Two-minute showers weren’t for me. I was the type who’d run the hot water until it started to lose its heat. Then I’d make the tiny turns of the valve, just half-an-inch towards the H, and then another turn, and another, until I had drained every last drop of warmth from the tank.

If my wife Mary followed me into the shower, she'd scream.

“I hate you! It’s like a waterfall in Iceland!”

“Quit complaining” I’d laughingly reply, “It’s supposedly good for you, something about cold water opening up your bile ducts or something.”

“If it’s so great then how come all the hot water is gone!”

Eventually she figured it out and switched to mornings and left the evenings to me.

Now, I’ll never go near a shower stall or a bathroom sink ever again. I’ve perfected the sponge bath and using baby wipes to keep clean.

It’s been a year since it happened and to this day I still wonder if it did.

Mary’s gone, though the police and her family still look for her, hoping she’ll turn up, I know she never will. I could tell the cops what really happened, but then I’d be locked up in the insane asylum.

Most people think I had something to do with her disappearance and I don’t blame them. I never put in the effort to look for her, wandering the nearby woods with the other searchers calling out her name. I knew it was a waste of time.

You might even remember the story from the evening news. Think Indiana, the fall, about a year ago. The reporters came and camped out for about two weeks, until nothing new came up and interest waned.

Mary’s parents don’t talk to me anymore, deep down I think they suspect I murdered her. I didn’t squelch their suspicions after I sold the house so soon after her going missing, but the truth was I could never live there after what I saw. I felt bad when another family moved in but what was I supposed to do?

Warn them? About what? A monster?

Even I don’t know how to explain it.

It started with a shower.

I just finished my usual sweltering, waterfilled excursion. Singing, soaping, letting the hot water create my own personal steam room.

I stepped out of the stall and saw that Mary had scribbled a message onto the mist covered vanity mirror –

“Hello there. when can we meet?”

I smiled knowing Mary had snuck in and left a little note.

She was always doing that, the “little” things they say that make a relationship work. Mary was quick with a compliment or an unexpected kiss. She stocked the snack drawer with Double Stuff Oreos, my faves, and always left little notes around the house about how she loved me.

I’d open my closet and there’d be a yellow post-it with a heart drawn on it stuck on my suit, or another placed on the cereal box when I went to grab breakfast.

Her little fog-scribbled note on the bathroom mirror was just another way Mary kept our relationship fun.

The next day after dinner, while clearing the table, she playfully slapped me on the ass and whispered in my ear, “Aren’t you the little pervert, sneaking into the bathroom while I’m taking my shower this morning.”

“Who me?”

“Well, who else? Writing a little message on the steamed-up mirror.”

“What did I write?”

“As if you don’t know, my little voyeur. How long were you watching?”

“I’m serious, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You wrote - I see you – on the mirror, with a little smiley face under it.”

I stood up from my hunched position at the washing machine and stared at Mary, my voice serious, “I wasn’t in the bathroom this morning. I didn’t leave any message. I was in the bedroom getting dressed. I never went in.”

Mary laughed, but I didn’t.

The smirk on her face faded, replaced by a genuine look of worry.

“What? Wait? Serious?”

“I wasn’t in there, not even to brush my teeth. Truth.”

We stood there in silence, trying to process our shared realization.

Then I asked her, “The night before, did you leave a message for me?”

Her hand went to her mouth, worry replaced by fear. She collapsed onto a chair.

I knew her answer.

Her hands trembled as she looked to the stairs that led to our bedroom and master bath.

“I want to call the police. Now, right now!” she blurted.

“And tell them what? Someone has left notes for us on our fogged bathroom mirror?”

“Yes, exactly that! Yes, a thousand times, yes”

“And how did this happen? I was in the bedroom from the time you went in until the time you came out. No one snuck past me. There’s no window to our bathroom. So how did this steamy note-writing intruder get in?”

Mary's voice cracked with apprehension, “I saw this on TV, it’s called frogging, someone is in our house, secretly here, and we don’t know. Either you call the police or I do. I won’t stay another night in this house unless they come here and check it out.”

Three hours later, four police officers searched our house from every corner of the basement, to the back of every closet, and under every bed, and even every cabinet.

They declared the house clean, like an exorcism had taken place.

They also checked the Ring camera and other surveillance cameras around our property. The cops even went so far as asking our neighbors if they could review their cameras.

No one was near our house over the last two days and nights.

Of course, it was the good news, bad news scenario. The good; there’s no prowler secretly living in our house. The bad; there’s no clue as to how those messages showed up on our bathroom mirror.

One of the older cops, his mustache as thick as a raccoon’s tail, pulled me aside, in his gruff voice he asked, “You playing some game with your wife, what they call gaslighting? I don’t know why you’d be doing it, but seriously if you are, just stop. I hate coming out for these bullshit calls, it’s a waste of our time and keeps us from doing real police work.”

I told him I wasn’t and I couldn’t even think of why I’d do something like that. He said he’d seen it all and nothing surprised him anymore.

Mary used the guest bathroom that night and only after I checked it out. There really was no place to hide in there, except for the cabinets under the vanity. I opened them up and assured her there was no one there. I stood guard outside as she took her shower. The bathroom door left open.

When she was done, there were no messages on the mirror, which calmed her down considerably. That and a margarita with a valium.

I put off my shower until the morning, as Mary was too wound up to be left alone. We crashed on the bed and she fell asleep in my reassuring arms. She kept asking, “How then? It doesn’t make sense. How?”

I told her, “We’re going to figure it out, and one day we’ll both say how stupid it was and laugh ourselves silly.”

Mary kept shaking her head, not buying my half-ass explanation. Hell, it wasn’t even an explanation, just something to say to make her feel better. I wasn’t scared like she was, more confused and for a half-a-second, I even thought maybe she was gaslighting me.

Like the cop said, nothing surprised him anymore.

That night I had a dream about a primary school teacher of mine, Mrs. Beel. She was old, grandma-like with a shock of white hair swirled up in a bun. In the dream she was wearing a floral print dress and writing on a blackboard. But instead of using chalk she was using someone’s chopped-off thumb and scribbling words with its blood.

She kept writing - “Death, death, death.”

I woke up sweating and popped a valium, three shots of Jack Daniels, then joined Mary in a drug induced slumber.

Better sleeping through chemistry.

Mary left for work before me in the morning. Sprinting out in a rush, wanting to leave the house as quick as possible. My mind was a little hazy from the valium. The turmoil of the night before seemed like it happened weeks ago.

I had no problem using our master bathroom for my shower. As with the guest bath there was really no place to hide, except for inside the vanity. I wasn’t giving in to crazed fear, but to be honest, I did a quick check just in case.

It was all clear, unless this person was hiding in the First Aid box.

The hot water felt good.

There really is something to the idea of washing away your troubles. I was able to relax and enjoy, even though I did find my gaze drifting to the bathroom mirror, keeping an eye out for any messages.

When I turned the water off, the bathroom was hot, steamy and note free.

I grabbed a towel and made my way into the bedroom, drying off and throwing on my underwear and socks. I returned to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

I stopped.

My body went rigid, my heart sped up and in an instant I went cold.

Drawn on the bathroom mirror was a frowning smiley face.

No words, just the grimace.

The steam etched scowl wasn’t there when I walked out of the shower. No one had gotten past me into the bathroom while I was pulling clothes out of the closet. I wasn’t watching the whole time, but I would have heard them, or caught them in the corner of my eye.

I stood there in the doorway, my glance drifted down to the vanity and the two knee-high doors.

Could someone be hiding in there?

I stepped backwards, not taking my eyes off the bathroom. Backing up to the bed, my hand reached behind the headboard and found my trusted burglar-deterrent, a 32-ounce Louisville Slugger. It felt good in my palms as I walked towards the bathroom.

Bat in hand, I flung open the vanity doors and was confronted by a hair dryer, the First Aid kit, make-up mirror and heating pad.

No contortionist killer

I glimpsed the smiley-face on the mirror, which now looked melted as the steam began to condense and drip. It looked like it was crying.

Then I heard the noise.

It was coming from the drain in the bathroom sink. Like giggling, or someone laughing. I leaned down, tilted my head, my ear inches away from the hole. I felt the puff of air, like someone blowing against my cheek, come out of the drain.

I whipped my head up and backed away.

What the hell was that?

I was frozen in the moment, not sure what to do.

Then I ran.

Down into the basement.

My eyes on the shelves under the stairs.

I scanned them.

Looking.

There it was, on the top shelf.

Grabbing the red plastic jug of drain cleaner, I turned to head upstairs, but stopped. My attention drawn to the drain pipe running along the basement wall. There was something in it. Moving. I could hear it.

How?

I bolted up from the basement and then the foyer stairs. Three steps at a time.

Out of breath and my hand shaking, I twisted the cap off the jug and poured the caustic liquid into the sink.

Every drop.

Then I got out of there.

I thought I heard a scream. But I was too far away in the bedroom, so I couldn’t really be sure. My head was spinning. Nothing made sense.

There was no way what I told Mary the night before was ever going to be true. My words sounded hollow as I repeated them in my mind –“We’re going to figure it out one day and laugh ourselves silly.”

I wasn’t laughing.

After about ten minutes, I moved towards the sink. All the drain cleaner was gone and no sounds rose out of the little hole at the bottom of the basin. The steam had cleared from the mirror and the smiley face was gone. It was just my face now and I looked confused and slightly embarrassed.

Did I really hear anything, see anything? Was this just mental fog caused by remnants of the valium?

It’s easy to question yourself when you’re confronted by something that is sheer madness. Something that the word improbability doesn’t even begin to describe.

Insanity or drain monster, it didn’t matter, I had to get to work.

I threw the drain cleaner jug into the recycling bin and jumped into my car. As I backed out of the driveway my eyes locked onto our bedroom window. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to see, but I was glad nothing was there except the curtains.

I called Mary at lunch time, not to tell her what happened, but to see how she was doing. I'd never let her know about the smiley face on the mirror or what I thought I heard, if I did, she’d never set foot in the house again.

Nope, I’d take it to my grave.

Mary sounded better on the phone, the night’s sleep and the morning sun seemed to let her get her bearings. She only had one request, “Please be home before me, I just want to make sure I’m not alone in the house, at least for the next few days.”

“Sure, sure, you got it babe.” I told her, in my best reassuring voice.

The rest of the afternoon, I was pretty useless at work. My brain performing mental gymnastics trying to explain what happened. I spent most of the day in my cubicle searching the internet for answers. After going down rabbit hole after rabbit hole, there was something that seemed to explain, or at least might explain, what was happening.

I found an article about when people get new carpets they can have strong reactions to chemicals in the rugs.

Bingo!

We had just re-carpeted the living room and bedrooms, no more than two weeks earlier.

Mary had been complaining of headaches recently, although I hadn't experienced anything out of the norm. The article listed the effects of the chemicals: you could have blurred vision, nausea and even hallucinations.

Everything seemed to check.

That evening over dinner I pulled up the carpet article on my phone and read it to Mary. You could see the tension melt away with every word I read. She started talking about how forgetful she had been lately and mentioned the headaches and even some weird dreams. Which of course, struck a chord with me, re-calling my bloody-finger chalk board from the night before.

Even though it was fall and a chill was in the air, we ran the air-conditioner that night to help filter out the chemicals.

We threw open the windows on the second floor as well. It was cold, but at least we were getting clean, healthy air.

I took my shower that night without incident.

No smiley faces, frowning faces, or messages appeared on the mirror.

We snuggled up close, broke out another comforter to combat the breezes coming out of the vents and windows, then fell asleep with the knowledge that we’d figured it out. Mary turned to me, kissed me on the forehead.

“My hero, such the detective. You were right, we will laugh about this.”

Mary took her shower that morning.

I was getting dressed when I heard the thump.

It sounded like she dropped the soap in the stall.

I called out, “Are you ok?”

Mary didn’t say anything.

Thinking she didn’t hear me, I yelled this time, raising my voice over the sound of the radio that was on and the gurgling water flowing from the shower.

“You ok babe?”

There was another thump.

I made my way into the bathroom. I didn’t rush in, there was no reason to think anything was wrong. She hadn’t screamed.

Even now I can’t truly understand what I saw, partly because it happened so fast and also because it was so terrifying.

The cover to the drain was gone and sticking out of the hole were two very thin hands, skeletal, covered in a bruise colored…skin? I wasn’t sure what to call it.

The arms were elongated and seemed to be able to stretch and bend like the pipe-cleaners you played with as kids.

There were five fingers to a hand, with fingernails that were cracked and yellow and seemed to have brown sludge caked under each nail.

The hands had a grip on Mary’s head. That’s all that was left of her.

Somehow that thing had managed to tear apart my wife and drag her legs, arms and torso down the drain in a matter of moments. Only her head remained, the hair wet and stringy. Mary’s eye’s wide open in a perpetual state of shock. Staring at me.

Whatever creature, thing, or being that was down inside the pipes wielded a supernatural strength, because the last I saw of Mary, those hands were crushing her skull. Flattening it and dragging it into the black hole on the floor of the shower.

The sight of it was horrifying, but the noise was just as terrible. The bones in her head crunched and cracked. It sounded like someone stepping on a bag of potato chips. I wanted to vomit, but my utter shock seemed to freeze every muscle in my body, including my throat. I couldn’t even move.

She was gone.

The water, which was still running, washed whatever bits of flesh and bone and blood down the drain. Just like Mary, I didn’t scream. I just mumbled out her name –

“Mary?”

I managed to inch towards the shower. Step by step.

I pulled open the glass door and shut off the water.

I leaned into the stall.

My eyes focused on the drain, the cover missing, the round abyss no more than five inches wide.

I saw nothing but blackness and red drops around the edge of the hole. There was a sound, a rhythmic drip – drip – drip – as water leaked from the shower head. Nothing else, except the weather guy on the radio telling me to take an umbrella because it might rain that afternoon.

I had to sit down, the room started to spin.

When I turned to leave, I saw the words written on the bathroom mirror –

“Goodbye.”

I fainted.

When I woke up I heard a voice.

It was the guy on the radio, once again telling me it was going to rain. Which meant I had been out for at least fifteen-minutes, since that’s how often they updated the weather.

It could have been longer, maybe I had been unconscious for more than one weather report.

And then it dawned on me, the thing was still in the drain, maybe it was coming for me next. I bolted up and half-crawled and half-stumbled out of the room.

I saw the clock on the night stand, I had only been out cold for fifteen-minutes.

My phone, where was my phone? I needed to call the police, that’s what I need to do next. I scampered around the room, looking for it.

It was on top of the dresser.

My thumb was about to press down on – 1 – to finish the sequence 9-1-1.

When I stopped.

What was I going to tell them? As I replayed the horrifying moment in my mind, I realized how insane it was and how insane I would sound trying to convince someone what I saw. I remembered the police officer from the other night questioning me as to whether I was gaslighting Mary, as if I was intentionally trying to make her upset. And now a few days later I was calling to say she was dead, killed by some drain monster?

They’d find bits and pieces of her in my pipes and her DNA splattered along the shower walls. It wouldn’t be the drain monster they’d be looking to arrest, but me.

I put down the phone and replayed every crime documentary Mary and I had watched on Netflix.

I knew what I had to do.

Although I was terrified. I made my way back into the bathroom and the shower. I wiped everything down with bleach and cleaners, rinsing everything clean. I had stacked two 50-pound weights from our workout room on top of the drain, to give me some sense of security as I scrubbed and washed, leaving just a little space for the water to rinse away.

I wiped down the weights after and placed them back on the workout bench.

I dressed.

One of the things I’d learned from all those crime shows was to keep your normal routine if you wanted to avoid being a suspect. I’d leave for work as I always did, just before Mary usually left.

The surveillance cameras would catch me pulling out of the garage, it would be a little later than normal, but I’d explain it away to the valium we had taken. I knew I needed an answer for every question the police would ask, an alibi for every moment and minute from this point on.

When I sat inside the car to leave, I noticed Mary had left a yellow post-it note on my steering wheel –

“I love you.” With a heart drawn on it.

I was crying when I pulled away from the house.

My mind racing as I drove.

I knew they’d review the surveillance footage and never see Mary leave. But there were blind spots the cameras didn’t cover. Maybe her “abductor” knew about these and used the blind spots to take her away.

That would be my story.

In less than an hour I had gone from happily married man, to some sort of mastermind criminal covering up a murder I didn’t commit.

Over the next few weeks our block became a media circus.

Every alphabet network camped out and captured every coming and going at the house. I was a suspect at first. The theory was I’d killed Mary in our home.

But they couldn’t find the body.

The GPS in my car and cell phone records showed I never made any stops after I left the house or when I came home. So, I couldn’t have disposed of Mary on my drive.

Besides, Mary had called her mother just before she took her shower and I left about a half-hour after the call. Forensic pathologists said that it wasn’t enough time to cut up a body and flush it down the toilet. And besides, the DNA evidence I’d leave from such a butchering would have been impossible for the detectives to miss.

When these accusations flew, I never wavered or panicked. Because I knew I didn’t kill Mary. There were also no reports of us fighting, or evidence of affairs. They didn’t uncover a hidden insurance policy I might have taken out on my wife.

We were by all accounts, a loving, devoted couple.

Because we were.

I also knew, they’d never find the body.

The prevailing thought was she was taken from the house and kidnapped by some crazed serial killer.

They weren’t that far off in their assessment.

It was a crazed killer but it was living in the pipes of my home. Or maybe it had moved on to another house in the county, using the pipes and drains to come and go as it pleased. Who knew how this thing lived and existed?

I moved out of the house and stayed at a local hotel, telling everyone it was too painful to live there anymore, too many memories. But really it was one memory, the one seared into my brain and left me weeping in fear every night: Mary’s head being crushed like an empty soda can and dragged down the drain.

I made sure my room was on the top floor of the hotel, thinking it would be harder for the thing in the pipes to crawl and shimmy up twenty-five floors. Even so, I began my sponge bath and baby wipes routine that night.

Not to be too graphic, but when I went to the bathroom, I did my business in the plastic garbage pail and then flushed it down.

I was terrified of sitting on the toilet.

Eventually the media circus pulled up its tent stakes and left town. There was nothing new to report. As of now, Mary’s disappearance is an ongoing police investigation. I even call every few days, asking what leads they’re pursuing, playing the concerned husband, but I know they’ll never find her.

I don’t feel guilty about my fake concern, like I said, I didn’t kill her.

Although, I did feel pangs of guilt when I sold the house. I didn’t warn the new owners, but I convinced myself that the creature would never kill again in the same home. It had survived and thrived because it was so stealthy. Although the drawings on the bathroom mirror seemed to contradict this. Maybe this one creature was an adolescent, prone to foolishness before it matured. Who knew? I did know that two missing persons from the same house, would cause a few people to start to question what was really happening.

A part of me thought I might have caused Mary's death, that somehow I angered the creature with the drain cleaner by burning it and causing it pain. To be honest, up until it killed Mary, there had only been playful interactions. The thing leaving silly messages.

Maybe my actions enraged it and it struck back the only way it knew how.

I moved out of our village.

My commute is now twice as long, but peace of mind is more important. I actually went to town hall and spoke to the Bureau of Refuse and Sewage to make sure my new home was in no way connected to my old home via sewer pipes. They assured me it wasn’t, and also said they’d never had anyone ask that question before.

It’s been over a year and I haven’t kept in touch with any of my neighbors or in-laws. When I did speak with them, our conversations were always about Mary, which meant I had to relive what happened and what I saw each and every time we talked. I couldn’t do it any more.

It had to stop.

Leaving town only fed into their suspicions about me having something to do with her disappearance. So be it. I loved Mary with all my heart and soul and no amount of suspicion would ever change that.

I knew what I knew.

Things were getting back to some semblance of normal in my new home.

And then last night everything changed.

I was making pasta. I drained the spaghetti, then went to the fridge to grab the grated cheese. When I turned, the steam from the boiling water had coated the window above the sink. In the condensation on the glass someone or something had drawn a smiley face.

Maybe another state is far enough.

Or a cabin in the woods with no plumbing.

I don’t know, I just don’t know.