Iwake up in the same clothes I wore yesterday. The smell of dried extinguisher foam and cold sweat clings to me like shame. My hair’s a rat’s nest, my mouth tastes like battery acid, and I haven’t slept—not really. Every time I started to drift off, I’d hear it again. That chittering. Thatthing. My brain keeps replaying the explosion of the door, the way its eyes locked onto mine like it had been waiting for me specifically.
But it’s morning now. Light is a kind of armor, right?
I force myself into jeans, a fresh sweater, and the kind of ponytail that says “I give a damn, but only because I have to.” I make it halfway through brushing my teeth before I check my phone.
Bad move.
The headline pops up immediately:
CRYPTID COLONOSCOPY: Local Librarian Reports Two-Faced Toilet Monster.
Beneath it, a freeze-frame of me mid-interview—eyes wide, mouth open, fire extinguisher foam on my sleeve. I look like I just crawled out of a meth dream.
There’s already a TikTok remix. A dozen memes. One gif of me saying, “It had TWO faces!” looped to the sound of a toilet flushing and a fart horn.
My stomach lurches.
I make the mistake of checking the comments.
“Someone’s been hitting the banned book section too hard.”
“Girl saw her own reflection and panicked.”
“Miss Wilkins got possessed by the plumbing poltergeist!”
I drop the phone like it burns.
Then I pick it back up and go to work anyway.
When I pull into the library parking lot, there’s a cherry-picker in front of the building, a construction crew already patching the busted window. Caution tape flutters in the wind like an afterthought.
Inside, the scent of plaster, drywall dust, and scorched wiring mingles with old books and floor polish. It’s a cocktail of “we survived something” and “you still gotta clock in.”
Peggy Sue is behind the front desk, coffee in one hand and a look of maternal suspicion in the other.
“Olivia,” she says slowly, like my name’s suddenly a diagnosis. “You sure you wanna be here today?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, setting my bag down harder than I mean to. “It’s not like the ghost of Elvis is gonna pop out of the plumbing again.”
Peggy snorts, but it’s not exactly a laugh. “You smell like fear and bad decisions.”
“Better than what I smelled last night.”
She eyes me. “The cops said there was no physical evidence of anything… otherworldly. Just broken glass and a terrified librarian. That’s their wording.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m just saying, maybe take a day. Let the memes cool down. Internet has a short attention span.”
“So do I,” I snap, then soften. “Sorry. I just... I can’t sit home all day wondering if everyone in town thinks I’m crazy. I need something todo.”
Peggy looks like she wants to argue, but instead she sighs and hands me the keys to the AV room. “Fine. But if you see anything with more than one face today, you scream and I’ll throw the coffee.”
I manage a weak smile. “Deal.”
By noon, I’ve heard the phrase “Bathroom Beast” eight separate times.
Some guy from Public Works walks past and says, “Don’t let the two-headed toilet demon bite ya!” followed by a wheezing laugh like a busted radiator.
