There was a rumor at my elementary school about "the Red Vest."

On the third floor of the north building, in the very back stall of the girls' bathroom—if you were in there, you would hear a quiet voice from above.

"Shall I put a red vest on you?"

If you answered "yes" to that question, red blood would spread across your back, making it look as though you were wearing a vest.

If you answered "no," only your neck would turn red.

So if you heard that voice, you were never, ever supposed to answer. That was what we were taught.

Every school has rumors like that. At first, we just thought it was fun. After school, two friends and I went to the north building's bathroom, stood in front of the door, and jokingly called out, "Is anyone in there?"

Of course, nothing happened.

Disappointed and ready to head home, my friend Misaki spoke up.

"Well, I'm going in."

She stepped into the back stall, cleared her throat dramatically, and locked the door from the inside.

"Hey, can you hear me?"

"Nope!" we laughed.

Right after that.

Inside the stall, Misaki went dead silent.

"Misaki?"

No answer.

Thinking she was just messing around, I knocked on the door.

"Come on, get out here already."

Then came a small voice from inside.

"...From above."

Her voice was trembling.

"I hear it... from above."

We stopped laughing.

The next moment, an unfamiliar voice spoke inside the stall.

"Shall I put a red vest on you?"

It sounded like a child's voice, but also like an old woman's. High-pitched, yet horribly raspy.

I screamed without thinking.

"Don't answer!"

But Misaki was already panicking.

"No, no! I don't want it!"

That very second, *THUD*—something slammed into the door from the inside.

The lock gave way, and the door swung open just a crack.

Misaki was sitting on the floor inside, clutching her neck and crying. There was no blood. But around her neck, distinct red handprint-like marks remained.

We ran to get a teacher.

Misaki was taken to the nurse's office, but the marks faded by evening. The teachers insisted she had just scratched her own neck. But we had seen them. Those weren't marks she could have made herself—there were six fingers.

From that day on, Misaki stopped coming to school.

A few weeks later, I heard she had transferred. I didn't know why.

But she called me once, just one last time.

Late at night, the home phone rang, and when I picked up, it was Misaki.

"Hey... do you still remember?"

Her voice sounded distant. Muffled, as if she were speaking from inside a bathroom stall.

"Remember what?"

"The red vest."

I couldn't say a word.