Adrenaline began rushing through his veins. He grabbed the towel rack immediately, ripping it from the crumbling low-cost plaster and pressed it into the gap beneath the door. Leveraging the weight of his entire body, the door creaked, but it still wouldn’t budge.

  A malicious growl escaped the pipes, forming ripples in the bathwater and sending waves of vibration throughout the bathroom. The sound was like the gluttonous growl of a starving stomach craving to rip apart and devour his flesh. The bathroom mirror fractured.

  Lysander’s heart pounded heavily, flashes of the night before appearing in his mind. Flashes of that sinister figure, crawling towards him, as he was trapped in the elevator at Lawson’s Law firm, instilling a primal fear in him which defied all rationality.

  Hammering on the door, he screamed loudly, “Help! Help me!”

  Even if that old lady had conspired to trap and kill him here, there was a slim chance his neighbors would hear him and come to rescue. He clinged on what little hope was left, desperate to survive.

  As the flow of water ceased, silence returned briefly to the bathroom.

  Lysander’s gaze darted around restlessly, praying inwardly that fortune had returned, and the nightmare had passed without any grand showdown.

  The lights flickered, before a shadow steadily ascended from the drain.

  At that moment, the door creaked open.

  Unwilling to waste this chance, Lysander dashed into the corridor of the apartment, and the door was slammed shut again. Panting, he dropped exhausted onto the wooden floor, the old lady sliding the cabinet back against the door, before loud bangs pounded from inside the bathroom.

  Lysander hoisted himself up, turning towards the exit and preparing to make a run for it. Although he had escaped imminent demise, he wasn’t quite sure his predicament was far from over.

  “Halt!”

  The old lady gripped a pocket pistol tightly with bloody yellow gardening gloves, her trembling index finger resting on the trigger.

  “I-I-I didn’t want,” She stammered cryptically, “You know, he, he…”

  “It’s alright, calm down. P-Put the gun down, and we’ll find a way to deal with this situation peacefully,” Lysander said softly, desperately trying to appease her.

  “No!” she screeched with regained composure, “To the kitchen. I will follow right behind. No tricks, or I’ll fire a bullet right through your skull.”

  Lysander nodded obediently, crawling on the wooden floor, his sweaty palms collecting dust, until passing the sill of the kitchen door. Heaps of trash cluttered the floor.

  “Alright. Now stand up, slowly. Hand where I can see them.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He did as he was told, rising to his feet.

  He shivered from the chill emanating from the freezer he’d seen earlier which was still wide open, stuffed with several local species of canines, felines and rodents. Sprawled on a chopping board was a flayed racoon, its fur dangling from the chair’s top rail.

  “Hear me out, and I’ll let you go. I just don’t want you reporting me.”

  Relief washed over Lysander. “I’ll be moving out soon anyway. Trust me; my mouth is zipped.”

  The old lady huffed, lowering her pocket pistol slightly. “All this time, I’ve been feeding him, but his hunger cannot be quenched, only growing larger with each passing day. I can’t keep up with it.”

  She continued in a shameful tone, “I was thinking about feeding him something else. And then, you rang the doorbell.”

  She paused. “Let’s just say that I was tempted. However, I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt of killing humans just to appease his hunger.”

  A knot formed in Lysander’s throat. “Feed who?”

  “My husband.”

  …

  A year ago.

  The sink was stacked with dishes from the feast Marianne had organized for her husband’s poker night. She turned up the tap and squirted dish soap into the water, letting them soak, in the meanwhile packing up the leftovers and wiping down the dining table.

  Her husband and his buddies were still gathered around the TV, making remarks of the female referee’s figure and downing beer like water. The soccer match had extended into overtime, riling up the bunch. When the opponents scored, her husband shoved bowls of chicken wings and nachos off the table, scattering them all across the floor.

  “Hey, that’s a foul! What a joke.”

  As the night was coming to an end, Marianne was kneeling on the floor, wiping the grease off the floor, when one of her husband’s buddies slapped her behind, then winking towards her husband.

  Marianne gasped, sending a look of disapproval towards her husband, hoping he would step in. He responded irritably, “What? Go run me a bath, I need to wind down.”

  She nodded, her bruises flaring up in pain again. He had lost several hundred dollars in their poker game, and now with their soccer team losing the game, she had to be careful around him.

  “Alright, see ya. And don’t forget you still owe me two grand,” resounded from the entranceway as Marianne prepared the bath. The front door was shut, and footsteps neared from behind. Then, the sound of his belt unbuckling.

  …

  Tonight, his beating was especially severe.

  Marianne knelt in front of the kitchen sink, patching up her wounds with bandages and applying ointment on her black eye. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she sobbed silently, afraid her husband would hear her.

  “Hey, get me a beer,” echoed from the bathroom.

  She stood up shakily, limping towards the fridge and taking out a beer, then making her way towards the bathtub and handing him it.

  He glanced at her briefly, before grabbing the beer and sipping on it.

  “Hey, cheer up, will ya? No wonder I’m beating you.”

  Marianne stared at her own blurry reflection in the bathwater.

  Her husband groaned. “What’re you still doing here? Get me a towel.”

  “Honey, you’re quite drunk. You should be careful. Otherwise, you might drown.”

  Plunging his head underwater, Marianne began laughing manically. He gurgled, flailing his hands all around, pushing her back. He resurfaced, spitting out the water.

  “Crazy bitch!”

  Disoriented, he grasped repeatedly at the rim of the bathtub, trying to climb out of it, but the liquor in his blood was messing with his senses. Just as he managed to clutch it, a beer bottle was swung across his face, knocking him against the bathroom tiles. His consciousness faded.

  Marianne grabbed his head, submerging it under the bathwater which was slowly dyed red. She waited until the last of the bubbles rose until retreating. His body floated lifelessly to the surface.

  “…”

  “I should get the bleach.”

  …

  After dissolving his body and disposing of his bones, she was fatigued. Dropping onto the couch, she snacked on leftovers and zapped through the channels, a satisfied smile crossing her face.

  “Hey. Get me a beer!” her husband’s voice echoed from the bathroom.

  Marianne froze, cold sweat dripping down her temples.

  “Hurry!”

  With trembling hands, she navigated towards the fridge, keeping the door of the bathroom at the edge of her periphery, and pulling out an ice-cold beer.