The Apparition in the Cubicle

“You can train for every scenario—except the one where the laws of physics look you in the eye and decide they’re done cooperating.”

Another thunderclap cracked through the sky with apocalyptic force, deep and resonant, rolling over us like the sound of a war drum beaten by giants. The sound wasn't just heard but felt—vibrating through the ground beneath our feet, through the air in our lungs, through our bones and teeth.

But as the final echoes faded into the distance, dispersing across the hills and valleys, a new sound broke through the storm's symphony—sharp, metallic, discordant. A clang. Startlingly close. Too close.

My instincts flared like a struck match, igniting every sense to maximum alertness. That sound hadn't been natural—hadn't been a branch falling or debris shifting. That was someone doing something inside that toilet structure.

Sarah reacted instantly, snapping her weapon up from ready position and levelling it towards the toilet block.

The building sat squat and unassuming in its clearing, a utilitarian structure never meant to be menacing but which now radiated threat. Its tin roof glistened under the deluge, water streaming off in sheets. It was flanked by two towering myrtle trees whose branches clawed at the structure like skeletal hands in the rising wind, scraping against the corrugated metal with sounds that could almost be mistaken for movement inside.

I raised my own weapon and signalled for her to hold position with a hand gesture that was part of our shared language. Her nod was barely perceptible through the downpour, just a slight dip of her chin that water cascaded from, but I saw it and knew she understood. Every muscle in my body was tensed, coiled for what might come next—for sudden movement, for gunfire, for someone bursting from that building in flight or fight.

The water streaming down my arm reached my wrist in cold rivulets, soaking through fabric that was already thoroughly saturated, pooling against the grip of my firearm and making it treacherously slick. I adjusted my hold, tightening fingers to compensate for the moisture, knowing that in the crucial moment weapon retention could mean everything.

"Police!" I barked, projecting authority into my voice. "Come out slowly with your hands up!"

The words were standard protocol, the announcement required by law, the warning that gave lawful occupants opportunity to comply and gave us legal justification for what came next if they didn't. But I wasn't really expecting compliance. People who fled into storms and hid in toilet blocks weren't typically the surrendering type.

No response came. Just the relentless hammering of rain on every surface—metal, concrete, earth, flesh—and the creaking of branches above that bent and swayed under forces that made them groan like living things in pain. The sound was almost organic, almost threatening, as though the forest itself were warning us away.

I moved forward in a low tactical crouch, feet cautious on the slippery gravel that offered treacherous footing, signalling for Sarah to cover me with another hand gesture. She shifted position immediately, angling to have clear lines of fire without putting me in her field. My eyes flicked up to the small, rusted unisex sign above the entrance—weathered to near-illegibility, paint peeling, but still recognisable. At least it meant we were dealing with a single interior space. No separate facilities that would require splitting our attention. No back exit based on the external structure. Nowhere to run, unless they had already done so before we'd arrived, unless that clang had been them departing rather than moving within.

The interior was dim as I approached the entrance, the sickly orange glow from the lone bulb inside doing little to dispel the gloom that seemed to actively resist illumination. The light was weak and flickering, casting shadows that moved independently of any visible source. Water dripped steadily from a hole in the corrugated iron roof, each drop hitting the concrete floor with a steady plink that created its own rhythm.

Two cubicles. I could see that much from the entrance. One door standing open, hanging slightly askew on its hinges. The other closed—the far one, naturally. The one that would require approaching, exposing ourselves, committing to action.

I flicked my gaze to Sarah, who had silently slipped in behind me with ghost-like quietness, matching my careful steps with her own. We exchanged a nod. I moved first, sliding along the damp wall, careful not to let my shadow fall across the floor ahead of me where it might telegraph my position to anyone watching, careful not to silhouette myself against the door's light.

The first cubicle: empty. Just a toilet, graffitied walls, the smell of industrial cleaner and mildew fighting for dominance. Nothing threatening. Nothing useful.

I signalled again. Sarah shifted her stance in response, gun up and steady, watching my every move with the intensity of someone whose survival might depend on a split-second response to what I discovered.

Then the wind howled with sudden violence, a savage gust tearing through a gap in the wall structure like a scream given voice. The light above us flickered violently in response to the pressure change or simple electrical fault. Once. Twice. Each flicker creating a strobe effect that disoriented depth perception. And then it failed completely, plunging us into sudden, smothering darkness that was almost physical in its completeness.

For a second that stretched into eternity, we both froze. The pitch-black silence was absolute, overwhelming. A sensory vacuum, broken only by the relentless rhythm of the storm outside that became our only anchor to reality. My pupils dilated uselessly, trying to gather light that didn't exist, seeing nothing but the afterimage of that final flicker burned temporarily onto my retinas.

I moved instinctively, training overriding the momentary disorientation. Drawing my torch from my belt and clicking it on beneath the barrel of my weapon in one smooth motion. The beam sliced through the gloom in a tight cone, illuminating the floor and the bottom of the closed cubicle door in harsh clarity, creating shadows that seemed to leap and retreat with each slight movement of my hand.

And that's when I saw it.

A shimmer. A distortion of colour and light that shouldn't exist in this environment. A faint, oil-slick gleam dancing across the concrete floor beneath the cubicle door—like light reflecting off a soap bubble, or heat waves rising from hot pavement, or something shifting just beyond normal perception. My skin crawled with primal unease, a tightening across my scalp that raised every hair, the feeling of being watched by something that didn't want to be seen.

Then, from the patrol car outside, the radio erupted in a burst of static—loud, jarring, utterly incongruous in the eerie stillness we'd created. It startled me despite years of experience, broke my focus for a fraction of a second, pulling my attention away from the shimmer on the floor.

And in the fraction of a second that followed, I kicked in the door.

The door flew open with violent force, metal hinges protesting, the wooden panel hitting the cubicle wall with a wet, metallic bang that echoed in the confined space. Inside, illuminated by my torch beam for perhaps one full second before everything went wrong, I caught the fleeting image of a figure.

Crouched low in an impossible position, knees bent, arms wrapped around legs. Long silver hair glistening in the torchlight like threads of moonlight or spun metal, cascading down in ways that defied the cramped space. A woman, definitely a woman, though her face was turned away, hidden. The hair was what struck me—that distinctive silver, luminous even in the harsh LED light.

Then—blackness. The door slammed shut again with force. My heart thundered in my chest, pulse pounding in my ears, drowning out even the storm.

Recognition flashed through my consciousness like lightning. Not full recognition, not conscious identification, but something deeper. Instinctual. That hair, that posture, the way she'd been positioned. I knew her. Or had seen her. Somewhere in my past. The memory was there but refusing to surface, dancing just beyond reach like trying to remember a dream upon waking.

I stood frozen for several heartbeats, transfixed by that brief, ghostly image that was already beginning to blur at the edges of memory. The hairs on my arms bristled beneath wet fabric, standing on end despite the cold and damp. A chill deeper than the rain settled into my bones, the kind of cold that comes from within rather than without. My torch beam jittered slightly as my grip faltered, my hands wanting to shake with something that wasn't fear exactly but which resembled it closely enough.

Sarah stepped forward briskly, moving past me, shouldering the door open again with her body weight, her gun poised and ready, finger on the trigger guard but prepared to move inside in an instant if threat appeared.

"It's empty," she said after a beat, her voice taut with confusion that mirrored my own incomprehension.

I turned, heart still racing with residual adrenaline, to see for myself. My torch beam swept the cubicle interior in systematic arcs. The cubicle was vacant. Completely, undeniably empty. Toilet. Cistern. Paper roll hanging askew. Graffiti scratched into the walls. Nothing else. No woman. No silver hair. No place to hide in a space barely large enough for one person standing.

She looked back at me, brow furrowed deeply, concern flickering across her features that were illuminated starkly by my torch. "Karl?" she prompted, the single word carrying layers of question. Are you okay? Did you see something I didn't? What the hell just happened?

But I didn't answer. Not right away. Couldn't form words that would make sense. My mind was still replaying the image—that flash of silver hair catching light, the uncanny gleam beneath the door that had preceded the vision, the way it had all vanished the moment I'd moved, the impossibility of the empty space. Had she been there at all? Had exhaustion and stress finally pushed me across some line into hallucination? Or had something genuinely inexplicable just occurred?

The room still felt occupied. That was the worst part. Despite the visual evidence of emptiness, despite Sarah's confirmation, some primitive part of my brain insisted that we weren't alone, that something remained, watching, waiting.