A Ghost in My Toilet I never believed in ghosts until that night. It started as an ordinary evening.

A Ghost in My Toilet

I never believed in ghosts until that night. It started as an ordinary evening. I had just finished dinner and was watching TV when I felt a strange chill in the air. Karachi’s weather wasn’t cold, yet the temperature in my apartment seemed to drop suddenly. Ignoring it, I continued watching, but something felt… off.

When nature called, I walked into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and closed the door. The moment I sat down, a whisper echoed through the small space. "Get out." My heart stopped. I turned my head, searching for the source, but there was no one. The light above flickered. Goosebumps formed on my arms. It had to be my imagination.

Then, the toilet flushed by itself.

I shot up from my seat, staring at the swirling water. My hands trembled as I reached for the flush handle, hoping it was just a plumbing issue. But before I could touch it, the whisper came again, clearer this time. "Leave now."

I stumbled backward, nearly slipping on the tiled floor. The mirror above the sink fogged up, as if someone had just exhaled onto it. Then, letters began to form in the condensation: GET OUT.

Panic surged through me. I yanked open the door and bolted out of the bathroom, slamming it shut behind me. My chest rose and fell rapidly as I pressed my back against the door, listening. Silence. My bathroom had never felt so terrifying.

For the next hour, I sat frozen in my living room, trying to convince myself it was stress or exhaustion playing tricks on me. I finally mustered the courage to check again. Cautiously, I pushed the bathroom door open. Everything was normal. The mirror was clear, the toilet still, the air calm. Maybe I had imagined it.

Just as I exhaled in relief, the door slammed shut behind me with a force that shook the walls. The light flickered violently, casting eerie shadows. The whisper turned into a guttural growl. Then, something grabbed my ankle.

I screamed, kicking frantically as I felt icy fingers wrap around my skin. My pulse pounded in my ears. I lunged for the door, twisting the knob with all my strength. It wouldn't budge. The grip on my ankle tightened, pulling me backward. My fingers dug into the floor tiles as I struggled to break free.

The room fell silent. The light steadied.

The door creaked open by itself. Gasping, I scrambled out, slamming the door shut behind me.

I never used that bathroom again. I started sleeping with the lights on, terrified that whatever had been in there would come back for me. I even thought about moving, but part of me feared it would follow me wherever I went.

Even now, sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear the toilet flush on its own. And I know—I am not alone.I never believed in ghosts until that night. It started as an ordinary evening. I had just returned home from work, tired and ready to relax. The weather was typical for the season—a slight chill in the air, with the wind rattling the windowpanes. After dinner, I decided to take a long, hot shower to unwind. That’s when things started to get… strange.

The first sign was the flickering light. As I turned the bathroom switch on, the overhead bulb blinked erratically before settling into a weak, pulsating glow. I made a mental note to replace it the next day. I turned on the shower, and steam began to fill the room. But the feeling of being alone began to evaporate. An inexplicable chill ran down my spine, the kind that comes when someone is watching you.

I shook it off as paranoia. Just as I finished my shower, I heard a distinct noise—a soft, eerie gurgling sound coming from the toilet. I froze, listening intently. The sound grew louder, almost like a muffled groan. It was too strange to be normal plumbing. My heart started pounding, but I still tried to dismiss it.

When I stepped out of the shower, the mirror was completely fogged over.

Yet, there was something on the glass—a message, written in dripping condensation: “GET OUT.” My breath caught in my throat. I hadn’t touched the mirror, and I lived alone. Rational thoughts started to collapse under the weight of fear.

I wiped the mirror clean, telling myself it must have been some bizarre condensation pattern. But then, I heard the toilet lid slam shut behind me. I jumped and turned around, now fully alert. The lid was moving—slowly rising and falling, as if being manipulated by an invisible force. My instincts screamed at me to leave, but curiosity pinned me in place.

Suddenly, the bathroom door shut on its own. I grabbed the handle and twisted it furiously, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic surged through me. Then, from the toilet bowl, I saw it. A faint, ghostly figure began to emerge—a translucent woman, pale and soaked, as though she had drowned. Her hollow eyes locked onto mine, filled with sorrow and rage.

“I warned you,” she whispered, her voice echoing like a distant wail.

“This is my home. Leave before it’s too late.”

My knees felt weak. Desperately, I banged on the door, and just as suddenly as it had locked, it swung open. I bolted out of the bathroom, not stopping until I reached the front door. Without a second thought, I grabbed my car keys and fled the house.

I never returned to that home. Later, I learned that a tragic drowning had occurred there decades ago—right in the bathroom. Some say it’s just a story. But every time I hear a toilet gurgle, I remember the hollow eyes of the ghost and the warning that saved me.