It was just a regular day—well, it was supposed to be. Everything was normal when I woke up, brushed my teeth, and went to work. The usual routine, the usual grind. But something changed that evening, something that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
It started with a simple trip to the bathroom. I was at home alone, just a typical evening in my small apartment. The bathroom, like the rest of the place, was nothing special—nothing out of the ordinary. A plain white toilet, a simple sink, a small shower. Yet, as I sat there, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The air felt… different, heavier, almost suffocating.
The toilet, for some reason, seemed to glimmer in the dim light. It wasn’t dirty—nothing about the bathroom was dirty—but the porcelain gleamed unnaturally. I ignored the strange feeling creeping up my spine, chalking it up to being tired, and flushed the toilet.
That’s when things started to get weird.
At first, it was subtle. The water in the toilet didn’t drain like it should have. It swirled slowly, almost too slowly, as if something was resisting its flow. I watched, confused, as the water began to rise, not lowering as it should, but instead, creeping higher and higher, inch by inch. Panic started to set in, my heart racing.
I quickly turned off the water, not sure what was happening. The toilet had always worked fine. I flushed it again, hoping it was just a glitch, something simple, but this time, the water swirled in the opposite direction—unnatural, defying all logic.
It was at that moment that I heard a sound. A faint scratching, almost like fingernails on porcelain. I froze. The sound was too deliberate, too close. It wasn’t coming from the pipes; it was coming from the toilet itself.
I stood up and backed away, my breath catching in my throat. There was no way this was happening. The scratching grew louder, more frantic. I had to do something, anything. I grabbed the plunger from under the sink and held it over the toilet, expecting to feel something—anything—trying to escape. But the moment the rubber touched the water, everything stopped.
The scratching ceased. The toilet water settled.
A tense silence filled the room, but it wasn’t the kind of quiet I was used to. It was an eerie, suffocating quiet. My heart pounded in my chest. I stepped closer to the toilet, cautiously this time, but when I glanced down at the water, something caught my eye.
There was a reflection in the toilet.
It wasn’t my face. It wasn’t even a face at all.
I stared, horrified, at the reflection in the water. It was dark, a shape moving within the depths. It was as if something was trapped beneath the surface, something that shouldn’t be there. I stepped back, my mind racing. Was this some kind of hallucination?
I reached out and flushed the toilet again, desperate to get rid of whatever this was. But this time, when the water began to swirl, something reached up from the depths.
A hand.
At first, it was just a fingertip, white and bloated, its nails long and twisted. Then, another finger emerged, followed by more, until the entire hand was gripping the rim of the toilet. It was covered in dark, slimy tendrils, each one moving as if alive, writhing in the water.
I stumbled backward, my heart pounding in my ears. This couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of nightmare. But the hand was real, its fingers curling around the edge, pulling itself up.
I turned and ran, but not fast enough. The moment I reached the door, I heard a loud, gurgling sound from behind me, followed by the unmistakable sound of something crawling across the floor. I dared not look back, my body shaking as I rushed to the living room, slamming the bathroom door behind me.
But even after I shut the door, the sounds didn’t stop. I could hear the scratching again, but now it was louder, more insistent. It was coming from the pipes, from all around the apartment. I pressed my hands to my ears, trying to drown out the noise, but it was impossible.
I backed away from the door, fear seizing me. What had I done? What had I unleashed?
I needed help. I needed to call someone. But when I grabbed my phone, I saw something I wish I hadn’t. The screen was cracked, shattered in a web of dark lines, but that wasn’t what caught my attention.
There, on the shattered screen, was a reflection. A dark figure—like the one in the toilet—loomed in the reflection of the phone, its face twisted into something unrecognizable. It grinned at me, its mouth too wide, too jagged. And then, with a sickening lurch, the phone fell silent.
I could hear it now—the sound of something wet and heavy dragging itself across the floor. The scratching was closer than ever. Slowly, I turned toward the bathroom door. It was ajar, a sliver of darkness spilling into the hallway.
The hand. It was still there. Still reaching.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to leave, had to get out of this place. But the moment I stepped toward the door, I felt the floor beneath me shift. The apartment seemed to grow darker, colder. The air was thick with something foul, a stench of rot and decay.
Suddenly, the lights flickered, and in that brief moment of darkness, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
The floor in front of the bathroom door was covered in dark, inky sludge. It wasn’t just any kind of liquid—it was something far worse. It was alive.
The liquid moved, slithering like a serpent, and it began to crawl toward me.
I didn’t think. I bolted toward the front door, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the lock. But when I reached the door, I saw the most terrifying thing yet: the reflection in the glass.
The figure from the toilet—its face now fully visible—was standing just behind me, a twisted, grotesque smile stretching across its face. Its eyes were black, hollow, and it grinned as it reached out for me.
I turned and screamed, but it was too late. The door was locked. The walls were closing in. The sludge was creeping toward me, and the scratching from the toilet grew louder, more frantic.
I stumbled backward, my breath coming in ragged gasps. There was no way out. No escape.
And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw the last thing I would ever see—the figure rising from the toilet, its body dripping with dark, viscous fluid, crawling toward me with outstretched arms.
The last thing I heard was the sound of water swirling, deep and hollow, and the faintest whisper that sent chills down my spine:
“You’ll never escape me.”
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