John-John’s friends were feeling mischievous. Too mischievous.
He could see it in their eyes, the way they all looked at each other, the way they all blended in together, the way they all turned back to him and grinned almost on cue. John-John didn’t like those grins. Didn’t like them at all. It was almost as if, with the grins, some sort of sardonic brilliance had been transmitted through their eyes and communicated a secret he could not know. Could never know. Yes, John-John’s friends were up to some synchronized mischief tonight….
Torian was the youngest—seventh grader attending Kirby Smith Middle School—but his position on the bed had cut all of that “I’m-not-the-oldest-so-I-can’t-be-the-group-leader” crap out; he was sitting in the middle. Connor and Nigel were sitting on either side. They all loomed over John-John, maintaining those strange, synchronized grins, while he sat on the floor, cold and afraid. They’d turned the TV off—complete silence throughout the house. John-John thought: When are my parents going to be home?
They were supposed to be the cool kids a week ago. The coolest kids Kirby Smith had to offer. Passing the restrooms on his way to Mrs. Dursley’s, he’d seen them out in the halls almost every day, creeping around to check which sixth graders they could pull a wedgie from this time, or jam their heads in the toilets while the deans weren’t patrolling. Every time, John-John would barely manage to tiptoe away. He was a transfer student; and he knew those kids were the types to piss on the floors, bang on the stalls, or find out about newbies like him and give them first-class treatment. Nothing but trouble.
Then they’d spotted John-John early last week, and the one with the scar—Nigel—had hurled him inside. They’d sat him on the toilet, John-John screaming for an administrator to rush in, but that was when Connor had slapped him across the face; his cheek started reddening. Connor, who was tall and wore horn-rimmed glasses, stood back, adjusted them, and had told John-John to listen and shut up.
Torian, the dark one, had made a simple offer. “Join us,” he’d said.
John-John had stopped rubbing his cheek, confused. “What?”
“Join us, kid. Join our crew. You wanna make some new friends, don’t you?”
“I … I guess. But what do I have to do?”
There was nothing he had to do, no cruel catch. Just one sleepover at John-John’s house, and he’d be part of the fun.
John-John had thought about it, teeth chattering. It wouldn’t be so bad, actually. Being the new kid at school and having the chance to join the top of the domain right out of the gate was something he’d only seen in comedy movies; he could stop sitting alone at the lunch table. And … he was kind of forced into doing it. He’d stared down at the toilet bowl between his legs, and shaken all three of their hands without another word.
A week passed. And now here he was, on a Friday night while his parents were out dining at Outback Steakhouse, discussing a game they could play to pass the time, sitting below them like a servant addressing his three kings on thrones. The vibes of the sleepover thus far had been all right, maybe even a little fun … until they’d grinned those rehearsed grins. What type of grins were those? He curled his knees up anxiously. Were the grins a part of the game? Just grin along and keep staring and that’s all you had to do?
Then: “I know a game,” Torian said darkly. “I call it, ‘The Bathroom Game.’”
“The Bathroom Game?” Connor asked stupidly. He was still grinning. “Why would we want to play something so cringey called The Bathroom Game?”
“You haven’t heard the rules yet,” Torian said. “When I tell you the rules, then you can play or not. But what’s the point of not playing a game if you haven’t heard the rules?”
Great point … but the grin on Torian’s face still hovered above John-John’s eyes. Connor removed his, shrugged, then started to wipe his glasses. Nigel resorted to picking his nails.
“It goes like this,” Torian said. His head twisted. “Connor, what’s your biggest fear?”
Connor fidgeted. “Dude, what…?”
“Wait, what’s your biggest bathroom fear?”
“Bathroom fear? Dude, I don’t even know what the heck a bathroom fear is!”
“Anything you’re scared of in the bathroom, dummy! It can be anything. The toilet exploding … the sink pouring out blood … the window coming open when you’re taking a bath and a monster coming through, gripping your neck with its twisted claws—and burrr, burrr, burrrrrrrrr! Wait till it gets you!” Torian now had his arms looped around Connor’s neck, curling his fingers toward his throat to let the uncut nails play there.
“Dude, stop!” Connor yelled, shoving him off. He had to adjust his horn-rimmed glasses, which had slanted diagonally across his nose. “You don’t have to be weird like that all the time.”
“Oh stop being a baby!” Torian spat. “Tell me your biggest fear!”
“The Shampoo Monster!” Connor cried impulsively. Then he looked embarrassed. “There … happy now?”
Torian burst out in a laugh. Nigel joined him, chuckling a low, odd giggle.
“The heck is a Shampoo Monster?” Torian asked.
“The only thing that’s scarier than The Exorcist! Worse than the part where the girl twists her neck! Peter made it up. My brother. To scare me….
“He started doing the stupid joke when I was like eight, and the whole thing lasted until I was like ten. Oh don’t look at me like that, Torian, like I’m a baby! I’m not scared of it anymore, it just … it just …”
They got the implication: it lingers.
“You can start washing your hair without your parents at eight,” Connor went on, subconsciously rubbing his hair. “And so Peter … who wanted to be a weirdo like the very first time I washed my hair, brought up the Shampoo Monster that night. He was right outside the bathroom door, and that’s when I heard him whisper, ‘The Shampoo Monster’s gonna get you, Connor. The Shampoo Monster’s gonna get you.’ I was so mad at first. I didn’t know what the heck a Shampoo Monster was! I went in his room (didn’t even want to wash my hair after that), and I asked him why he would say something like that. ‘Because it’s true,’ he said. ‘Your friends never told you about the Shampoo Monster?’
“‘No?’ I said.
“‘Oh. Well the Shampoo Monster is this thing that only goes after little brats like you, kids who make straight As on their tests or who snitch on their older brothers so they can be the favorite with their parents.”
Uh-oh. John-John sensed where this was going.
“He started telling me what the Shampoo Monster does! First off, he said it lives in every shampoo bottle. ‘It doesn’t have any mercy on nerdy brats like you.’ That’s what he said! ‘All you do is squeeze the bottle, scrub a little shampoo in your hair, and then it’s summoned. See? It’s really that simple.’
“Then he started doing this really creepy thing with his voice, and moving his hands, almost like that thing you just did to me, Torian. And guess what? I believed every bit of it. Because everything he was saying just sounded so true. I wanted to run, but I just had to listen.
“The shampoo starts slowly growing in your hair, he said, and that’s when it gets in your eyes, and that’s when you’ll feel this sting, but it’s not the sting you guys are thinking. This sting is worse than what anyone can feel in the entire universe! And oh God, that’s when it started getting really scary, because Peter said he couldn’t even describe what that might feel like, that must feel so awful, and that’s when you’ll want to cover your eyes because of the stinging, but that’s only going to make it worse because the Shampoo Monster will keep dripping. And you’ll be able to feel it crawling down to every one of your holes—your mouth, your nose, your ears, your whole body—and the way he described it was so scary, how he said you won’t be able to see once you open your eyes was so scary, how he said you’ll only be able to hear the shampoo’s SLUSH SLUSH SLUSH in your ears was so scary, how he said you’ll try to yell but can’t yell because shampoo’s stuffed all in your throat was so scary and how you’ll fall on your knees and then on your face with the water from the showerhead splashing you which is not even going to save you was so scary because the Shampoo Monster always clings on it never comes off and if the showerhead can’t take it off then no one can take it off and oh God I know I keep using the Lord’s name in vain right now but I can’t help and oh God I can’t believe I’m crying at John-John’s house.”
He stopped, breathless. And surprisingly, he was crying. He was crying in huge twin streams that were running down his cheeks; snot was running from his nose. The visual imagery that had re-sparked in his mind after nonstop description of the Shampoo Monster had turned Connor’s face red. About halfway through his story, his prescription glasses had fallen from the first burst of tears; they now rested pointlessly in his lap. John-John wanted to do something, perhaps go comfort him, at least put a hand on his shoulder, but the way Torian and Nigel were acting kept him still. Torian … was grinning! And Nigel remained indifferent, picking his nails!
What’s wrong with them? he thought. Can’t they see what he’s going through!
After a while, Connor regained gradual control of himself.
“Boring!” Torian barked. “And long. I asked you for a bathroom fear, not for some stupid, made-up monster.”
“I hate you!” Connor yelled. Those eyes were still moist, red-rimmed, the lips below twisted into a hateful grimace. His hands shook as he put his glasses back on. Ironically, the movement appeared more goofy than angry. John-John felt bad for him.
“Mkay.” Torian made a sudden clap with his hands. “My turn now. And don’t worry, I’ll keep it a lot scarier so we’re not all laughing at some monster who hides in shampoo bottles.”
Two people laughed; two didn’t. You can imagine who was who.
“My biggest fear,” said Torian, “is when something’s behind the shower curtain.”
They just stared at him.
“No, really!” he said. “And I know all of you know something about that fear, the way all of you just tensed up. You get it when you’re just done getting clean, standing in the shower, all naked, twisting the handle down, when you just stop because you know something is watching you. You know something is”—his grin expanded—“behind the shower curtain.
“You always feel so vulnerable, so wet, so cold. And for me, it’s always been slowly turning toward that shower curtain, and seeing some shadow on the other side. You start thinking it’s another dimension over there. Whatever that shadow is—man, beast, woman, some zombie with a pig’s head—you can’t stop yourself; you have to see what it is! And so you put your arm out—it’s shaking—grab an end of the curtain, and pull it so fast it’s faster than a blink. But the whole time … nothing’s there. Whatever that shadow was, it’s gone. It’s just you and the tub, and the steam, and then you’re getting out and looking stupid. You start scratching your head, wondering if anything was there.
“But deep down, I knew it was there. It’s always been there. It just wants to stay unknown, keep you guessing. But guess what?” He leaned forward, and somehow that grin lengthened to the width of his cheeks, like a cartoon villain’s. “At some point, it’s not gonna be so nice anymore. At some point, it’s gonna show itself. The only question is: when…?
“Scary, right?” he said, leaning back and slapping Connor on the shoulder.
“I said don’t touch me,” Connor muttered. But there was much less ferocity in his voice this time, and for a while, silence was the only thing that persisted through the house.
“Mkay.” Then Torian made that sudden clap with his hands again. “Nigel, your turn. What’s your biggest bathroom fear?”
Nigel was still indifferently picking his nails. There was a detachment to his whole attitude it was like he couldn’t experience human emotion. The entire sleepover, John-John noticed, he had not talked. This one was creepier than Torian and by far! What was he up to? The scar on his forehead stood out starkly against his light skin.
“Bloody Mary,” he said blankly. And that was all.
Torian nodded, as if two words spoke more than enough for Nigel’s bathroom fear. Then—he did that rapid, inhuman-like head twist at John-John again, and grinned with sardonic eyes.
“Well?” he purred softly. “We’ve all gone. It’s your turn. What’s your biggest bathroom fear?”
Bathroom fear? John-John thought, and for the first time he was asking himself what that really meant, what in the world was a bathroom fear? Was it something you just had to make up to go along with the game, did it have to have any correlation to what Connor, Torian, or Nigel had said, did bathroom fears even have to pertain to the bathroom? And oh my God what was he talking about, he wasn’t even making sense anymore, he was doing that thing Connor had been doing, speaking in these indecipherable run-on gasps, and now he was shivering, shivering really bad because he felt the gooseflesh crawling up his arms and the thin hairs rising on the back of his neck and now he started to scream the Lord’s name in vain because oh my God what kind of a house is this what kind of a house have they turned my house into why do I want to get out of my own house right now and he didn’t know why he had invited these kids over in the first place they were nothing but trouble from the beginning and oh my God he really wanted his parents to come home.
Then, in an answer louder than a scream: “SOMETHING WAITING BEHIND THE BATHROOM DOOR!”
Connor and Nigel’s heads darted up, enthralled.
“SOMETHING WAITING BEHIND THE BATHROOM DOOR, WHEN YOU LEAVE THE DOOR UNLOCKED! THAT’S ALWAYS BEEN SUCH A SCARY FEAR! YOU’RE PEEING, YOU JUST WANNA PEE, AND SOMETHING TRIES TO GET IN! AND THE WORST PART IS, IT DOES GET IN! AND THAT’S WHY I ALWAYS LOCK THE DOOR! I LOCK IT! I LOCK IT! I ALWAYS LOCK IT—”
The last of his words were finally ripped free of his throat and he tossed his head back and forth, out of breath. Then he whipped it back straight, little dots of sweat flicking off his forehead, and that’s when he saw them all grinning, their interest transformed into rehearsed fear. Even Connor was grinning. When could things look so scary on a grin? They side-eyed each other, as if they had just been let in on a secret, and the time those grins stayed fixed on their faces, John-John did not know. In all honesty, he was surprised his parents hadn’t come home.
“Can we stop playing this game now?” he cried helplessly. “I thought we said we were going to play a fun game, not a scary game like this!”
“No, no, no, too late for that now!” Torian yelled, jumping up. “The game hasn’t even started yet—it’s just begun!”
John-John was trembling. “What do you mean it’s just begun?”
“You’ll find out! Come on! Everyone up and follow me! We’re heading to John-John’s bathroom to start playing The Bathroom Game!”
John-John thought: What kind of game is this? WHAT KIND OF GAME IS THIS?
Torian had just finished explaining the rules to The Bathroom Game and now they were all lined up outside in the hall, facing the bathroom door. It was ajar. John-John still trembled. Never had he felt this much terror in his life; even that one time he had mistakenly left the bathroom door unlocked before peeing didn’t come close. It was when the fear had first formed that day which seemed so long ago, when the door had creaked open somehow, and when a nine-year-old boy at the time had heard a giggling whisper:
“You shouldn’t have unlocked the bathroom door, John-John … I’m coming in. I’m coming in. I’m coming right the fuck in—”
And John-John had slammed the door. Horrified, he’d locked himself in that bathroom—this same bathroom—and had cried while wailing on the toilet for what must have been an eternity. All the while, he thought he could hear that giggling whisper declaring it was going to come right the fuck in; thought he could see the door handle jerking up and down but not giving way; knew he had heard those loud ten charges at the door before it had burst down; and had seen his red-faced parents rushing in and picking him up and asking him what was wrong.
Three years ago, but the fear stayed stuck with him to this day. Now it was back, and now it felt new, and knowing he had to face it, felt even worse than the time he had experienced it. It was like the buildup to a roller coaster ride, his dad always explained. The anticipation of getting on was always much worse than actually getting on. When you’re on you’re on. No going back. But getting yourself to go on that ride … well, that was why he made sure the door always stayed locked.
The bathroom door.
The ajar bathroom door.
That roller coaster analogy … when was his dad coming home?
Back to the game. And back to the rules. And back to these ill-hearted, ominous kids who all looked prepared, but still slightly worried, nonetheless. Excluding Nigel. Nigel just looked … blank.
The rules to The Bathroom Game were very simple, Torian had explained. All you do is go one at a time, confronting your biggest fear, and that’s that. They’d go in the order that they had confessed their worst fears, and that meant that Connor was first, and that meant that Connor was shivering. He looked at Torian next to him as if to say, Are you really going to make me do this? but Torian only responded with:
“Go ahead. You’re up first.”
Connor took a few deep breaths. Then he reached his trembling arm out, and pushed open the door.
With hesitating footsteps he went inside.
A simple bathroom setup, really: soap smells mixed with urine; paint peeling off the walls; gleaming tile; a tub on the far end; a vanity closest to the door; a toilet between that vanity and the tub; and the whole room being bright and compact. Connor walked past the vanity and the toilet, and stared into the tub. Deep breaths. His breaths sounded very deep.
Torian told him, “Good luck!” and started to close the door …
When Connor whirled around. “Wait! John-John! Where do you keep your shampoo?”
“Right in there,” John-John told him, pointing with a trembling hand at a drawer below the sink.
Connor shuffled back to them, bent down, opened the drawer, and grasped the shampoo bottle. He stood up and closed the drawer and slowly faced them in the bathroom doorway.
There was pure terror in his eyes.
“What?” Torian asked smugly. “Scared? I thought you weren’t scared of the Shampoo Monster anymore.”
“Shut up,” Connor muttered. “I hate you.”
They stared at each other in silence like that for a very long time—Connor’s eyes sharp, horrified, and piercing; Torian’s glittering and taunting. No way he can go on with it, John-John convinced himself. The game hadn’t even started yet but there was still that heavy sense in the air that the Shampoo Monster was real, it was hiding in that very shampoo bottle Connor held in his hand, and the simple fact that it was real made all of the other fears feel real, too. No one in that house could presently deny these facts; even Torian’s smug smile, after a while, began to falter.
Then, in an instant where the smirk and mischief came back at once, he tittered at Connor, and closed the door anyway.
Connor was left alone inside.
Ten seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two. Connor’s footsteps were heard shuffling slowly back to the tub.
Then came the sound of rushing water, as the shower handle was twisted. Then came the sound of heavy droplets of water, as it soaked cotton clothes. Then came the sound of the water drizzling, signaling that the handle had been twisted off. And then came the sound of Connor hesitantly scrubbing his hair, humming a low, tremulous version of “Not Afraid”.
Another full minute passed … and then finally, it came. Whatever had been squirted out of the shampoo bottle it came. John-John could hear the sudden cutoff of “Not Afraid” by Eminem, and by the faint quiver in Connor’s breath, he could tell that the thematic meaning of that song did not carry the right intention at all. He could picture Connor right about now: shampoo all in his hair, his heavy T-shirt and jeans clinging to his skin, his body trembling as he blew out steam and stared with bulging eyes; and Torian and Nigel, anxiously, braced with him, their hands and ears cupped tightly to the door.
Then came something out of that anticipating silence, that was not John-John’s imagination. Not something he could make up or presently believe, even in the moment:
Connor’s scream.
Torian and Nigel both jumped back from the door, then eagerly pressed their ears back onto it. They must’ve heard what John-John heard: on top of his screaming, banging—banging against the shower walls—footsteps mashing on its floor—the showerhead dropping, dangling against the tub spout—a body tumbling out—Connor’s shrill voice echoing inside—communicating a phrase which John-John at first couldn’t understand, but then which would echo in his mind forever.
Connor shrieked: “It’s got me! The Shampoo Monster’s got me!”
And then there were the choking sounds.
Nigel and Torian’s ears stayed pressed on that door, but not because of their previous engagement. John-John saw that their faces had transformed to fear; that their eyes and mouths, even the hairs on their heads were standing. He himself couldn’t imagine how his face looked; he didn’t want to think about it. Connor was still choking; Torian and Nigel were still listening. Disgust filled his stomach as he backed up into the wall, praying against the worst.
The time was infinite, but at last the door handle twisted, and Torian and Nigel backed all the way up—with John-John. There was no more choking, no more consistency as the showerhead had stopped dangling, and the silence of it all increased John-John’s fear even more….
Then the door flew open, and Connor’s dripping body came crawling out.
Shampoo was everywhere. Yes—everywhere. At first glance, John-John assumed that Connor had turned into a crawling snowman. White viscid jelly invaded every red gum inside his mouth, dropping in slimy masses beneath his chin; his eyes—his red eyes—gave off a sharp contrast from his shampooed face. Inarticulate sounds spilled forth from Connor’s mouth, sounding low and gurgling, like how John-John’s dad spoke with mouthwash. Slowly, the shampoo bubbles began to pop off of his face, revealing his Ray-Bans, which had a cracked frame. Incredibly the OGX bottle was still in his hand.
The fallen Connor began to crawl straight at Torian, and tried to pull himself up by the bottom of Torian’s T-shirt.
“Your turn—now,” he managed. His voice sounded weak. “It’s your-your—your turn. I played the game. I played by the rules. So now it’s—your turn.”
Then his empty hand fell to the floor near Torian’s shoes, and his white face fell with it, too.
“Mkay,” said Torian. “No, I mean … mkay, mkay.” They had all cooled down by now, but the horror had never left his face. “He’s right. I made the game; I made the rules; so it’s my turn to go next, isn’t it? It’s not fair if the creator of the game doesn’t go next.”
“I take it back, you don’t have to!” Connor croaked. His back was planted against the wall where the rest of them had backed into just a few moments before. His eyes still consisted of all the signs of wavering terror, but his speech had recovered, to say the least. A towel hung around his shoulders, damp still after they’d used it to wipe all the shampoo off his body; little white spots still decorated his clothes. Surprisingly, the shampoo bottle was still in his hand. He was squeezing it, then easing it, then squeezing it again.
Torian stood in front of the leering doorway. “I do,” he said, almost shamefully. “You guys never listen in Mr. Phoenix’s class? I bet you don’t, but I do. He told us this the other day: ‘If you can’t fly, then run. If you can’t run, then walk. If you can’t walk, then crawl. But no matter what you do, keep going.’ Something like that. He said some important person said that, I don’t know who. But listen: Mr. Phoenix would want us to keep going. He’d be proud if he saw this.
“And hey.” He threw a look over his shoulder. “Who’s to say you weren’t faking it the whole time? Weren’t you trying to scare us?”
“I wasn’t!” Connor yelled. “It was just like Peter said would happen! The shampoo started having a mind of its own! It was squirming on my face, getting in my ears, stinging my eyes, choking my throat … didn’t you hear the choking sounds?”
“Mkay, mkay.” The descriptions of Connor’s predicament had momentarily brought the horror back on his face and he put his arm out, shushing Connor.
He gently pushed the bathroom door open, and closed it in the same gentle manner inside. Footsteps. His soft, hesitating footsteps stepping into Connor’s trail of water, and then stopping at the tub. Then there was the sound of Torian clicking the showerhead back into place.
When no sound signaled that Torian had gotten into the tub, Connor yelled: “Hey! Hey, dude, what are you doing? You have to get in the shower like me, you know!”
“I know that, stupid, but first … first …” The topic changed. “I’m gonna take a bath, actually.” And his voice sounded pleasant a trifle. “Change it up a bit, I don’t know. It’d be creepier. Any objections?”
No one spoke up.
“Then I’ll take that as a no.”
They heard the shower handle being twisted, and by degrees, heard the water start to fill the tub; the roaring water was dreadful. In those slow, drawn-out six minutes, John-John was glancing Connor and Nigel’s way. Connor was still a baby, sniffling, making shaky little dabs at his glasses as if the cloth of his shirt could repair the frames; but Nigel was in a whole ‘nother world, picking his fingernails. What’s wrong with him? John-John thought, and not for the first time. The kid was simply sick! After what just happened he still couldn’t experience the expected emotions. Heck, he was probably faking it earlier back when he and Torian had started backing up toward him into the wall.
No more staring. By the time Torian had twisted the valve of the bathtub off, leaving a bloop sound of leftover water dripping, they heard him dipping his bottom in. Then they heard a song choice—a song choice that was so like Torian, yet so cruel of Torian—which gave John-John a chilling confirmation that he was the weirdest kid at Kirby Smith Middle School: he was singing “Pumped Up Kicks.”
A verse of this singing passed, then finally: “Mkay.” He sounded bored. “So how do you guys want me to do this? Want me to just start scrubbing? Scrub a little and then pull the curtain? Or empty the tub first, then face the curtain, and then pull it? I mean, what’s the deal here?”
“No.” Connor’s voice had darkened a trifle, as he stood up and came to the door. His head pressed against the frame; and John-John was amazed at how fast his tone had shifted. He looked like a kid out for revenge, leaning against that door. His right hand grasping the shampoo bottle clenched. “I want you to pull it right now. With the tub full. Pull it until you see it.”
Very dark, John-John thought. But he knew he ordered this lunacy because he wanted to see how Torian might put up a fight with a tub full of water, so that Torian might drown, and the reason for that revenge was for poking fun at him all evening.
Torian pulled it anyway. The movement was fast, almost too fast, but John-John could hear no sign of a presence appearing.
Connor ordered, “Pull it again!” and Torian did so. From the silence, still no presence. But there was—and John-John was shocked himself to hear it—a girlish shriek as Torian pulled the shower curtain that second time. Of course, the boy might have tried to be brave, but the ruler of two weirdos at Kirby Smith Middle School was scared to death. He breathed a sigh of relief, as presumably nothing on the other side was waiting for him, and John-John imagined his face squinching.
“Again!” Connor ordered.
Torian pulled the shower curtain again.
“Again!”
He pulled it again.
“Again!”
And again.
Still no presence on the other side.
“This is getting boring now—” Torian started.
And then finally, there was a presence on the other side; John-John could tell from the abrupt cutoff in Torian’s sentence. He had to be seeing it face to face now, he imagined, his mouth had to be open, one hand had to be trembling as it uselessly fell from the shower curtain, and his limbs had to be frozen in fear. Even though the water was warm. John-John’s mouth went dry because of it—but Connor was grinning and Nigel remained indifferent because of it.
Torian still sounded like a little girl. “It’s come!” he shrieked. “The thing behind the shower curtain … it’s come!”
And the thing that happened next couldn’t save the thin trickle of piss streaming down John-John’s leg.
Something screamed.
Something inside the bathroom screamed, a terrible, squealing sound full of hatred and hunger. It was not human, but animal: a pig’s squeal. John-John didn’t imagine it as a pig though but rather, a pig’s head attached to a human body. He remembered he had seen that once from an episode of American Horror Story, when his dad had let him watch Season 6 with him a year ago. Grisly hair had been attached to the Piggy Man’s chest, he remembered, the pig’s head itself bloody with empty eyes. Dirty brown spots had patched the Piggy Man’s skin; and when this thing squealed in the bathroom again, it sounded more like a roar than a squeal. It had haunted John-John in his dreams for weeks, but now it was out for Torian and it was going to get him.
“Run, Torian! RUN!”
And he did run. He ran with smacking, wet steps against the shower walls, and the Piggy Man squealed after him, after his yelping cries, and that was when a huge burst of water flew out of the bathtub, landing in a heavy splash on the floor, some of it oozing under the doorframe. But those weren’t the most horrific sounds though but that Piggy Man’s squeal echoing in John-John’s ears. The fact that it only came after Torian’s screams was an odd occurrence. Torian’s scream and then the Piggy Man’s squeal, Torian’s scream and then the Piggy Man’s squeal. And that and that and over and over again and John-John couldn’t take it anymore.
“Open the door!” he yelled, jumping forward and seizing the handle. But Connor was there. He slapped his hand down and pushed him away, and John-John fell on his ass.
“What are you doing?”
“None of you helped me!” he said. His eyes were bulging behind those broken glasses, staring at John-John with more than lunacy. He raised the shampoo bottle as though it were a knife, and it swayed in the air. “I was in that bathroom and no one helped me! I had to face the Shampoo Monster all alone!” His tears were sucked as he slowly faced the bathroom door. “Now he’s got to face his fear all alone, too.”
John-John remained on the floor—in a state of shock. What was he doing? The question had already been answered, but what was he doing? The Piggy Man was pursuing right after him, squealing at him, Torian perhaps dodging its snout as it went in for the chomp. They couldn’t just not help! Sure this was his game, and by the rules of fair play—but no one had to die!
The squealing went on and on, the ridiculous splashing of water only adding to the dread, but finally, the sound of the squealing slowly came down, and all throughout the house, there was a deadly silence.
Then footsteps from inside the bathroom appeared under the door, and that was when the doorhandle twisted.
“The Piggy Man! No!” John-John jumped up, scrambled backward, and didn’t have time to locate the wall until his back hit it and he fell. He remained frozen on the floor.
Before he could crawl away, the door creaked open, and Torian staggered through. His shirt was off, his sweatpants torn; red scratches formed across his skin, mostly on his face. His eyes rolled madly behind their sockets, and his face looked haggard; it appeared as if he had aged twenty years in a matter of minutes. Only his chest lived, heaving—and his hair! Oh, don’t get John-John started on the hair! Loads of it had been ripped off!
“Sharp claws,” Torian said wearily, and then laughed. “I never knew a pig … could have such sharp claws.”
He faced Nigel, who was still picking his nails.
“Welp. Two down. Two more to go. It’s your turn now.”
Without another word, Nigel rose.
Nigel stared into the water-stained mirror, leaning over the basin and fixing his eyes which held nothing but blankness. Around him, the bathroom had undergone some housekeeping duties, thanks to Connor, himself, and John-John; Torian had been too exhausted to help. One by one they’d all dried the wet floor off with towels, cleaned the dripping water which looked stained on the walls, had handed Torian his drenched shirt back, and had taken further precautions by giving him Band-Aids. None of them had talked. But they knew to turn the lights off. A candle now burned on the washbasin beside Nigel’s hand.
John-John said: “We can stop.”
“No!” Torian’s head snapped at him. “No one stops! We made it this far, everyone has to go!”
“Have you seen what’s been happening?” he asked. “The fears are real.”
“So stop being a baby and let’s face the fears. You wanna face yours, don’t you? Wanna stop being so scary you can’t even pee with your own door unlocked?”
Surprisingly, John-John had nothing for him. As much as he didn’t want to say it, he actually did want to get over that fear one day.
“Exactly. And don’t you, Nigel?”
Nigel spoke as if he never heard the question. “I’ll narrate,” he said coldly, taking a swipe back at his hair. “I’ll narrate. I don’t care if it gets bad. But if it does, you don’t open the door. ‘Kay?” He side-glanced them. “None of you open the door.”
All of them, except John-John, nodded.
Nigel stared back into his reflection, and then slammed the door without another word. Although he’d told them never to open it, there was no sound of a lock. Ah, so he’s not as cool, John-John thought, still trembling, nonetheless. So if something does get bad, he still wants our help. So he’s not as tough as he wants us to think he is….
“Mkay,” said Torian, wincing in his sitting position against the wall. “You know what to do, don’t you?”
“I know what to do,” Nigel said, and was presumably preparing himself in the mirror. He was taking a long time. The candle they had lit was a scented candle—pumpkin spice—and John-John could smell the vague fragrance soothing his nose. That fragrance didn’t soothe his blood rushing, though. Nigel’s, presumably, neither, as all they could hear was his faint breath, slowly filling the silence. Was he … was he tremoring?
Then—it came. Those two words John-John and his friends at his old school would never have said on a dare, especially three times, unless all of them were to say it together.
Nigel said: “Bloody Mary.”
And he didn’t know why, but he suddenly did not like the smell of that candle.
Nigel said it again. “Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary.”
Three times didn’t signal her spirit.
“Keep saying it until she comes,” Torian said. “You have to say it forty-seven times, don’t you?”
“Three,” Nigel said. “But if she doesn’t come you have to spin around in a circle three times.”
“Well—say it forty-seven! Just say it forty-seven times!”
“Whatever. Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary—”
And he actually said it exactly forty-seven times; John-John had counted. The boy with the scar and a tendency to pick his fingernails had chanted Bloody Mary’s name forty-seven times before her spirit appeared.
Nigel’s voice, close but faraway: “I see her.”
Torian sprang up. “You do?”
“Yes … ohhh yes. And she’s … she’s beautiful. She’s the most beautiful dead woman in the world.”
Torian couldn’t believe it. “You’re lying,” he said.
“No. Come. Come right in and take a look. She’s open to visitors. Come right in and admire her beauty. We’ll admire her beauty together.”
“Don’t,” said Torian, talking to Connor who’d put his hand on the knob. “Don’t. It might be a trap.”
Obediently but hesitantly, Connor let his fingers slip from the doorknob.
Torian put his ear against the frame, side-eyeing John-John inattentively, and then asked, with a mix of genuineness and concern: “What’s she doing?”
“She’s—she’s telling me to come. She’s telling me to come and put my hand on the glass to come join her, to come in the mirror with her, and she thinks you guys should join her, too. Oh! but wait … now she’s telling me her story. She never wanted to end up like this. Be known like this. It was her time period’s fault! They thought she died; all of the bad doctors at the time thought she died. So they buried her, because apparently she ‘didn’t have a pulse,’ but her parents were kind enough to put a string in her grave. Every time she pulled it, the string would make a bell go off above ground, because maybe Mary was still alive, but no one ever answered. So of course Mary died! Too late when her parents dug her up. When they put a mirror under her nose they saw condensation. But that was just Mary’s spirit getting in the mirror. Now she’s Bloody Mary. Oh! why do we have to call her bloody?”
He began to cry: sobbing, wet tears that abominated Nigel’s character; so relentless that John-John was surprised they hadn’t put out the candle. He was truly not the cool kid he wanted them to think he was, and that only made John-John feel for him more. All of the blank staring, all of the detached fingernail picking—it had been an act. Instead, Bloody Mary had brought out Nigel’s true character today. But Bloody Mary, her name was Join Me Mary!
“I’m joining her,” Nigel finished. “I’m joining her.”
Everything else on the other side of that bathroom door was visualized accurately in John-John’s mind: Bloody Mary, the beautiful bathroom entity voluptuously holding out her hands; Nigel, the once emotionless follower of Connor and Torian, crawling over the vanity to meet her embrace; both of his hands, reaching out to touch the glass and join her in that darker world—what was that world like? And as much as it hurt John-John that he would never see it, Nigel was smiling. Yes, perhaps for the first time, Nigel was smiling.
Then he was screaming.
“Ah! AHHHHHHHH—”
The mirror shattered, there was a heavy, dank sound as he fell onto the basin. And he was still screaming.
No, but wait … he was laughing.
“Nigel, are you okay?” Connor asked, shoving Torian aside and pressing his ear on the door. “What’s going on?”
“She’s—she’s pushing me! She’s pushing me and getting bloody even though she was just in white clothes, and she told me everything would be all right if I just joined her! But that made her join us! In this world! She’s a liar! Never listen to her! She commits crimes! And oh God she’s pushing me!”
An earsplitting thud from inside the bathroom seemed to pierce under the door and vibrate through the house like an earthquake— and that’s when John-John heard the stabbing. Repetitive, mad, skin-slicing stabbing.
He charged his way in, narrowly evading Torian’s attempt to block his way, and heard an even louder laugh as the door slammed against something on the wall. He was glad he was wearing Crocs: shattered glass was everywhere. Blood droplets were everywhere. And in the bottom right-hand corner of the broken mirror, either with Bloody Mary’s blood or Nigel’s own, were the words: I LEFT HIM ALL CLEAN & TIDY FOR YOU!
John-John swung the door back, and flicked on the lights. The answer to that painting’s meaning was discovered immediately: Nigel was leaning against the wall, one knee up, the other leg outstretched, with a shard of glass inside that leg’s thigh. He was laughing. His eyes were feral and red. But he was laughing. His lips twisted in an oversized grin which John-John had only seen in TV shows at insane asylums, and blood was quickly running down his leg from where the shard of glass had been struck. But he was laughing. John-John felt sick.
“It’s your turn, John-John! YOUR TURN!”
And at that instant Nigel’s hand grasped the broken shard of glass inside his leg, and still with that insane asylum-like laughter, ripped it out.
“YOUR TURN NEXT!” Nigel’s voice followed him as he ran out into the living room. “WE’VE ALL GONE AND YOU’RE NEXT!”
“I don’t wanna go!” John-John cried, on his knees and covering his ears. “It’s gotten too crazy, I don’t wanna go!”
But you got to go! You got to go … or they’ll make you!
Yes. They’d make him … and the game must continue.
He wobbled up from his knees, and walked back into the hall.
“It’s going to be all right,” Nigel spoke to John-John, who was trembling in front of the door. His right leg had been entirely wrapped up with bandages, soaked with blood. “All of us turned out all right. Your fear’s not even the worst. A door. A stupid door.” He giggled. “Just remember something when it turns real: wait it out.” His voice was a whisper—nothing more. “Trust me, it all comes to an end soon.”
John-John risked a glance behind himself. He didn’t know about that. He didn’t know if Connor or Torian knew about that. Standing on Nigel’s left and right, shivering with as much, if not more, revulsion than he was, all of the color had left their faces; and John-John was reminded of how long their tortures had resumed. How long they had been choking and screaming. Surely not longer than Nigel? He had endured the worst with Bloody Mary; yet his eyes still held that courage.
“Go on,” he said softly. “It’s just like Torian said: don’t you want to get over your fear?”
Still one heck of a question, but still that same weird answer: yes. He did. Relatively not even that long ago the fear had been planted into him, traumatizing him, making him correlate every unlocked bathroom door to the beginning of his demise: a monster getting through. Well it was just like what his mother told him, wasn’t it? Time to knock that kiddy stuff off! Surely there was something on the other side of the bathroom door, he had no doubt about that, his mother nor father could understand that. But now … now was the time to be brave. Now was the time to face that awaiting presence, in front of these other kids, who’d faced their fears, too. And now … now was the time to prove himself!
His breath inhaling deep but getting caught in some part of his throat, John-John pushed the door open, and stepped into the bathroom.
He turned to close the bathroom door. But Nigel—if Nigel he could still call him—looked no longer courageous, but scared. No, stunned was a better word for it. Connor and Torian shared his same shocked expression, too, tensing as if they couldn’t register the fact that John-John had chosen to enter the bathroom in the first place. Guilty, John-John decided. They all feel guilty. That’s okay, though, I’ll show them. I’ll prove I can be just like them! The dim taste of copper from earlier fear had left his mouth, and he smiled at them courageously.
He saw the last of their faces as he closed the bathroom door.
He swallowed. Let go of the knob. Turned. What a messy scene. Nigel’s blood was on the floor, drying in minute trickles which seemed to have been flung from a paintbrush; the broken mirror had given birth to infinite shards of glass which lay sprinkled on the floor and vanity; and humidity from the tub still hung in the air. A ball of Torian’s hair lay in the corner, not to mention some of the shampoo from Connor on the roof.
A bathroom.
His bathroom.
Turned into this.
God … maybe his parents shouldn’t come home.
Proceeding onward, but back to trembling, nevertheless, John-John stepped over the glass and blood, and came to the toilet.
He lifted the cover. Lifted the seat. Peered into the dark bowl inside.
Monsters live in there….
He dropped his pants, and took one last aching glance at the closed door on the opposite side of the bathroom. The lock was sideways, even though he had always kept it frontways, and it looked so odd in that position, so uncanny. For a moment, he had almost run right up to it and fronted the lock just so he could hear that reassuring click. But he tightened himself. That wasn’t the game. That was against the rules. He had an obligation … to make this game continue!
He started to piss. The sound of the piss filling the water inside the bowl was a slow, monotonous, almost trance-like sound; his thoughts began to gain courage because of it. This, he thought, is the moment of discovery, where I either make my parents proud … or where I kill myself. Discovery. Sixth grader using the word discovery. And Jesus! That word wasn’t even in his vocabulary yet but some things just got you suddenly intellectual and hot and rambling. Some things … just got you going!
He looked back as the constant stream of piss diminished into little trickles of yellow dashing the water, and when the last of it went away he zipped his pants up. Yes, this truly was the moment of discovery, where all frightfulness of the unlocked bathroom door would be resolved in a final showdown, and where he could face the creature one-on-one. No! Already John-John felt as if he was in another world: the air felt different; somehow the lighting had gotten darker. And this must have been that alternate dimension Bloody Mary wanted Nigel dragged into.
The door was opening. Yes! It was true! Nothing his mother could say to him now! Whatever lurked beyond the bathroom door it was a true thing, it wasn’t just something he’d made up at age nine, and he was delighted then scared then back to delighted again to discover, that his mind had filled in the right blanks all along. Then he was ready.
Yes! The door was creaking wider four inches now! Yes! Six inches and his hands raised into balled fists! Yes! Halfway there and he was more than ready and now he was talking to it!
“Come on, then!” He put his foot down. “I’m not scared of you! You think I’m scared of you? Ha! I’m ready as I’ll ever be! Come on! Come in and face me! What are you, scared? Of course you’re scared! You’re just a stupid wannabe Boogeyman that hides behind bathroom doors and I’m not scared of you anymore! You’re just a baby!”
Ironically, he was the baby. Because as soon as the true presences behind that bathroom door walked in, John-John’s vocal cords turned into steel.
It was Connor, Torian, and Nigel.
“Wh—what?” He could hardly believe it. More piss streamed down his leg even though he had just peed, and that alternate-world feeling was gone. Quite the contrary, and worse, he was in this world. In this world all along. Connor had the shampoo bottle, Nigel the shard of glass, and Torian was in the middle like the head of a pack hunting its prey. John-John stumbled on his words. “T—Torian? Connor? Nigel? What are you guys doing? I have to face my fear.”
Torian shook his head. “You shouldn’t have unlocked the bathroom door, John-John.”
Understanding washed over John-John in a ghastly flood.
“How’d you like my pig squeals?”
“Or my fake choking?” Connor said.
“Or my fake narrating and stabs?” Nigel added.
John-John looked at each one of them, from left to right, and began to scream.
“MOOOMMYYYYYYY—”
Connor was the first to step forward. With one terrible hurl of his hand he squirted the shampoo at John-John’s face, and the liquid got in his eyes. John-John screamed. There was a terrible burning sensation spreading not just in his eyes but all over his face. His feet shuffled impulsively on the ground beneath him, and he whipped both arms up to cover his eyes, and that was when Torian stepped up and pushed him.
Before he knew it, John-John was tumbling backward into the bathtub, being struck with a momentary dizziness then drowning feeling. His face darted out of the water and he saw nothing but dimness; the curtain had been drawn. Torian’s shadowy figure loomed above him on the other side. He looked terrifying, the king of all weirdos at Kirby Smith Middle School. And with a sudden comprehension that John-John had never felt before, he understood that—
“This is what’s behind the shower curtain, John-John! THIS!”
At that moment, Torian pulled the shower curtain, and Nigel was there to finish the job. With all his might he swung down with the broken shard of glass in his right hand, pierced it through John-John’s chest, ripped it out, and stabbed him over and over again. A grin wrinkled his cheeks the whole time.
John-John didn’t scream—he winced. His eyes focused and made out all of the W’s and T’s and X’s on the plaster in the ceiling but the letters were slowly fading. Blurring.
John-John was thinking: Oh no, my eyes are getting glassy….
Then: Oh no, now I’m done moving….
Then: Oh no, now I can’t hear them laughing….
And on the heel of those thoughts, the pain numb by now, the last image of this world a scar-faced boy with blood on his face like war paint, was:
Torian … can I join your crew now?
His face sank into the water, and then he wasn’t thinking.
Connor, Torian, and Nigel—in that order—stood in a line in front of that bathtub, and nodded as if an achievement had been reached. Then Nigel held up the shard, which dripped, and then they all laughed.
Torian said: “Game over.”
When they all exited the bathroom, and stood out in the hall, they performed that synchronized grin again, before Connor closed the door.
It was a disastrous scene, but one detail, above all others, highlighted immensely:
The bathwater. Gone red.
