THE WASHROOM

By

Drew Brown
 THE WASHROOM

Copyright  2009 by Drew Brown.

This is a free copy of an original short story by Drew Brown. It can

be printed and copied for personal use but cannot be used for
commercial/profitable reasons, in any form, without the express
written permission of the author.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce in whole or in

part in any form or any medium.

This short story is a work of fiction. People, places, events and

situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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THE WASHROOM

The Washroom

Tucked away at one end of the Children’s Ward, on the third floor of
Bloomington College Hospital, was a ladies washroom that did not feature on
any of the maps.
The caretaker had deliberately omitted it.
Twice, he had been the first to see. The first to arrive. But there had been
nothing he could do to help.
When it was all over, he had unscrewed the brass sign and left the door
blank.
The children, however, already knew where it was, although very few ever
chose to use it. Most preferred the longer trip to washroom on the floor
below. In the dark, at night, the young residents would tell stories about what
lurked behind the sprung-loaded door. They would whisper the names of
those who had died.
They told off the terrors within.
One boy, Harry Campbell, had dared to use the washroom. He went in on
the last night before he was due to be discharged. Several other children
waited in the corridor, dressed in green gowns or home-brought pyjamas,
huddled together in nervous anticipation.
When Harry crept back out, a dark stain of fresh urine on the front of his
blue bottoms, the other children were disappointed to find that he had little
to say. He mentioned the white tiles behind the four sinks, the long mirror
and the line of cubicles with their closed doors. He said that the fluorescent-
tube lights really did flicker and that the room looked smaller than he had
imagined.
But he would say no more about what he’d seen, except that he wished
that he’d refused the dare. Ushered by a nurse, who arrived in the elevator

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THE WASHROOM

and admonished the children for being out of their beds, the small group
returned to their rooms, sure that they would learn more in the morning.
Harry Campbell cried beneath his bed covers until dawn and went home
without so much as a goodbye.
After that, even fewer people ventured into the 3 rd Floor Ladies
Washroom. Most knew the stories and had heard the macabre rhyme that
went with them.
But sometimes, sometimes people were forced to venture inside.

***

Both of the fluorescent-tube lights flickered to their own beat.

The starter-motors hummed much louder than was usual.
The scalpel gleamed.
Tara gripped the rim of the hand-basin so tight that her knuckles were as
white as the porcelain she clung to. Salty tears lined her face, having washed
clear a path through her make-up. The grey drops, coloured with a mixture of
eyeliner and foundation, splashed into the basin.
At the bottom, lying across the open plughole, was the scalpel.
Tara didn’t know why she’d taken it. Stealing the blade had been an
impulse. But there it was, sparkling in the unsteady light.
Tara cried.
The emotion caught in her chest and stifled her breathing. She gasped for
air between each violent sob. Not that breathing mattered to her now. Her
battle for air was instinctive; a reflex buried deep beneath her conscious
thoughts.
All of these concerned her son.
Jamie.
Tara raised her gaze from the scalpel to the mirror. Behind her reflection
was the image of the washroom. It had clinical white walls, a tiled floor and
cream cubicles, but she did not see any of these things. It was as if her eyes
failed to register her surroundings, and instead she replayed memories in her
mind, snippets of the past that flashed by like old video clips.
She saw Jamie running across the park, his mop of blond hair bouncing
around his face. Then he was sat at the dinner table, smiling as he ate his
food with his red plastic spoon. She remembered the feeling of his arms
around her neck, while his sleeping head rested on her shoulder.
Her little boy.
Her brave little boy.
Then she saw something else.
A clearer image. The colours were fresher in her head, the sounds and
smells more recent. Tara closed her eyes, hoping to dispel the memory.
But it had already taken hold.

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She saw Jamie on the bed, his small body pierced with tubes and drips.
His chest rose and fell, but not by much. The beeps of the heart-rate monitor
became further and further apart.
She screamed at the doctors and nurses; begged them to do more.
The medical staff offered sincere apologies: there was nothing they could
do.
Tara cursed and spat at them all as she watched her little boy slip away.
He died in her arms.
Why hadn’t they saved him?
Why had they let him die?
She hated the staff at the hospital, hated them all.
With the memory at its conclusion, she looked down at the scalpel.
Why had she taken it? She didn’t remember.
She sunk down to the cold floor and crawled into the corner of the room.
With her back to the wall she wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging
her legs tight to her chest. She cried into the soft denim. The clothes were
tainted by the chemical-cleaner smell of the hospital.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d left. The window showed a
world outside that was bereft of meaning. To her, the sky was neither night
nor day, sunny nor dark.
All she had were her memories, the recollections of a life now gone.
Tara cried.
A waft of warm air touched her exposed skin and she raised her head in
time to see the nearest of the four cubicle doors close. Through the watery
haze of her eyes she watched the little indicator switch from green to red,
showing that the door had been locked.
Someone else was in the washroom.
Tara tried to breathe more easily, tried to calm herself enough to go
unnoticed.
She didn’t want someone to ask if she was okay.
What would someone think if they saw the scalpel? Spurred by the
question, she climbed to her feet. Her mirror image was there to greet her. It
was no worse and no better than what she expected to see. She was what
she was.
A mother without a child.
She rubbed her tear-stained face with the sleeve of her jumper. The make-
up smeared, clumping on the green material. It was no use; she knew she
could not make herself look presentable enough to avoid attention. The
scalpel blade chinked on the porcelain basin as Tara snatched it up, coiling
her palm and fingers around the metal handle.
Slipping across the floor, Tara aimed for the furthest of the free cubicles.
She pushed the door shut as soon as she was inside, and then sat down on
the lowered lid of the toilet.
The smell of disinfectant filled her nostrils.

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In black marker pen, someone had sprawled on the back of the door:
Harry was ’ere. There ain’t no ghost. There ain’t no–
The writing trailed off to become a long black line.
Tara listened to the sounds of the washroom. She wanted to hear the flush
from the other occupied cubicle, and the sound of the lock disengaging. Most
of all, Tara wanted to be alone again. She didn’t want someone else around.
Beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights, and her own ragged breathing,
Tara caught the sound of a soft voice. It was the voice of a female, quiet and
gentle.
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great.
“They kill your loved ones when they operate.
“Don’t go to sleep, or shut your eyes.
“Coz every time you do, someone dies!”
The voice maintained the simple tune and repeated the words over a
second time.
Tara’s hand tightened around the scalpel. Who would sing such a thing?
The lyrics seemed to mock her plight. “Be quiet,” she shouted.
The voice stumbled to a halt, but after a few seconds it began the song
from the beginning.
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great.”
“Stop singing,” Tara shouted. She kicked the closed door in front of her,
which shook the cubicles. “Stop singing now, bitch.”
“They kill your loved ones when they operate.”
Tara jumped to her feet and opened the door. There were more tears
streaming down her face, blurring her vision. Her grief had transformed into
anger and the emotion focused entirely on the first of the four cubicles.
Her tormentor was still inside.
The door remained closed.
The little indicator still showed red.
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great,
“They kill your loved–”
Tara beat her closed fists and forearms against the cubicle door. It
vibrated with the blows, rattling in its housing. “Stop it, bitch,” Tara cursed.
“Come out here now.”
Above her head, the fluorescent strips flickered with greater intensity.
In response, the singing grew louder.
“Don’t go to sleep, or shut your eyes.”
“Damn it, bitch. Stop!”
“Coz every time you do, someone dies.”
Tara stepped back and launched a kick at the door. As her body twisted,
she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Even she thought the
image was terrifying. Her face was a mask of smudged colours and her eyes
were small and bloodshot. Her hair was matted and strands of it clung to her
wet cheeks.

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The scalpel blade shone in her balled fist.

The lock gave way beneath the sole of her shoe and the door flung
inwards. It struck the cubical wall and started to bounce back.
Tara was already inside.
A young girl rose wide-eyed from the toilet. She had a folded piece of
toilet paper in one hand and was pulling down her black dress down with the
other.
She gaped at Tara’s entrance.
The little girl’s blonde hair was cut in a bob that curled up at the sides of
her head. There were jaunty silver pins thrust through the hair to keep it in
place, along with a red and black band that was adorned with long loops of
pearls. White foundation covered her face and neck, contrasting the bright
red lipstick around her mouth. Large gold earrings hung from her lobes.
“Why are you singing that?” Tara said. Her rage had left her breathless.
The little girl dropped the toilet paper to the floor and locked eyes with
Tara. She rocked back and forth uncomfortably on shiny black high-healed
shoes. She looked as though she had walked straight out of the 1920’s.
“Why are you singing?”
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great.”
“Stop it now!” Tara shouted. She felt a jolt of anger twang through her
body. With her left hand, the one without the scalpel, she swung a slap at the
small child.
Her pale hand passed right through the girl’s face.
Tara felt a tingling in her fingers where the contact should have been. It
was like a small electric shock. The girl’s face seemed to shimmer.
Tara stumbled back out of the cubicle. “What are you?”
The little girl followed, her high heels clipping on the tiled floor and a long
pearl necklace jangling around her neck. Now that she was moving, the air of
transparency about her was easier to see. The faintest outline of the toilet
and its cistern could be seen through her slight form. Her singing had
morphed into more of a chant and she sped through the words.
“They kill your loved ones when they operate.
“Don’t go to sleep, or shut your eyes.”
Tara staggered backwards, recoiling from the little girl. The rhythm of the
song filled her head. She slashed with the scalpel as she retreated, slicing it
from side to side. “What are you, a ghost?” she screamed.
As the little girl lurched forward, her hair slipped away to land at her feet.
Her head was bald beneath the wig.
She kept chanting.
Her skin looked thin, weak and flaky, and there were dark circles beneath
her eyes.
Tara could hear herself screaming.
The hairless little girl stopped walking.
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great,

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“They kill your loved ones when they operate.”

Tara’s back bumped against the door. It only opened inwards. She fell to
her knees. “Help me!” she cried. “Somebody help me.”
The little girl watched. Her chanting was quieter now, but she held the
rhythm.
“Don’t go to sleep, or shut your eyes.
“Coz every time you do, someone dies!”
Tara raised her left arm, turned her hand so that her palm faced upwards
and then pulled back her sweatshirt sleeve. She looked at her wrist.
She brought the shining blade of the scalpel towards it.
“No,” she whispered. She wanted to stop but couldn’t. The motion of her
hands continued.
The cold steel touched her skin.
Her breathing was shallow.
She cut from left to right and her skin and flesh parted around the blade.
Blood welled up from the wound.
“Please, no.”
She sliced her wrist with the scalpel again, this time harder, cutting down
to the bone. The severed tendons left her hand limp.
“Please help me,” Tara said. “I need help.”
Blood poured from the injuries to flow down the grout lines like rivers,
criss-crossing the washroom. The bald-headed girl watched Tara, standing
over her as she bled.
The scalpel clattered to the floor amid a pool of blood. The memories
came back with a rush. Tara’s vision was greying out, fading to black. “I’m
sorry,” she said. “Why didn’t they save him? Children shouldn’t die. The
bastards let him die. I’m sorry. I miss my boy, I miss my Jamie.”
A final scream rang out in the washroom.

***

“Is that gum, young man? Spit it in my hand.”

Kirsty Laymon received the chewing gum in her palm then smiled. “That’s
better. Now, catch up with the others.”
“Yes, Nurse Laymon.”
Kirsty stood up and watched as the nine-year-old ran down the corridor.
The play was going to be a good one this month. The children always
enjoyed the afternoon, regardless of whether they were healthy enough to
be involved, or so poorly that they were confined to the audience.
The sound of a scream echoed down the corridor.
Kirsty spun around. On the right, the stairwell was empty. The elevator
doors were closed. That left the two washrooms.
The scream came again.
Kirsty thought she pinpointed the source.

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She pulled open the door to the Ladies Washroom.

The fluorescent light was steady.
Standing in the centre of the floor was Rebecca Morris, one of the ward’s
cancer patients. Her blonde wig was on the ground beside her, crumpled in a
heap. There were tears on her cheeks.
“What’s the matter, Becky?”
“I saw the ghost, Nurse Laymon.”
Kirsty felt a chill run across her skin. She’d seen the police photographs.
A woman had killed herself in the washroom. Her dead body had been
found slumped against the door. A few months after that, a doctor had slit
her own throat in one of the cubicles. “There’s no ghost, Becky,” the nurse
said. She tossed the piece of chewing gum into the waist bin and then
offered her hand.
The sprung-loaded door closed behind her.
“Come on, the play’s about to start. The other children can’t start Bugsy
Malone without Tallulah.”
“I did see her,” Rebecca said. She bent down to pick up her wig. “I sung
the song and she went away. She said she still misses her son. She doesn’t
like hospital people.”
The two fluorescent tubes went out and Rebecca Morris gasped with
fright.
Nurse Laymon’s eyes were drawn to the mirror. In the dim light from the
window, she saw a shadow-like reflection behind her. She thought she heard
a whisper.
“Why did my boy have to die?”
The scalpel touched her neck.
“Sing the song,” Rebecca cried out.
It was already too late.

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