash in the water. Whoever it was was walking barefoot and making a lot of noise. The sound came closer and to my great horror stopped right in front of me. I quickly double-checked the bolt on the cubicle door. It was locked.

The shadow cast on the floor stayed for a few seconds. I heard the sound of a pen striking the wood, then it became piercing to the ears similar to the sound a marker makes on a whiteboard. I covered my ears and tried not to scream. When the writing stopped, the shadow moved away.

I stayed where I was for several minutes until I was sure the ghost had moved. Beads of sweat had formed on my forehead despite the cool night air. Every hair on my body was standing in terror. My heart pounded so hard I can hear its echo in the empty restroom. I needed to get out of this place. And fast. I wished Carl would come down to check on me. Then I remembered I left my phone inside my bag in my haste.

Mustering as much courage as I can, I cautiously opened the cubicle door. From my vantage point, there was no sign of the ghost. I cursed. It could be anywhere and I would never know it.

I opened the door wider and peeked. What I saw stopped my beating heart. A boy about five feet in height was standing at the door. He had his back on me, writing on the wood with a permanent marker in his pale, skinny hand. He was wearing tattered clothes and shorts, and no shoes. I held my breath and prayed he wouldn’t notice me. I was wrong.

The ghost stopped writing and quickly turned around, facing me in all his horrifying glory. My mouth automatically opened in disgust.

The boy had no lower jaw. In its place was putrid flesh painted with fresh blood. He had no upper mouth either, just blood dripping where his upper lip should be. Then there were the eyes. They were not sinister, but it was the lack of expression that scared me the most.

I was too shocked I did not notice the boy crouch to all fours and crawl toward me in an agonizing speed. He was halfway when I broke out of my trance. I cursed and slammed the door in the nick of time.

The ghost’s hand appeared from under the door and grabbed my leg. I screamed and shook my leg free. I trampled the hand and kicked it away. It felt terribly real under my foot.

I repositioned my feet and placed my hands on the door, putting my weight on it should the ghost try to barge in. Then the ghost began its spectral writing on the wood. My head throbbed with the sound. Dear God. I felt hyperventilating, every breath painful and hot. This is how I die.

Then the writing stopped and the ghost moved away from the door. I did not fall for the trick. The gears in my mind began working. If the ghost was asking for help, perhaps his plea is written somewhere in the vandals on these walls.

Without moving my hands from the door, I scanned the cubicle for any sign of his silent plea. I was looking up when the ghost’s grotesque head suddenly appeared above the wall separating the cubicles. I flinched in surprise. The ghost fixed its blank dead eyes on me. Then his hand with the marker appeared. Then his other hand appeared. He was climbing the wall!

I did not hesitate. By attempting to climb, the ghost had given me an opportunity. With my last reserve of courage, I pushed the cubicle door open and ran to the bathroom door. It was a short distance, and the ghost was still dangling on the wall. I will be able to escape.

I was three feet from the door when I slipped. I fell face down on the tiled floor and scrambled to get up, but in my panic kept slipping. I cursed. Bloody hell, I cursed.

I heard the ghost land on the floor and crawl towards me. I almost died right there in fear. At the last minute, I managed to stand, yank the door open, bolt out, and slam it back again, leaving the ghost in its unholy prison. I heard it hit the door followed by the sound of frantic writing.

I did not stop running until I lost my breath. I paused and tried to compose myself. It was only then that I realized I had never read whatever it was that the ghost was writing. For a moment I felt sorry for the poor spirit, trapped here on earth until someone helps him, and then I remembered the climactic fear and danger I had just encountered. No, I am not brave enough to help. I closed my eyes in prayer for his soul.

The next time I entered a restroom, I could not shake off the feeling that I am not entirely alone. Somewhere, the disfigured ghost writes his woe in ethereal letters, unnoticed among the usual graffiti. More than once I found myself with goose bumps as I scanned the walls, knowing that one of these vandals was not written by a human hand.

~end

Author’s Note: This was written when I was in College and was first published in The Central Echo Literary Folio “Silence.” The Central Echo is the official student publication of Central Philippine University, Iloilo City, Philippines.