March 25, 2026

Hannah Sawyer
by Aaron Brown-Ewing

A childhood ghost story returns years later, carrying with it memories that feel both distant and unresolved. As past and present begin to overlap, something long forgotten refuses to stay buried.

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  “Did you know that our school is haunted?” I remember my friend, Jenni, asking me. The memory bursts into my head like the pop of bubble gum. 
Everyone knew that there were ghosts in the old elementary school — the building was almost a hundred years old when we were there, something had to be creeping around, right? It was a big school, holding grades one to five, rumors and stories spread like the flu. 
I’ve been reminiscing about those days a lot recently. I live alone now, in a small single room apartment above a pharmacy. My friends have all gone away, my parents moved to Florida and I only hear from them on the holidays, and I’ve been between jobs more often than not. All I can do is think and reminisce.
There was one story about the elementary school that stuck with me, about a girl who lurked in the bathrooms, specifically in the girls bathroom on the third floor, by the art room. It had one small window that looked out over the parking lot, facing the playground. 
Jenni told me — or rather, it was her brother — about how to summon her during a sleepover when we were in third grade. 
We had finished watching a movie, sitting in her living room, bundled in blankets. Her brother had come home as the credits started, stinking from his job at Subway. Jenni had just asked me the question, if I knew about the ghost.
“She lives in the toilet, right?” I asked, thinking about what I had heard around the school before. 
“Are you talking about Hannah Sawyer?” her brother asked. He was about six years older than the two of us, a sophomore in high school. “You have to call her — I did it with my buddy before the end of fifth grade,” he said. He sat down on the floor in front of us. “This is what you do:
“You go into the girls bathroom. Turn off the lights and close the window; keep all the stall doors open except the last one — that’s where she would always hide. Then, knock on it three times — knock knock knock — and say, ‘Hannah Sawyer, do you want to play?’ That’s what the bullies said to her before she died. Then wait and listen.”
“What happens?” I asked.
“She grabs you!—” he grabbed me by the shoulders, his face inches from mine “—and she yanks you down the toilet, into the sewers. That’s where she eats you.”
Silence.
Jenni snorted. “Why were you in the girls bathroom?” She started laughing a squealing laugh. 
I laughed too, more to hide my discomfort.
Her brother blushed and stormed away. He was always so easy to upset. I wonder where he is now, what he’s doing with his life. 
It’s been a while since I spoke with Jenni. She went to a university in Chicago, got married, and had a kid, last I heard. A beautiful baby girl. I stayed here, in our hometown, studied criminal justice at a community college, struggled with jobs before going to beauty school then worked at a salon. I was fired last week. I’ve had a few romantic flings over the years, too, but nothing stuck. It just hasn’t been in the stars for me.
Maybe I should call her sometime, see how everything is. 
Near the end of fifth grade, before going off to middle school, I went into that bathroom. At first I didn’t think anything of it. I just went into the stall, knocked three times before entering to make sure it was empty. 
It was only for an instant, but I could never forget. She stood over the toilet, hovering with a broken neck. Flesh picked at by vermin, hair a rotten and muddy tangle that plastered her face. One eye gouged, the other swollen. She was just a kid, not much older than I was. She looked ready to cry from those ruined eyes. 
I rushed back to class, nearly collapsing into my seat. My teacher chewed me out for running, I was sent home, my underwear soiled. It made my time in middle school more difficult, being the girl who pissed herself in fifth grade. I tried telling the other kids about what I saw, but the words just never made it out. I wanted to forget.
The memory still terrifies me. The thought of her arms reaching out, grabbing me by the waist and yanking me into the toilet bowl, forcing my body, too big to fit, inside until my spine snapped. The image was so poignant that it took weeks after that until I could go to the bathroom normally again. At home, I would leave the door open, and at night I’d turn the hall lights on.
My little brother would always tattle. 
“But Hannah Sawyer will pull me in,” I wanted to tell my parents when they’d scold me, “I need to be able to run away.” It was embarrassing, in retrospect.
I haven’t spoken to my brother in a while either. The last time was at least two years ago when he called from a jail in Portland. He’s had a problem with heroin since he was in high school, and our parents cut all communication with him ever since. He needed money that I didn’t have. I couldn’t help him even if I wanted to.
Maybe I’m just a bad person. I wasn’t there for him back then, and now here I am living alone. No friends, no family, no lover, no job. A life of loneliness, feeling dissatisfied with where I am, always thinking of what could have been if I just let go of my childhood. 
That old elementary school is long gone, demolished and replaced by a strip mall and apartment complex. The town that I grew up in has changed into something unrecognizable, with chain restaurants, trendy bars, and supercenter retail stores.
But, I wonder, is Hannah Sawyer still lurking around down in those sewers? She must be so lonely, after all these years. Does anyone summon her anymore? Do they even know?
I get up from my futon and step over the mess to my bathroom. I close the door and knock three times. “Hannah Sawyer, would you like to play?” I wait in the quiet night. A few seconds pass. A minute.
A hand, wet and cold, takes my own, fingers gently intertwining with mine, and a sad, weak voice whispers, “Yes.” I embrace her like a mother comforting her daughter, and I never let go.

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Aaron Brown-Ewing is an Ohio native who currently lives and works in Iwate prefecture, Japan as an English language teacher and travel blogger. As a writer, he enjoys creating narratives and imagery with the surreal and the fantastic. You can follow his travels at aaronhimself.com and @mraaronhimself on Instagram.