There's Something Going on At My College
I hate walking back to the dorm at night.
The campus always feels different when the sun sinks below the horizon, as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for someone to slip. The hallways stretch long and empty, the fluorescent lights flickering just often enough to make the shadows sway unnaturally across the peeling linoleum. Doors creak open and shut without warning, and though I know it’s the wind, or a late student, I can’t shake the feeling that the sounds are waiting for me, counting my steps.
The shared bathroom at the end of the hall has always been uncomfortable. It’s supposed to be communal, safe in numbers, but there’s something about the faintly sour scent of soap over stagnant water, the way the tiles always glisten under lights that don’t seem bright enough. Tonight, the curtain over one of the showers quivers, though the water isn’t running. A soft hiss begins, pauses, then stops as suddenly as it started. A stall door locks with a click I didn’t hear anyone make, and I realize that the air feels too heavy, thick with a presence that shouldn’t exist.
I take a step back.
My backpack feels suddenly heavier, my stomach tight. Every drip of water, every scuff of my sneakers across the wet tiles, echoes down the hall like a warning. Out of the corner of my eye, shadows shift too fast, corners of the room that twitch and breathe when I’m not looking directly. My skin crawls, and I tell myself it’s imagination but the sound behind me, faint at first and then deliberate, tells me otherwise. Footsteps, measured and exact, follow me down the corridor, stopping when I stop, silent when I dare to glance over my shoulder.
Days pass, and the unease grows.
Towels folded neatly in the bathroom racks bear faint impressions of fingers I do not remember leaving, my own hand perhaps or something pretending to be mine. Faucets drip when no one is near, and shower curtains twitch like thin ghosts. I see my roommate sometimes at the end of the hall, standing in the shadows, hair shifting in ways that defy her body. She smiles at me, just briefly, and the expression feels wrong: too wide, too knowing.
I stay awake more often now, listening to the hall, tracing every sound with my ears, trying to pinpoint the source. Breathing, whispers, a faint shuffle just beyond the end of the hallway. I’ve stopped stepping on the tiles that creak under my weight; I move in silence, but still the sounds follow. I’ve tried leaving the dorm, spending nights in friends’ rooms, but even there, I hear it.
Waiting. Watching. Pacing.
Last night, curiosity finally overcame fear. I decided to confront it or perhaps I wanted to see it properly, to know I wasn’t losing my mind. I stepped down the hall, lights flickering, my own shadow leaping along the walls. The shower curtain twitched again, though I hadn’t touched it, and the faucet began its slow, dripping hiss. Then the whispering started, faint at first, murmurs bouncing off the tiles, wrapping around my feet, curling up my spine. It wasn’t words I could recognize, but it was communication, directed at me.
I didn’t stay to figure out what it was. I bolted, down the long hallway and slammed the door behind me, pressing my back to it until my chest ached.
I keep my door locked now.
I keep the lights on. I leave small things out in the hall, just to see if they move. Sometimes, when I sit on my bed, I hear the pacing again, circling the hallway outside my door.
Waiting. Patient.
I’ve stopped telling myself it’s a prank, a shadow, a trick of my imagination. There’s something in the dorm with me. And tonight, I can feel it, brushing against the other side of the door, listening, waiting for me to fall asleep.
Lucie Hamilton
Lucie is a an independent writer, and you can find her on IG @toxxicctearss.