It was sometime between 1985 and 1990. I was a small boy studying at Bishop Westcott Boys' School in Ranchi—an old, towering institution with long, echoing corridors and a haunting silence that clung to its corners after dark.
There was a particular toilet block in the far wing of the school—unused, broken, and abandoned. No one ever went near it. Not even the cleaners. It was darker than the rest, gloomier, dirtier... almost as if the grime itself was hiding something. A heavy metal door sealed it shut, rusted and stiff, the kind that groaned when the wind pushed it ever so slightly.
One night, after returning late from a summer fest, I felt the sudden urge to use the bathroom. Groggy and half-asleep, I wandered down the hallway. Right in front of me stood the old, abandoned toilet—and just beside it, the newly constructed one, clean and brightly lit.
But for some strange reason... I ignored the new one.
I don’t know why. It was as if something pulled me toward the old door. My body moved before my mind could question it.
As I stepped closer, I noticed something strange—two bony hands extended through the tiny gap in the broken door, palms up, trembling ever so slightly. A cigarette dangled loosely between the fingers. The arms were pale... no, grayish, the skin so thin I could make out the bone structure underneath. Veins dark as ink.
And then, a voice.
A raspy whisper. “Got a light?”
My heart skipped.
The hands tapped the door—once... twice...—as if impatient.
I stood frozen, staring, my bladder forgotten, my skin ice-cold.
Without answering, I turned and ran. Maybe it was foolish curiosity, maybe fear-fueled adrenaline, but I rushed to the dorm and shook my friend awake. “Hey! Do you have a lighter?” I asked, breathless.
He sat up, blinking. “Why the hell do you need a lighter?”
“I—I think someone’s in the old toilet,” I stammered. “He asked for a light.”
His face drained of all color. Without saying a word, he grabbed my wrist and bolted with me down the corridor. We didn’t stop until we were back in our room.
“What was that about?” I asked, panting. “Why did you drag me back?”
“Don’t talk about it,” he hissed. “Just… just use the new bathroom from now on.”
The next day, I couldn’t shake the unease. So I asked another friend about it—one of the older boys who had been there longer. He looked at me, wide-eyed, and went pale.
“You saw him?” he asked quietly.
“Saw who?”
“The teacher,” he whispered. “The one who used to smoke during breaks. He… he hung himself inside that toilet twenty years ago. Rope from the pipe. That’s why they built the new bathroom right beside it. No one’s cleaned the old one since. Not even the staff.”
I felt a sudden chill crawl up my spine.
“Some say,” he continued, “he still comes back on humid nights. Asks for a light. Maybe a cigarette. Just like he used to.”
That night, I fell violently ill. Fever spiked. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those hands—gray, skeletal—tapping... tapping... asking...
“Got a light?”
To this day, I never carry a lighter. And I never walk past broken toilets without listening—carefully—for the tap.
*Inspired by a true story shared in an online forum by an individual
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