The Bathtub in my ceiling

It began as a gradual dripping from my ceiling. Not enough to notice originally. Admittedly, I’m not a very observant person. It wasn’t until I felt the damp carpet beneath my toes did I finally look up and notice the water stain. Given it was the middle of summer and weeks since any rain, my initial thought was that some undiscovered pipe was leaking. God only knows what else it could’ve been.

I’ve only recently moved into this house. It was unloved, falling apart and slowly being reclaimed by the bushland it hid within. But I wasn’t going to turn down a free house, especially one with an amazing view of the lake that was almost at your doorstep. As awful as the thought was, my aunt dying gave me some newfound financial stability.

For the first time since moving there a month ago, I opened the shed in search of tools. I had to rip away some of the overgrown weeds to get inside. The shed was lined with shelves of unfinished pottery and art projects. Stuff that was created with such love and passion, now sad and forgotten.

Hiding in the neglected corner of the shed, I found her tools. I took the ladder and a heavy-duty flashlight, which luckily, still had some battery life. As I was walking out, I knocked over a pile of canvas paintings. Many were painted fully black, with two white dots in the centre. My aunt had always been a bubbly, colourful woman. She’d reflect that in her garishly vibrant artwork she kept on full display inside. I didn’t see her a lot during her final moments. Perhaps she wasn’t as high-spirited as I thought. As I scrolled through the canvases, dated only by dust, the original subject became clearer. A porcelain white bathtub. Odd that she would paint the same, simple subject so many times. I could tell from her brushstrokes that each painting was hastily made. Not given the love and detail of her other works. She gave up on details and began to draw the dark water inside the tub.

The trap door in the ceiling was located in what I thought was a spare guest room. It was odd, my aunt was not a minimalist. Her home was packed with odd collectables and knick-knacks collected from her overseas travels. All but this room. Not even a spare bed for visitors. She was an aspiring artist, and from the stains I found in the kitchen, it seemed like she did her work there. Why not convert this room into a studio? I thought. There was even a window with a great view of the lake and parkland that’d make anyone with a crumb of creativity feel inspired. I couldn’t wait to watch the sunset from here.

As I pushed the trap door open, glue-like residue ripped from the corners. Water slashed me as it drained out. No one had been up here in years, and to my surprise, it was incredibly spacious up there. Humid and damp but I could stand fully upright. I know in the U.S, attics are common, but here in Australia, they’re a rarity and would definitely add to the resale value.

It felt like every day I was discovering something new around here, but this, this was something straight up unnerving. The bathtub from the paintings. The pristine white bathtub sat in the centre of the roof space. Inspecting it closer, it was filled to the very top with what looked like the disgusting, murky black water from her paintings. There was no tap, so my only reasoning was rainwater must’ve leaked through and collected over time in the tub. My aunt worked mostly with acrylic paintings, but she mentioned she wanted to dabble in sculptures or performative arts. Maybe this was her project before she got sick? And how the hell did she get it up here? The only entrance was the trapdoor, and it was just big enough to fit my fat-ass.

Looking under the bath, I could see where the water was accumulating by the rot in the wood. I gathered as many buckets as I could and began emptying the tub. But something was terribly wrong. After filling seven buckets of the black water, the tub was still full. Like every time I looked away, it filled back up. It was that moment I decided that I was not the man to deal with this and called a professional.

Over the phone, Laura, the local plumber, asked me what the problem was. All I told her was that my bathtub is leaking and I didn’t know where the water was coming from.

She arrived the next day. “So where’s the bathroom?” She asked.

“Let me just show you the leak fist.”

I took her into my living room, where the water stain had gotten larger and darker. The entire floor of the living room was now damp and smelled like death.

“I thought your said you bathtub was leaking?” Laura asked, making small notes in her notepad.

“It is.”

I took her to the trap door in the spare room.

“You crazy? I’m not going up there.”

Which, fair enough, I thought. I’m an unkempt man built like a fridge asking a woman half my size to get in his roof space.

“Look, it’s best if you see it. You don’t even have to go in there. Here, I took a photo.”

I showed her a photo I had taken on my phone.

“Bullshit.”

I explained to her how I’d only recently moved in and my aunt was a peculiar woman. To my surprise, she actually believed me and snatched the flashlight from my hands. Taking three steps up the ladder and poking her head just above the trap door, she saw it.

“What the fuck? This is a bit, isn’t it? I’m not appearing on some stupid YouTube prank video, am I?”

“You see the buckets, yeah?”

She climbed down the ladder. “Yeah?”

“I’ve tried emptying it, but it keeps filling back up. I have no damn idea where the water is coming from.”

Laura stared at me like a patient who’d recently lost his straitjacket. “Let me get some tools from my van, and I’ll be back.”

I waited for 30 minutes, and I was sure she had driven off, but to my surprise, she returned. “Sorry, I’ve called someone else to come take a look at this too.”

“Yeah, sure, no worries.”

Up in the ceiling, I held the flashlight as she began to empty the water with a fresh set of buckets. I didn’t take my eyes off the water level. Blinking only when she was facing the tub. It seems to have worked too. When the water was finally low enough, she gloved up and reached in.

“That’s weird.”

“What, can’t you find the plug?”

“I can’t find the bottom.”

Laura removed her glove and pulled out a tape measure. She rolled it down into the water. 30cm, one meter, then two, three. It finally it hit something at seven meters deep. Whatever it hit, it grabbed the end and pulled it forward. The tape measure spun and hissed like a fishing line. Then, there was no more tape. It was violently pulled from Laura’s hands into the black water.

Laura began packing her things. “Fuck this. You need a priest or scientist or something, but it’s your problem, not mine.’

“What am I supposed to do?”

That’s when we heard the dying buzz of my doorbell.

“That’ll be Owen. He’d know someone.”

I made my way downstairs while Laura packed her gear. Expecting an older man in overalls, I was greeted by a tall, lanky young man, dressed casually. He was covered in tattoos and piercings and his face buried in his phone. “Sup” he said, removing one headphone and putting it in his front shirt pocket. It was loud enough that I could clearly hear it was Katy Perry.

“Owen?”

“Yeah man.” Owen said, walking in. Pushing past me without his eyes leaving his screen.

“So you’re like, another plumber?”

“No, why would you think that? She’s in the ceiling, yeah?”

“Yeah, she’s packing her things.”

“Hey, Laura,” Owen called from the bottom of the ladder. She didn’t respond. His eyes finally left his phone, looking up into the darkness beyond the trap door.

“Laura!” He called again.

Owen turned back to me. “Listen, people are expecting us back and I’m a black belt in Muay Thai. So you better not be some kind of freak plumber killer.”

“You said you weren’t even a plumber. I haven’t seen her come down, and you saw her van is still here.”

Owen turned on his phone flashlight, but before he could climb up, Laura’s pen and notepad dropped down from the trap door.

“Laura? This isn’t funny shit-for-brains,” Owen called, climbing the ladder.

I collected the notepad and followed. Once I climbed up, I saw Owen was frozen still, his last headphone had fallen to the ground. Looking ahead was Laura, sitting in the bathtub. Covered in a black tar-like substance. The only part of her not covered was her white teeth shining against the light as she smiled.

“Laura?” Owen stammered.

Laura was violently pulled under the water by an unseen force. Owen and I ran over and reached down into the water.

“Laura! Laura!” He screamed, then looked back at me. “Where’d she go!?”

“Help me tip it over!” I shouted. We both grabbed the right side of the tub. Straining all our collective lack of muscles, we finally tipped it over. Black, oily water spilled everywhere with Laura’s tools. Looking into the overturned tub, an endless stream of water continued to drain as we could only see a tunnel of endless darkness. Shining the flashlight through, it seemed to go on forever.

Owen grabbed my shirt. “Where the hell did she go!?”

The ceiling beneath us began to creak. About of inch of water now covered the ground.

I smacked Owen’s hand off me. “We have to tip the bathtub back upright.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s just try this, please!”

The water beneath us was filling faster than it was draining. It was now up to our ankles. I was expecting the roof to collapse from under us at any minute. We managed to flip the tub back upright.

“Yeah, now what?” Owen asked.

I turned away from the tub and stared towards the trapdoor. Owen followed suit. We watched the water drain completely. The sound of gentle splashing from the tub was our signal to turn. Sitting just on the surface of the water was the head of a fish. A large leech-like fish, with bulging white eyes staring back at us from the tub.

Owen picked up a wrench from the ground and ran towards the fish. I attempted to grab his jacket, but it slipped between my wet fingers. The ground creaked and cried until it finally broke under him. I blinked and he’d vanished to the ground below. There were no intense screams of pain or desperate pleas for help. As I looked down through the new hole, I saw Owen gasping his final breaths, back sapped to almost a 90-degree angle from hitting the kitchen countertop below.

I looked back up at the bathtub. The fish had moved. It was closer to the edge of the tub, and I could see its mouth gaped open. It’s lower jaw was just under the water surface, and what appeared to be two small deformed appendages that gripped the side of the tub. It looked like it was about to pounce at me. Without taking my eyes off it, I slowly moved backwards the trapdoor. That’s when I nearly tripped on something, Laura’s notepad. Looking back, water was overflowing from the tub, and the fish was leaning over the edge, one arm on the ground. If I was going to die, I could at least leave a warning to the next poor soul. Picking up the notepad, the fish retreated. It’s eyes just above the water line, intently watching and reacting to my every move. It was frightened. Putting pen on paper, the fish unleashed an unholy hiss and squeal that I could hear from under the water. Then, I drew.

I’m not an artist, but I was compelled the draw. I drew the bathtub and the creature that resided within it, just as my aunt had painted. The more detail I added, the further the creature retreated and the further the bath drained. It looked something a five-year-old would’ve drawn, but the bathtub was now empty. The glow of the porcelain white basin now free from any black stain was a sight to behold.

I stayed up there for hours. Looking back and forth. No water appeared. But considering how many paintings there were in the shed. I didn’t think this would be my last time up here.

Walking down the trap door, I was hit with the warm glow of the sunset from the window. It really was beautiful.