While we were strolling through the mall, my daughter abruptly took hold of my hand and dragged me to the bathroom. After we locked the stall door, she gestured to something and said in a whisper, “Mom, did you see that?” 
We had made the decision to go to the mall and spend some time together that day. She had a celebration coming up and wanted “the most beautiful dress,” so we needed to purchase her a couple dresses.
We tried on a variety of dresses, including ones with bows, glittering skirts, and light summer dresses, while laughing as we traveled from store to store. With excitement, my daughter spun around in front of the mirror and inquired:
Do I look good in this one, Mom?
I grinned as I observed how quickly she was maturing. Until she abruptly halted in the middle of the store, everything was calm and quite normal. Her lips quivered, her eyes darkened, and she spoke firmly but quietly:
We need to use the restroom, Mom. Right now.
I jokingly said, “I thought she just needed to go.”
— So abruptly? All right, let’s go.
I saw that she kept peeking over her shoulder as we made our way to the bathrooms. She held on to my hand more and more tightly, as though she was worried I would release it. After entering, she hurriedly dragged me into a stall, secured the door, and remained still. Her eyes were filled with anxiety, and her face was pale.
“Mom,” she said in a whisper, “did you see it too?”
See what, darling? — I inquired, perplexed.
However, she touched her lips with a finger:
— Keep quiet. Stay put. Take a look.
She gestured at the opening beneath the door. I stooped to take a close look, and what I saw sent a shiver down my spine since it was…
There were black men’s shoes beneath the door. It was big, filthy, had loose laces, and was obviously not a janitor’s.
shoes for men. in the restroom for ladies.
I attempted to breathe as softly as I could while squeezing my daughter’s hand. My mind was racing with a thousand ideas, and my heart was racing. Who was it? He was there, but why? We froze, terrified to move, until our cubicle door knocked softly but clearly.
My daughter clung to me more tightly.
“Mom,” she muttered. It’s him.
I questioned in a shaky voice:
— What are you looking for from us? Right now, I’m going to contact the police!
No response. On the other side of the door, there was only labored breathing. Then — heavy, sluggish footfall, reverberating on the tiled floor, receding away.
For a long while, we stood still, until the silence grew intolerable. My kid gave me a terrified look as she gazed up:
Who was that, Mom?
Despite my trembling palms, I tried to seem calm as I responded, “I don’t know.” But until Dad arrives, we won’t be leaving.
I told my spouse everything in a whisper over the phone. He departed right away. Holding our breath, we waited. We could hear water running and people entering outside, but we jumped at every sound.
I held my daughter’s hand as I opened the door when my husband finally came and shouted out to us. After we left, we noticed a black muddy streak on the floor next to the restroom entrance. It was the footprint of the identical shoes.
