The case of the Haunted Bathroom

On three days of the week we were allowed to bath in one of the ten bathrooms situated on the other side of the small bell tower.  The tall bell tower, where we were absolutely forbidden to venture, could be found in the nuns section of the convent.  Not that that deterred the more adventurous of those among us, who would sprint up the long flight of stairs, ring the bell and gallop down again at full tilt, to hopefully disappear into the playground.

On the other days we would line up in the washroom in complete silence to wash ourselves at the many basins or the two foot bathes.  Saturday afternoons were always fun times, when we were allowed to wash our hair and clean our brushes and combs.  It was also one of the times when we were allowed to talk, and do one another's hair.  A nice, lazy, comfortable feeling would pervade the washroom, while the light and trivial banter would play itself out backwards and forwards between the four large mirrors.  It was a time of cementing friendships, as well as a bit of rivalry as we jostled for position at the basins.  

One of my friends daringly coloured her hair red, and was rewarded for this impulsive action by being excluded from taking part in any further school excursions, until the colour either washed out, or grew out and was cut off.  

Always having had a rather bad memory, I invariably left my wet socks on the side of the basin, instead of hanging them on the iron railing at the back of my bed.  I could get away with it in Summer, but Winter was a different story.  It took forever for my body heat to dry out the socks on my feet.  On those particular days, I felt I was really doing some sort of "penance", not that I ever fully understood what that meant beyond a vague feeling that something difficult and painful had to be endured.

The first urban legend I ever heard at boarding school concerned number nine bathroom.  I was told that the last thing you ever wanted, was to be allocated number nine bathroom because there, doing her exercises, with her head under her left arm, was a headless nun.  Whenever number nine bathroom happened to be my lot for the term or the year as the case may be, I went through agonising times, trying to bath myself as quickly as possible before the headless nun appeared.  I thought that at any moment she would crawl out from under the free-standing bath, grinning at me from under her armpit and doing star jumps.  I would fling myself as far away from the bath as I possibly could and without drying myself, pull on my pajamas and flee from the offending bathroom as fast as my legs could carry me, my heart racing twenty to the dozen.

I never forgot the story of the headless nun who haunted the poor unsuspecting number nine bathroom, although as I grew older, it slowly had less and less of an affect on me until it became just that -  A crazy urban legend.