MicroHorror

This was the part she really enjoyed. The bathroom. When Mrs. White cleaned the bath and basin she imagined all the spiders that were clinging to the insides of the S-bends, screaming as she blasted the plugholes with bleach. They needed killing and she relished in their mass murder.

As The Archers began on the radio downstairs, Mrs. White picked up the cleaning fluid, semi-whistled the jaunty theme tune and, with a flourish, squirted the liquid through the gleaming stainless steel holes of the bath’s waste, let the hot tap run for a bit and then stood very still. Listening. One day she would hear them. But all she could hear was the whining voice of Ruth Archer as she moved on to the bedroom.

The cloying liquid spurted through the circular holes, followed by a hot rush of water. The drain creatures fought over the juice, and the frenzy that always followed finally burst the dark, heaving mass of arthropods onto the bright white, slippery slopes of the bath.

Mrs. White’s gleaming surfaces darkened, the mass overflowing onto the bathroom floor, slinking towards the open door, spreading along the carpeted corridor and heading for the bedroom door at the end. It was still hungry.

The lake’s smooth surface had been disturbed. At first the dark object looked small, an innocent piece of flotsam with bands of ripples emanating from its edges as it bobbed in the still water, tiny water-creatures surfing the little waves. As the shape grew, the color lightened until it was obvious that this was not rubbish or a piece of deadwood.

A young boy watched it emerge from the water as he slowly cast out his homemade flies. He reeled in his line and with sweeping movements cast off again with the aim of snagging it. But all he managed to catch were a few twigs and the object floated away, towards a manmade island that housed a colony of busy ducks.

Intrigued by the growing size of the object, the boy ran over to a small wooden rowing boat pulled up close by, pushed it into the cool water and, using the only oar left by the owner, paddled towards the island. The boat’s movement disturbed the silvery sheen of the still water and the ducks suddenly took off in a flapping rabble, their quacks echoing around the tree-lined shore, a cacophony of sound.

The boy had never been very far out on the water–his mother warned him against it, so he always stayed close to the edge. He couldn’t swim very well and when he looked back at his fishing gear he realized that he had paddled too far; the water was now a dark brown and he could see no movement below its surface. It was difficult to turn his craft around with one paddle, the boat began to spin and the curiosity that had spurred the boy to risk his mother’s wrath was forgotten as he concentrated on getting back to shore.

But the object no longer floated towards the island. It was headed directly for the boy’s boat, creating a large wash behind it, and he did not notice until it was too late.

An idyllic scene greeted the group of fishermen as they strolled down to the shore. Silence echoed around them as a collection of ripples slowly dissipated on the water’s surface near an empty boat swaying gently in the breeze.