Her rich, chocolate-brown skin was creased in a thousand wrinkles, her puffs of black hair—peppered with white— like dark clouds over her gaunt cheeks.

She looked fine.

“Hello, daring.” she crooned, her voice withered and scratchy.

“H-Hello?” I asked, eyes darting from her dark eyes to the grey stall door, open yet blocked by her scrawny figure.

“Oh! My apologies.” She exclaimed with a grin, gesturing her arm for me to go inside, but I felt uneasy. Her smile was too bright, eyes too large and curious. Hungry, almost.

Then again, I hated old people.

I shivered.

“Thank you,” I muttered before turning, closing the door and providing a wall between us.

My step-father had dragged me to his work, and despite the welcoming scent of freshly ground coffee and fresh bread, I couldn’t help but gag.

The bathroom hung with the putrid odor of decaying flesh, the scent of sulfur filling my nostrils. My entire body shook, the urge to turn my head and puke my guts into the toilet violent.

“Everything okay in there?” the woman’s voice droned from the side of the stall door, and I nodded automatically, forgetting she couldn’t see my shaky movement.

“Yes,” I blurted, but covered my mouth in case my leftover pasta decided to appear on the marble tile floor of a cheap café.

“Okay, sweetheart.” I could hear the smile in her voice. Did I not recognize her? Although she didn’t seem familiar, I’ve always had trouble remembering early memories. Maybe a distant relative or friend?

Pushing my thoughts aside and desperately wanting a fresh of breath air, I stood from the cold toilet seat and forced my trembling fingers to move around the cool metal switch of the doorknob.

“Mina?” she asked, the single word rolling off her tongue.

I opened my mouth, poised to answer with “yes” until realization hit me.

I never told her my name.

My fingers itched over my jean’s pocket, hand hovering over my phone. Nerves buzzing, I dialed 199.

“W-Who are you?” I stuttered, hating the way my voice wavered with fear.

“Oh, darling." she croaked, voice aged as if she had been smoking twenty packs daily ever since she learned how to light a cigarette.

“I’M YOUR BIGGEST NIGHTMARE!” Her words were distorted, yet a booming bass-like sound.

Trembling, I slide my body underneath the stall, army-crawling to the door. Pools of ruby red liquid streaked across the tile floor of the bathroom, as if someone dragged limbs through the blood.

I choked back a sob as I glanced at the torn, burly arm of what looked like what would belong to a man. Deep, dark gashes covered the limb, and I shut my eyes as I caught a flash of a dismembered head.

Then all I felt was a cold hand around a throat, fingers clenching my windpipe.

“119 what’s your emergency?”