It was as Ralph reached out to flush his urinal that he heard it.

“Don’t.” It was a tiny voice, a barely audible squeak from the void beneath the stall behind him. He spun around, searching for the owner. Nothing stirred.

It was only when he turned to the mirror that he saw who he was looking for. Invisible in the shadow beneath a toilet bowl, an outline of a silhouette reluctantly slunk out into the fluorescent light. A glance over his shoulder told Ralph that the creature only appeared in the reflection.

His acknowledgement of its existence seemed to define it more, blowing into focus a sharp, pointed nose. It’s triangular blob of a head seeming into a tiny witch’s hat.

“You shouldn’t flush,” it squeaked, the point of its nose an accusatory finger. 

Ralph looked at the handle to the urinal, then back to the creature. “I can’t not flush. That’s wrong.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” The nose painted a sweeping glance at the other urinals, and Ralph followed its gaze, eyes gliding over little basins of yellow liquid pooled at the bottom of each one. “No one else does.”

“That’s true.” Ralph thought for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right, actually.” Why should he have to do more work than everyone else?

The creature grew slightly larger or stepped closer. Ralph couldn’t tell which. 

“You aren’t hurting anyone,” it said. As each word floated over its blackened teeth, he felt as if the creature was perusing his thoughts the same way one might peruse cabbages at the supermarket. It picked a particularly moldy one from the back. “The janitor can flush it. That’s why he gets paid.”

Ralph nodded, both to himself and his visitor, and stepped away from the urinal. A feeling of triumph washed over him, as if he had just corrected a severe injustice. Paying the creature no mind, he caught himself grinning as he rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands. 

Just as he reached for the faucet, it spoke again. The creature’s voice had grown a shade deeper. “Don’t.”

“I have to.”

“Did you piss on your hands?” The voice warbled with suppressed laughter.

“No.” Ralph crossed his arms. “You’re starting to piss me off.”

“Oh, so your dick’s dirty,” it mocked, bolder. There was a noise like dead leaves rustling as the creature smirked. “I see.”

“I didn’t!” Blind with anger, Ralph rounded on his enemy, but he was faced with only the stained linoleum tile of the bathroom floor. 

“I’m just looking out for you,” said the voice from the mirror. “Your hands aren’t dirty. Why wash them?” It unfolded itself a little larger, peeking over the mirror frame. “Dryers are a haven for bacteria. You could get sick.”

Again, it felt like the visitor was plucking lines from Ralph’s own head. It should have unnerved him, but Ralph walked out of the bathroom that day with confidence, hands unwashed, urinal unflushed. A slightly worse person.

And the creature grew.