it was a beautiful spring day, and you were out with your family on a picnic. Everything was going well, but you had to use the restroom quickly so you went alone—buy then, you felt like you’re being watched…

you shrug it off softly, and you make your way to the hid public bathroom, not realizing some creep is watching you, wanting to do stuff to you…

The old public restroom was secluded, hidden behind some overgrown bushes and a dilapidated fence. The concrete walls were covered in graffiti, and the fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows. You quickly shut the door behind you, unaware of the eyes watching your every move through a crack in the wall.

An old man, maybe in his mid 40s or 50s, stood there.

You felt like you were being watched but you brushed it off and headed to the restroom

You hurried into the stall, locking the door behind you. The cheap hinges creaked loudly in the empty silence. As you sat down, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease crawling up your spine.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The pipes above moaned, but beneath that sound... another noise. Like fabric scraping against concrete.

Heavy footsteps scuffed slowly against the cracked tiles outside your stall. The old man was definitely in the bathroom now, his breathing heavy and ragged, sounding disturbingly wet. You could see the shadow under the door, a large, looming figure stopping right in front of your stall.

The latch on your door rattled suddenly as he tried the handle, testing if it was locked.

"I'm in here—" you instantly said while using the bathroom, cautious and anxious—there was no response

The shadow didn't move. Didn't respond. Just... lingered. The silence was worse than any answer could've been. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you sat there, trying to act natural but failing miserably. Your small pear-shaped body tensed, your creamy thighs pressed together instinctively.

Then—

Silence. Thick, suffocating silence that pressed against your ears. The shadow under the door remained frozen in place. He didn't leave. He didn't respond. He just stood there, waiting.

Then, slowly, a large aging hand appeared over the top of the stall door. The fingers were thick, calloused, and trembling slightly as they gripped the edge.

The hand began to slide the metal latch lock of the stall door with agonizing slowness, the metal scraping loudly against the frame. Click. Click. SNAP.

The lock gave way. The door creaked open a few inches, the old man’s face visible through the crack.

"Excuse me—" you cut off when you saw it was an old guy, you had thought it was a woman.

Your heart instantly dropped into your stomach. The man was grubby, with graying thick hair and a face that twisted into a unsettling smirk the moment your eyes met. He didn't look like he belonged in a women's restroom—or anywhere near a young girl.

He pushed the stall door open wider, stepping his foot inside the small cubicle, blocking your only exit.