Estimated reading time — 11 minutes

We moved into the flat above the butcher’s two months ago. It was a step down from our old place; John lost his good job and we had to make adjustments.

The place wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but it functioned. The wallpaper popped and flaked when you scraped a nail along it, and peeled away at the corner behind the TV. The bathroom taps sputtered feebly as I stood shivering on December mornings, waiting to wash my face. I battled the condensation that hung on the inside of our bedroom window, dreading the mould that would follow.

John and I didn’t speak of our diminished circumstances. He’d taken a job at a distribution warehouse, and they were working him like a dog. He was too stressed, too focused on working every hour God sent, and I was too afraid of breaking the relative peace.

I spent my days holed up in the small flat watching daytime TV, skin crawling at the accumulating dust.The case officer’s voice echoed in my head:

Can you bend over to pick up a pen from the floor? Can you do it now so I can see?

Shame prickled up my neck. I pushed myself up slowly from the sofa, catching myself on the coffee table as I rose.I walked into the kitchen to get away from the thoughts, grimacing at the sickly smell leaching up from the butcher’s below. Coffee would help.

I flicked the kettle on and leaned back against the counter, shins burning.

It hadn’t always been like this. My mind reeled backwards before I could stop it. Back to when we could still pay the mortgage on our three-bed semi. Back when my body still worked, and John could still look me in the face.

A tear burned my eye, and I wiped it away angrily. The wet blur caught a glimmer of light; something shone up at me from the floor. I knelt, knees cracking. It was a clear, viscous film. I touched it hesitantly. Thin, mucosal strands stretched between my fingers. It smelled strongly of petrol.

I wiped my hand on my trousers, confused, and grabbed the damp cloth that lay on the scratched worktop. I wiped away the unknown residue and threw the rag into the sink.I returned to the sofa and turned the TV up, trying to push the pain out of focus. Bailiffs were executing a writ of possession on an irate shopkeeper. I watched as he attempted to lock the shutters and trap them inside. My mind flitted back to the probing questions of the case officer:

If you spilled something…Could you kneel?…Can you clean up after yourself?… Show me.

The bailiff called the police. The shopkeeper spat and swore. The shutters rattled closed. I’d worked my whole adult life. I’d always paid my taxes, never claimed anything. And here I was, begging and cringing for my pittance.

I heard heavy footsteps climbing the metal stairs outside. John was home. He brought an eddy of cold wind inside with him and shut the door without saying anything. I pressed my tongue to the back of my teeth.

“Hey, babe.” I called to the hallway. I got no response. I heard the heavy thud of one boot pulled off, then the other. The footsteps receded into the bathroom.

I turned my eyes back to the TV, chest heavy. The shopkeeper was calling his cousin to come and beat up the bailiff. His vicious words were censored out with a long, shrill bleep.

_________

John and I sat on the sofa, microwave meals on our laps. I twisted a fork through the yellow slop that was supposed to be carbonara, eyeing the pink flecks of meat.

John sighed. I looked over at him, longing to touch him.

“How was your day?”

He shrugged. “Same as always.”He didn’t look at me, and I didn’t press him. Fatigue was etched onto his face. I looked at the grey hunk of lasagne on his tray. A rainbow of oil glinted at me from the edge of the plate. My brow furrowed as I watched him lift his fork. A thin tendril clung to it and stretched upwards towards his mouth.

“John?”

He looked back at me, irritated. “What?”

“Nothing.” I didn’t want to bother him. The food was barely edible anyway, I didn’t need to put him off.

He looked back at the TV and we sat in silence. The shopkeeper spat venom at the police officer, and was shoved head first into the car.

_________

I took a deep breath and stood up from my stool by the kitchen sink. I plunged my hands back into the tepid dishwater and resumed washing. I lifted out a plate, disturbing a prism of colour on the water’s surface.

I stopped, watching the colours ripple as the water settled. I looked at the plate again; smeared across it was the same oily film. I scrunched my nose at the petrol smell.

I turned on the tap, trying to rinse it away, but it clung there insistently.

I scrubbed. The pain in my wrists flared. When I finally set the clean plate on the rack, my fingers felt tacky, as though I’d dipped them in glue. I squirted 4 pumps from the soap dispenser and rubbed my hands together frantically in the hot water until they turned red.

_________

The next morning, I sat in my usual place on the sofa, watching passively as a toothless woman screamed obscenities at her philandering husband. The host gleefully sat between them on the stage, scorning the man for his disloyalty. A huge security guard held the man’s jacket as he grew red in the face, desperately trying to throw a punch at the presenter.

My mind kept going back to the kitchen, agitating over the stain. Had I gotten all of it? What even was it? A chemical? Something soaking up from the butcher’s? I switched off the TV just as the woman’s sister bypassed the security guard and launched herself at the man, scratching his face.

My ears rang in the silence.

Could you mop the floor on a bad day?

I stood up and walked into the kitchen, bare feet careful on the cold tiles.

_________

It was back.

The puddle sat in the same place as before, just to the left of our rickety table. The light from the window caught it and reflected back a familiar oily rainbow. It didn’t move, or change, it just waited. The smell of gasoline hit me again, but this time something lay underneath, sweeter, cloying. Animal.

_________

I hovered awkwardly in front of the butcher’s counter, waiting for him to appear from behind the metal curtain. I shifted my weight from side to side to ease the ache in my shins.

The smell was stronger down here, and I tucked my chin down into my hood to escape it. I had only met the butcher twice, and I would rather have kept it that way. He was fat and balding, but carried himself with unearned confidence. His lecherous smirks put me on edge; I had tried my best to avoid him, until now.

A fly buzzed around a hanging slab of meat, and I watched it with revolted fascination. The curtain jangled. I looked round to see the butcher stride into view.

“Well, hello again beautiful. I was wondering when you’d come and say hello. Did you miss me?”

“Um… no, I needed to ask you about something.”

“You didn’t miss me? You’re breaking my heart love. Why don’t you give me a smile eh?”

“Look, I think some of your chemicals are soaking through into our flat. I keep finding this… stain in the kitchen.”

“You going to invite me in eh? We could have some fun you know. I won’t tell that bloke of yours.”

“For Christ’s sake, listen to me!” I shouted. “Whatever you’re using down here, it’s leaching upstairs. I need you to check if there’s a… hole or a… a crack or something that’s letting it through.”

His face grew cold. The empty stupidity behind his eyes vanished and was replaced with rage. I saw then that he was not just a pest but a dangerous man. I stepped backwards.

“There’s no need to be rude. Fucking bitch. I’d be doing you a favour you know. Fat bitch like you.”

“I’m sorry, I uh…”

He leaned closer. An animal stink rose off his body. Sweat, and blood.

“You come down ‘ere, accusing me, and now you’re sorry?”

“Please… I’m not accusing you. I’m just worried about the chemicals-“

“What chemicals? I don’t use no chemicals. You think I can’t run my own shop?”

“No…no. I just thought maybe… something in the pipes…”

“You’re a mental bitch, aren’t you?”

I cringed, backing away. He slammed his hand down on the counter. I flinched and recoiled. I turned on my heels and ran back up the stairs.

“Fuck off then you stupid slut! Tell your bloke I said hello!” He shouted after me, barking laughter.

_________

My teeth ground against each other as I worked, sweat dripping from my forehead onto the soapy tiles. The hard bristles scraped forward, dragged back, as my shoulders burned with the effort.

The stain seemed thicker now, more resistant. The brush kept catching against the floor, the oily residue gathering behind it. I fought against it bitterly, scalding my hands in the rinsewater. The smell of bleach and gasoline made my head swim, until finally the floor was clean. I leaned back on the counter, breathless and exhausted.

I heard the familiar heavy boots pounding up the stairs. I looked around guiltily. John appeared in the door frame and looked down at me, irritation on his face.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I uh, I was just cleaning the floor. There was a…stain that has been bothering me.”

“You’re going to make yourself ill. I can’t take time off to look after you.”

“I know, I know, I’ll be fine. I just… had a bit more energy today.”

“You know what the doctor said. The last thing I need is you going downhill again.”

“I’m sorry, John.” My hands shook as I looked away from his disappointed face.

He sighed angrily and stomped away. His footsteps disappeared into the bedroom, and the door slammed.

I sat there, sweaty and ashamed, and looked back at the floor. It gleamed innocently as I stood up and turned off the light, shutting the door behind me.

_________

I was seated at a table, endless darkness surrounding me. In front of me lay a vast chessboard. My opponent sat opposite, clipboard obscuring their face. I couldn’t remember sitting down, couldn’t remember the game starting. I looked at my pieces; I had lost all but 3.

“What’s happening?” I asked, confused.

“Are you able to wash independently?” A deep, flat voice asked.

“Wh…what? Yes… I can wash…”

My pawn moved forward. A black knight claimed it.

“Are you depressed?” My bishop slid diagonally. A castle knocked it off the board.

“I’m not depressed, I just…. I’m just unwell. I can’t…”

“Are you a burden to your friends and family? Is there anyone left, you stupid slut?”

Checkmate.

_________

I awoke with a jolt, cold sweat on my face. I gasped for breath as the room swam back into focus. I breathed a deep, shuddering sigh. I lay there for a moment, trying to calm my racing heart. I decided a cup of tea would be the best thing. I threw back the covers and went to sit up… and couldn’t. Panic rose again through my body as I looked around wildly. I strained hard and pulled my leg up from the mattress. A long, thick tendril stretched away from it like toffee. I screamed.

_________

I awoke with a start as a bus went rattling by the window, and turned over to see John looking back at me, smiling softly.

“Morning, babe. How are you feeling?”

I scanned my body; my shoulders throbbed horribly. I tried to recall the nightmare, but it slipped away from me like sand clenched in a fist. My mind snapped back to my pain; I would pay today for my efforts.

“I’m fine. Long shift today?”

“I should be home around 6.” He leaned closer, worry in his eyes, and gently kissed my lips. “Get some rest today, don’t push yourself again. I’ll bring home dinner.”

“I promise.” I said, smiling back at him. My fingers curled under the sheet.

_________

The door shut behind John, and I lay there in the silence, my promise hanging in the air. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, focusing on a cobweb in the corner. A spider spun its prey endlessly around and around between its legs.

I pushed up from the bed with a grunt. John had left me a coffee on the bedside table, and I drank it gratefully, savouring the warmth that spread through my aching chest. I shuffled into the living room and flicked on the TV, volume low.

A crime scene cleanup show was on; a grim intervention with masked men in hazmat suits. I sipped my coffee as they worked through a filthy, cluttered kitchen, shovelling heaps of mouldy paper and rotting food into black bags.

In the centre of the floor lay a deep, purple stain, blooming wide on the filthy linoleum. The edges looked iridescent under the light of the camera, like petrol on wet tarmac.

One of the men took a utility knife and began to slice open the linoleum, pulling back strips of sodden underlay and revealing the rotting floorboards underneath. As he pressed down to lever a section free, his gloved hand stuck. I watched as he tugged, and a long, viscous strand stretched between the glove and the floor. He yanked upwards and it snapped with a wet smack.

My stomach lurched. I fumbled the remote and the TV clicked off. My pale face stared back from the black screen, eyes wide.

Do you find yourself fixating on small things more than you used to, like household messes for example? I had to go and see.

_________

I waited in the hallway, breath shallow in my chest. I willed myself to turn the handle, scolded myself for being so childish. Of course there would be nothing there, the floor was immaculate. I was just stressed, just imagining things. My hand shook as I turned the handle.

_________

I stood in the doorway as unreality washed over me.

The kitchen was unrecognisable. The substance had spread almost wall to wall. Writhing tendrils were climbing up the table legs and counters. Smaller patches had seeded on the walls and the fridge. The smell burned my eyes; the heady petrol had mixed with the stench of rotting meat, amplified to a choking crescendo. My knees buckled. I grabbed the door frame, desperately trying to hold myself up.

I watched as a twisting arm snaked up the fridge, slithering up to the handle and nudging the door ajar. The cold white light shone on the remains of a roast chicken, slowly liquefying under a blanket of sludge. Nausea came over me in waves. A bubble grew and popped, hissing.

The once clear film had turned a deep, bruised purple, and thin rivulets were sprawling outwards like veins. I clapped a hand over my mouth. A tendril that had been creeping unseen towards my feet reared back at the sound. I slammed the door.

_________

“John, please, I need you. Please, just come home.”

“Can’t you just tell me what’s wrong? I really can’t leave, they’ll take away my overtime. We’ll be fucked.”

“Please John, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency. Please just come home.”

He sighed angrily. “Fuck’s sake. OK, I’ll be there in 20.”

I hung up the phone and paced back and forth on the balcony, fighting down the hysterics. I tried desperately to cling onto rationality. To make sense of this. But there was no understanding it. I sat on the bottom step, curling my arms around myself, and stared hard at the ground.

John arrived 10 minutes later, and shoved open the gate with irritation. His face broke as he caught sight of me, and he rushed to my side.

“Babe? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“John… I… I can’t…”

“It’s OK,” he said soothingly. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

“The kitchen… the floor…”

“What is it?”I just looked at him weakly. I couldn’t say it. I gestured back towards the door.

“Stay here.”

Heavy boots thudded up the stairs behind me. I waited for the scream. Nothing came.

“John?” I looked round. I couldn’t see him.

Panic shot through me. It must have swallowed him. I sent him in there with no warning and it got him. I raced up the stairs and flung open the kitchen door, and saw John, standing in the centre of the room looking confused. The substance lay underneath his feet, flat and yielding.

“Babe? There’s nothing here.” He said, using the same quiet voice he used when I had my flare-ups.

I stared at him. At the stinking purple mess pulsing beneath his feet. At the sprawling veins still climbing the walls, now reaching the ceiling. “John… it’s everywhere.”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you should lie down. I’ll get you some water.”

“John, please-” I took one step towards him, and a writhing tendril wrapped quickly around my ankle. It burned, searing pain shooting up my leg. I gasped and fell forward, landing on my knees directly onto the substance.

It gave like thick gravy. More vines shot upwards, twisting around my wrists and ripping them downwards. I gasped in horror and pain. A deep, wet sucking sound rose from below. It pulled me down. The stench was maddening. I stared at John for help, but he just stood there, brow furrowed, looking at me.

“I’ll call the GP in the morning. You’re obviously hallucinating. The stress, the pain, it’s all too much.”

“John!” I screamed helplessly as the hungry liquid compressed my abdomen, lurching upwards. The burning agony made it impossible to think. It squeezed the air from my lungs. I went limp, giving in.John was already turning away. “I’ll speak to my boss. I’ve got some holiday saved… it will be OK… I’ll try and get home early tonight.”

The last thing I heard was the front door clicking and John’s heavy boots on the stairs.

Can you get up off the floor? Show me.

Credit: E. Shearer

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