The Chipped Sink

The smell hits first. It isn't just the old house smell—the dust and the damp basement. It’s copper. It’s the smell of a penny under your tongue when you’re seven. I’m standing in the hallway of the ranch house in Ohio, the one my parents sold in 2019, but the ceiling is too high. The corners of the walls don't meet at ninety degrees. They lean in like they’re trying to hear what I’m thinking. I walk toward the kitchen, but the door leads to the bathroom. I turn around to go back to the living room, and I’m in the bathroom again. Same cracked tile. Same blue rug with the bleach stain.

The sink is running. I didn't turn it on. It isn't water coming out of the faucet. It’s black. It’s thick, like motor oil or calligraphy ink. It hits the porcelain with a heavy, wet thud instead of a splash. The smell of copper gets louder. Is that a thing? Can a smell be loud? This one is. It’s screaming. I step closer, my sneakers squeaking on the tile. The sink is full. It’s not just ink. There are white shapes bobbing in the dark pool. I lean over, my reflection a distorted smudge in the blackness. They’re molars. Dozens of them. Bloody at the roots, clean and white at the crown.

"What the actual hell," I mutter. My voice sounds thin, like it’s being played through a cheap Bluetooth speaker with a dying battery. I reach out. I don't know why. Maybe I think if I clear the drain, the house will let me leave. I scoop a handful of the teeth out. They’re cold. Then they twitch. The roots turn into legs. The white crowns split into translucent wings. They aren't teeth anymore. They’re hornets, pale and angry. They swarm my hand, their stingers sinking into my palm like hot needles. I yell and shake them off, but they don't fly away. They just circle the sink in a tight, buzzing cloud, sounding like a server room overheating.

I back out of the bathroom, hitting the doorframe. I’m back in the hallway. It’s longer now. The floral wallpaper is peeling, revealing gray drywall underneath that looks like bruised skin. The house is breathing. I can hear the air moving through the vents, but it’s rhythmic. It’s a chant.

"B-K-L-nine-zero-four-three," the walls whisper.

I freeze. My heart is a drum kit falling down a flight of stairs. That’s my old plate. The one on the Civic. The car I traded in two months after the rainy night on 4th Street.

"B-K-L-nine-zero-four-three," the floorboards creak.

I start running. I just need the front door. I can see it at the end of the hall. The sunlight is streaming through the glass, bright and aggressive spring light, hitting the hardwood in a way that should be comforting. I can see the lilacs blooming in the front yard. Everything out there is green and fresh. Everything in here is rotting.

I pass the kitchen door. My mother is standing at the island, her back to me. She’s wearing her old yellow apron, the one with the lemon print.

"Mom?" I call out. I’m desperate. I’m twenty-four years old and I want my mom to tell me this is just a bad trip.

She turns around. She doesn't have a face. In place of her head is a large, gray security camera, the kind you see in parking garages. The red LED on the front is blinking. It makes a whirring sound as the lens zooms in on me.

"Don't be mid, Emmond," she says. Her voice is a distorted recording of her own. "Just tell them where the body is. It’s giving coward energy. Honestly."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, my throat closing up.

"The optics are terrible," the Camera Mother says, her lens clicking. "You're lagging. Just sync the truth and delete the file. It’s not that deep, unless you consider the six feet of dirt."

I turn and bolt. I don't look back. The hallway stretches. The floor starts to feel weird under my feet. It’s not wood anymore. It’s soft. I look down. The floor has turned into a marsh of wet paper. Thousands of receipts. Gas station snacks, car washes, oil changes, grocery runs. They’re all damp with that black ink, the ink soaking into the paper and turning the totals into illegible blots. I sink in up to my ankles. The paper is sharp. It cuts my shins.

"Help!" I scream, but the house just swallows the sound.

I struggle toward the front door. It’s right there. I can see the brass handle. I can see the peeling white paint. But every step I take, the door moves ten feet further away. The receipts are up to my knees now. They’re heavy. They smell like old chemicals and regret. I’m drowning in my own consumption, in every mile I drove to get away from that intersection.

I fall forward, my hands disappearing into the mash of wet paper. I’m crawling now. My fingers find something hard. A molar. I throw it away. I look up and I’m not in the hallway anymore. I’m back in the bathroom.

I’m on my knees in front of the sink. The ink has stopped flowing, but the basin is full to the brim. It’s a perfect, black mirror. I look into it.

It isn't my face.

It’s him. The guy from the bike. He’s wearing the same reflective vest, torn at the shoulder. His glasses are cracked across the left lens. He looks tired. Not angry, just exhausted. He leans out of the ink, his face inches from mine. He smells like the spring rain and wet asphalt.

"Are you finally ready to be for real?" he asks.

His voice isn't a whisper or a chant. It’s clear. It’s the only real thing in the whole house. I look at the hornets still buzzing around his head, at the black ink dripping from his chin. I want to say no. I want to wake up and check my notifications and pretend I’m a good person. But the house won't let me. The ink is starting to overflow again, spilling over the edge of the sink and onto my hands, warm and heavy.