The Puffin Book of Horror Stories

    The bath was ready now. Installed. Permanent. The taps with the black H and C protruded over the rim with the curve of a vulture's neck. A silver plug on a heavy chain slanted into the plug-hole. Her father had polished the brasswork, giving it a new gleam. He had put the towels back on the rail and a green bath-mat on the floor. Everything back to normal. And yet the room, the towels, the bath-mat seemed to have shrunk. The bath was too big. And it was waiting for her. She still couldn't get the thought out of her mind.

    'Isabel. Stop being silly…!'

    What's the first sign of madness? Talking to yourself. And the second sign? Answering back. Isabel let out a great sigh of breath and went over to the bath. She leant in and pushed the plug into the hole. Downstairs, she could hear the television: World in Action, one of her father's favourite programmes. She reached out and turned on the hot tap, the metal squeaking slightly under her hand. Without pausing, she gave the cold tap a quarter turn. Now let's see if that plumber was worth his fifty quid.

    For a moment, nothing happened. Then, deep down underneath the floor, something rumbled. There was a rattling in the pipe that grew louder and louder as it rose up but there was still no water. Then the tap coughed, the cough of an old man, of a heavy smoker. A bubble appeared, to be broken a moment later by a spurt of liquid. Isabel looked down in dismay.

    Whatever had been spat into the bath was not water. It was an ugly red, the colour of rust. The taps spluttered again and coughed out more of the thick, treacly stuff. It bounced off the bottom of the bath and splattered against the sides. Isabel was beginning to feel sick and before the taps could deliver a third load of - whatever it was - into the bath, she seized hold of them and locked them both shut. She could feel the pipes rattling beneath her hands but then it was done. The shuddering stopped. The rest of the liquid was swallowed back into the network of pipes.

    But still it wasn't over. The bottom of the bath was coated with the liquid that now slid unwillingly towards the plug-hole which swallowed it greedily. Isabel looked more closely. Was she going mad or was there something inside the plug-hole? Isabel was sure she had put the plug in but now it was half-in and half-out of the hole and she could see below.

    There was something. It was like a white ball, turning slowly, collapsing in on itself, glistening wet and alive. And it was rising, making for the surface…

    Isabel cried out. At the same time she leant over and jammed the plug back into the hole. Her hand touched the red liquid and she recoiled, feeling it, warm and clinging, against her skin.

    And that was enough. She reeled back, yanked a towel off the rail and rubbed it against her hand so hard that it hurt. Then she threw open the bathroom door and ran downstairs.

    Her parents were still watching television.

    'What's the matter with you?' Jeremy asked. Isabel had explained what had happened, the words tumbling over each other in their hurry to get out, but it was as if her father hadn't listened. 'There's always a bit of rust with a new bath,' he went on. 'It's in the pipes. Run the water for a few minutes and it'll go.'

    'It wasn't rust,' Isabel said.

    'Maybe the boiler's playing up again,' Susan muttered.

    'It's not the boiler.' Jeremy frowned. He had bought it second-hand and it had always been a sore point - particularly when it broke down.

    'It was horrible,' Isabel insisted. 'It was like…' What had it been like? Of course, she had known all along. 'Well, it was like blood. It was just like blood. And there was something else. Inside the plug.'

    'Oh for heaven's sake!' Jeremy was irritated now, missing his programme.

    'Come on! I'll come up with you…' Susan pushed a pile of Sunday newspapers off the sofa - she was still reading them even though this was Monday evening - and got to her feet.

    'Where's the TV control?' Jeremy found it in the corner of his armchair and turned the volume up.

    Isabel and her mother went upstairs, back into the bathroom. Isabel looked at the towel lying crumpled where she had left it. A white towel. She had wiped her hands on it. She was surprised to see there was no trace of a stain.

    'What a lot of fuss over a teaspoon of rust!' Susan was leaning over the bath. Isabel stepped forward and peered in nervously. But it was true. There was a shallow puddle of water in the middle and a few grains of reddish rust. 'You know there's always a little rust in the system,' her mother went on. 'It's that stupid boiler of your father's.' She pulled out the plug. 'Nothing in there either!' Finally, she turned on the tap. Clean, ordinary water gushed out in a reassuring torrent. No rattling. No gurgles. Nothing. 'There you are. It's sorted itself out.'

    Isabel hung back, leaning miserably against the sink. Her mother sighed. 'You were making it all up, weren't you?' she said - but her voice was affectionate, not angry.

    'No, Mum.'