The stall door shudders slightly in its frame, almost imperceptibly, and only for a moment. The resultant clatter is brief, but still — alert for any sign of disturbance — I hear it.
My spine clenches and my toes curl, arching my feet forward and raising my knees above the level of the toilet seat. I feel the small of my back press hard into the base of the tank, its cold a sharp and sudden shock against my exposed skin.
Perhaps the door had just shook because the building did? I ask the question, but fail to convince myself that I know the answer. And I can’t exactly blame the wind here, can I?
“H-hello?” I stammer, the dryness of my mouth causing me to fumble untidily with the word.
I feel the fingers of my left hand digging hard into the meat of my palm, as I recoil into myself with a tense anticipation preparing to listen closely for any further sounds I might hear — or imagine. With my right hand, I scramble for the roll of toilet paper crudely screwed into the stall wall beside me, pawing at it as if I’m a cat to its ball of yarn or some other such cliché.
The stall is so cramped, and its contents so close together, I’ve already struck my elbow on the exposed toilet roll a small handful of times by this point. Each time, its slightly spongy surface had offered me an abbreviated sense of comfort, as I felt assured that I wasn’t about to be abandoned without the essential required to mop up my business when the deed was finally over.
But there is no such comfort for me now, as I feel my fingertips run over a length of the rough paper, clutching for any semblance of the safety it had offered me only moments ago.
I heave in a deep breath and hold it tightly, feeling myself tremble as I wait for some kind of a response to my investigative query.
Of course, none comes.
And it never does.
Seconds pass, maybe minutes — I lose track — but finally I think that I can allow myself to release the tension, exhale and settle back again. As I do, I feel the underside of my bare thighs splay out under the toilet seat’s rim beneath me, forming a kind of seal of pinkish, human dough over the fetid contents within.
The tension unspooling, my heels return to the rest room floor, and I swear I hear them land with an almost soundless dull thud.
Bending at the waist, I lean forward to look down at my feet now planted firmly on the ground, wedging my face between my knees and expelling another deep, wavering exhale.
I should be safe here, I assure myself.
But I’m still not convinced.
This isn’t the first time I’ve worked myself up into a panic like this while going about my business in a public toilet stall, just like it isn’t the first time that I hope it will be the last.
Maybe that’s true of all anxieties, I wonder. But then, this anxiety isn’t exactly a typical one, is it?
Maybe not. Then again, what is ‘typical’ anyways?
I sigh, reaching with my right hand to swipe downward on the roll of toilet paper beside me, uncoiling a length of sheet to tear free.
Now I pause to ponder a familiar question, asking myself — how much is too much? Or too little?
Too few sheets and I would risk my fingers bursting through the thin shield between them and the mess I’ve made, dipping in like a finger attempting to twirl around the rim of a jar of hazelnut spread. On the other hand, tearing away too many sheets could mean that the excessive wad might fail to reach the deeper remnants as it runs out of room between my cheeks.
I know that it’s a delicate balance, and I’m not convinced that anyone has ever managed to master it for themselves. Instead, I’ll have to settle for my best guess, and tear away my attempt at a middle ground from the toilet stall wall.
Carefully, I push my thighs up off the toilet seat high enough to hover over it, craning my right arm up and under myself to run my wad of paper up the length of soiled skin beneath. Wiping up is a deliberate choice, of course, as I know switching up for down could result in a potential disaster.
By wiping up, I eliminate the risk that I might wipe any of the remains on my clothing, as I pin my hitched t-shirt between my ribs and an elbow. If I were to wipe down, meanwhile, odds are I’d end up wearing traces of the mess home.
Slightly louder this time, the door shudders again in its frame.
I freeze mid-wipe, feeling a familiar chill begin skittering its way up my spine. From the silence, I’m sure I hear a soft voice whisper my name, quickly, like a burst of dust chasing a footstep.
“Harvey,” it says.
The fear grips my chest more tightly now, and I clear my throat at a perceptible volume in an attempt to coax the silence of the toilet stall and the rest room to convince me that the sound had only been my imagination again.
“Is… is anyone there?” I ask the silence, stammering again.
Beneath me, I relinquish the stained wad of paper stowed in my grasp, letting it tumble down into the depths of the toilet bowl where it can begin to slowly dissipate and dissolve. My quivering legs remain fixed in place as I do, holding me still hovering aloft the toilet seat.
Seconds of silence pass again, as I wait with bated breath for a response. None comes, and I wonder again if it had just been my imagination.
I struggle to convince myself that it had been, and with a trembling hand I clutch for the toilet roll again to begin unspooling another length. This time, I move with a greater hurry, knowing that the growing swell of simmering panic in the pit of my stomach is beginning to edge closer and closer to being frantic.
I tell myself there’s no way I heard it, and that nobody would bother me here, of all places. Who would do that? And why?
I had to have imagined it, I tell myself. I must have.
Still, my trembling hand wipes at my exposed behind with a now frenzied speed, and even the fear of missing something unseen isn’t enough to convince me that I should take greater care or slow down at all.
I tell myself that I just have to get out of here, even if it really had been just my imagination.
I feel my phone buzz suddenly in my pocket, vibrating against my knee, and I jump in fright. My heels bounce up again from the floor, as my cheeks clench against themselves, one smearing its grotesque prize against the other.
As if in response to the buzz of my phone, I spot a thin, pale hand as it shoots out from under the toilet stall wall to swipe at my foot. In a heartbeat, its gone, as involuntarily I hear myself respond by sputtering a soft moan of fright.
The prod of fear pushes my knees forward abruptly, the trousers cresting around them forcing me to topple backwards on to the toilet seat with a loud clatter I hear echo around the rest room.
As I fall, the latest soiled wad of toilet paper tumbles from my hand to the floor and bounces to a stop in the gap between the bowl and the stall wall.
As quickly as before, the hand shoots back, closing its bony fingers tightly around the wad and pulling it away.
I scream.
“Who did that?” I demand, willing myself to sound braver than I feel. “Who’s there?”
I don’t dare to wait for any kind of response this time, however, pushing myself to my feet and hurriedly fumbling to wrench my trousers up and over my naked legs. A part of me recoils in disgust to know that I hadn’t yet finished wiping, but I know I’m far too panicked to ruminate on the thought for too long.
I struggle to fasten the belt around my waist and thrust myself forward to toy with the lock on the toilet stall door, hurrying to free myself from the stall’s confines.
Again, I’m sure I hear the hushed voice call out my name, this time from somewhere even closer behind me.
“Harvey!” it hisses.
I tell myself I have to ignore it and burst out through the toilet stall door, barely managing to save myself from falling forwards to the floor.
I’m not surprised to find the rest room itself empty of people or signs of life, with only a trio of sink basins and a scuffed length of mirror offering my own reflection to greet me. My eyes are agape and pulsing with a visceral fear, as strands of sweat-laden hair drape amok over my forehead and threaten to dangle more loosely over my eyes.
For half a second, I think about craning my neck to see if I might spot any sign of the hand’s source in the gap beneath the door to the locked stall, but think better of it.
A bizarre intrusive thought enters my mind, asking me if I ought to still wash my hands, even hurriedly and without the benefit of soap that the rest room’s custodians haven’t seen fit to provide access to.
No.
I dismiss the idea, pivoting instead to lunge the few steps to the exit door. As I do, behind me I begin to hear the door of the locked toilet stall begin rattling loudly in its frame, rising suddenly like a frantic drum beat nipping at my heels and threatening to swallow me whole.
“Harvey,” the voice hisses again, much louder this time. “Harvey. Harvey. Harvey.”
Over and over it repeats itself, almost in-song, each repetition gaining in volume.
“Harvey. Harvey. Harvey.”
I feel the comforting cold metal of the door’s handle butt into my palm as my fingers close around it, my whole body clenching tightly to wrench the door free and expose my escape. Despite my panic, it refuses to budge, even as I strain even harder to pull it out.
“No, no, no,” I sob, willing myself to pull at the door with all the effort I can muster, my knuckles whitening as my grip tightens.
As suddenly as it had started, I hear the voice and the door’s rhythmic clatter fall silent behind me, exposing the sounds of my fruitless struggle with the exit door as the only exceptions to the silence. I grunt and expel a shuddering, panicked exhale, feeling myself beginning to hyperventilate.
For a moment, I wonder if I should turn back to look behind me, hoping that maybe I might discover that it had been just my imagination all along. I curse myself as I give in to the thought, slowly turning to peer in the direction of the row of toilet stalls I had left behind moments ago.
My eyes narrow to focus on the toilet stall that had been locked beside my own, and from which I had heard the voice emerge.
Only now, of course, it is no longer locked at all.
And the door is no longer closed.
Instead, a pale face peeks out from the edges of the frame, looking out in my direction.
I take quick note of the face’s features — its cloudy, grey eyes appearing to swirl like the coiled tips of a freshly stoked fire, and crystalline blue lips curling over exposed yellow teeth as it grins.
“Harvey,” the figure offers, almost laughing.
Not wasting a moment, I spin again to return to pulling with an even greater fervour at the exit door, now even more desperate to escape.
“Harvey,” the voice says again, whimpering with laughter. I don’t dare to look, focusing my attention instead on my futile attempts to wrench the exit door free from its frame.
It won’t budge. Still, it won’t budge.
“Harvey,” the voice whispers sharply in my ear, spattering my exposed earlobe with warm spittle.
I’m sure I can smell it, too, the sickly scent of dust and rotten fruit barraging my senses. Loudly, I hear its lolling tongue turn around the inside of its mouth, slurping and sucking at the saliva forming there.
I scream again just as the door finally gives way to my pull, its suddenness causing me to clumsily fall backwards to the floor with a painful thud. With my free hand I clamour to break my fall, turning slightly as I land and exposing me to the grotesque sight of the figure’s exposed feet standing inches away.
With a horrifying speed, I see the figure bounce down to its haunches, its face hovering closely to my own.
It continues to grin, as its clouded, swirling eyes search my face, studying me. I’m unsure how long I’m left there, staring into its eyes, sure it could have only been just a second or two. But…
“Harvey,” it whispers softly, as if cooing at me.
I respond only with yet another scream, and without a second thought propel myself to my feet. Hurriedly, I sprint for the exit, bursting out into the foyer beyond and barely managing to miss colliding with a perplexed man heading in the opposite direction. Pirouetting around the man, I refuse to break stride, turning only to shout a panicked warning over my shoulder.
“Don’t go in there!” I shriek, continuing to flee.
The man stands fixed in place for a moment, watching me as I go, his brow tightly bunched. As soon as he loses sight of me, he shrugs for nobody’s benefit but his own, before turning back to resume his journey.
“Fucking junkies,” he mutters and reaches for the door, pulling it free and stepping in to vanish into the rest room beyond.