Something Was Inside

### **"The Broken Bathroom"**

*A true story—at least, as true as memory allows.*

Do you believe in ghosts?

I didn’t. Not really.

Until that one evening.

Now, I don’t think I’ll ever *not* believe again.

---

I was about 11 or 12—Class 7. It was a small village, surrounded by ponds, bamboo groves, and long stretches of silence. Back then, the roads were just mud tracks. Trees outnumbered people. You could walk half a mile and not see a single house.

And when night came?

The entire place would sink into a kind of darkness that city kids will never understand.

No street lights.

No headlights.

No background noise.

Just the sound of insects, and the occasional dog barking somewhere far off—like it had seen something it shouldn’t have.

---

My mother and her sisters used to share old stories—real ones, they claimed. About things they saw. Shadows at the edge of fields. Sounds coming from dried-up wells. Warnings never to go out during **Maghrib**—sunset time. “That’s when they roam,” she’d say.

Of course, I listened, but I didn’t really believe.

Not until that Wednesday.

---

It was just after Maghrib. The call to prayer had just ended.

The bathroom in our house was outside. It was old, made of tin and bamboo, and placed awkwardly between two ponds. No one liked going there after dark. It creaked. It smelled damp all the time. And it felt... off.

That day, I needed to go. And despite my mother warning me earlier—“Don’t go outside now, wait a little”—I went anyway.

My cousin Mahi was with me. She was around my age. We were close—shared everything, even fear.

She didn’t want to come, but I insisted.

I said, “Nothing’s going to happen. Don’t be silly.”

We took the longer way around the pond. I remember the ground was soft. Damp. The sky had already gone dark blue.

And then it happened.

I stepped on something—maybe a piece of glass, or an old nail—and it dug into my foot. Sharp, sudden pain. I stopped, swearing under my breath.

We were right in front of the bathroom.

It looked worse than usual that day.

The door was half-open, hanging crooked.

The inside was pitch black.

I bent down, trying to pick whatever was stuck in my foot. Mahi was quiet.

Then, out of nowhere—

**A sound came from inside the bathroom.**

Not a loud bang. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet, unmistakable **shuffling**. Like feet dragging across wet cement. Slow. Deliberate.

We both froze.

I looked at Mahi. Her face was pale. “Did you hear that?” I whispered.

She nodded, slowly.

We stood there, not moving. The kind of stillness where even the insects stop chirping. The bathroom door creaked a little—just enough to make your stomach twist.

Then... nothing. Silence again.

Except—no. Not silence.

We heard it again.

A kind of low breathing. Not loud. Not human. Like someone had been holding their breath for too long and finally let it out.

I took one small step forward and looked through the cracked wall panels.

Nothing.

Or maybe... something?

There was a shape inside. Could’ve been a shadow. Could’ve been my eyes playing tricks. But it felt *wrong*. Like something was standing very still in the dark, and it **knew** we were there.

Suddenly, the Adhan began again—from the distant mosque speaker.

The moment it echoed out across the village—

**We heard a soft thud from inside.**

Like something dropped to the floor.

That was it.

We **ran**.

Barefoot, bleeding, slipping in the mud—we didn’t stop until we got home and slammed the door shut.

I didn’t tell my mom right away. Neither did Mahi.

But the next day, when I finally mentioned what happened, my mother just looked at me for a moment. And then she said quietly, “You shouldn’t have gone. That place… it’s not clean.”

---

Later, I heard more. Quiet whispers. A boy who had drowned in the pond years ago. A mason who worked near the bathroom and left in the middle of the night without collecting his wages. They say he saw someone staring at him from inside. No one else saw anything.

They say the place pulls you in.

That if you go too often, something follows you back.

---

I never went near that bathroom again.

They eventually tore it down.

But even now, when I walk by that area—older, supposedly wiser—I feel it.

A chill.

A weight in the air.

Like something still waits there.

I never saw a ghost.

Not directly.

But I know what fear feels like.

And I know when something isn't right.

---

So I ask you again:

Do you believe in ghosts?

Because I didn’t.

And now I think I’ll never be free from that night.

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