Touch

Sixth

In the downstairs bathroom, Will Pops was pooing.

It was a first-class turd, that one, hard and dry and oh-so-painful. His head wobbled when he pushed; it did a full three-sixty when he pushed again. His tense muscles only relaxed after the final, satisfying plop! that indicated the poo was out.

He had intended to let his mind drift off, but the thought of the poo--and now the thought of Katie--were too overpowering.

His only daughter.

His only failure.

Will Pops was a successful man. A series of quasi-brilliant business ventures had allowed him to settle down in a beautiful suburban home and wife. There'd been a twenty-two-year-old catch, of course. Katie the firecracker, prone to uncontrollable bursts of sparks. All she saw was the colourful light. It was the others who were struck by the damaging sound.

He just didn't know what to do with her anymore.

Why, oh why had she pretended she'd been attacked by a magical hand? A hand that had come out of the tap, no less? Maybe she was losing her touch. Maybe she was losing touch.

Best not to worry too much. Will broke off a piece of toilet paper--and thought. He would talk to her. Apologize for having neglected her all these years, if that was what it took. Make a real, decent apology. Get Tasha in on it, too. It didn't have to be too late. He could--

Water swished, and something grabbed his thigh. The something was wet, shiny, and thick. He yelped, wrestled it off, and fumbled up, his bare buttocks jiggling freely. His pants still graced the floor. They trapped his feet, making his steps awkward and cumbersome. He stumbled and bumbled.

He made the mistake of glancing back at the toilet. Saw a long, eight-fingered, twisted black hand emerge from the bowl. Its impossible-length forearm was extended toward him -- no elbow in sight.

Will was too horrified to speak. Too slow to call for help. Too stricken to escape.

The hand swung at him like a flash of dark lightning. He dodged, barely.

"Get away," Will shrieked. "Get away!"

Katie was right.

Katie was right!

It seemed to listen, halting its attack. He looked to the door, then back at the hovering, inhuman, impossible hand. He might be able to fight it off long enough, make a run for it. This bathroom was small, the only small one in the house. Will was backed against a wall, facing the toilet and sink. The door--his exit, his hope--occupied the farthest adjacent wall. He would make it.

He breathed heavily, focusing now. Even if the hand caught him, he'd undoubtedly be able to fight it off. Will Pops may have sounded it, but he was not a weak man.

He never saw the other hand coming. Nine black fingers shot up from the sink drain faster than his eyes could perceive. They grabbed his neck, pulled him forward. He pounded at them with his fists and shouted something unintelligible. The original hand riposted swiftly, seizing his throat, muting his tongue. Saliva foamed at his mouth. The hands dragged him toward the toilet bowl, his body a large, fleshy weight offering little resistance. They dipped his head into the brown-speckled water. And they drowned him in his own excrement.

Upstairs, Tasha Pops shouted another overpowering refrain about fireworks.

She had muted any sound of her husband's struggle.