Gender Genre Competition

The Top Ten Stories

Bath Night

Pale and flaccid, the hand bobs gently just below the water’s surface. Sophie watches in horrified fascination as the fingers undulate with the rippling movement of departing liquid. A final gurgle and the water is gone, taking with it the hand. Her stomach knots with tension as she leans forward and thrusts home the plug.
     Safe. 
     With a small sigh of relief, she sits on the bathroom stool and regards the empty bath. It was more there this time, she is certain. And there was more of it. Not just the hand but the wrist as well. 
     “Sophie? Have you finished in there yet?”
     Sophie swallows hard and tears her gaze away from the bath. “Nearly, Mum,” she calls back.
     “Don’t forget to wipe down the bath.”
     “I won’t,” Sophie answers, meaning that she won’t do it rather than that she won’t forget. 
     Turning on the tap at the washbasin, she runs her hand under the warm water and dampens the back of her hair to make it look as though she has been lying in the bath. A quick wash and a hasty brushing of teeth and she is ready.
     Her mother is waiting on the landing when Sophie emerges. “Well, into bed with you then,” Mother says brightly, seeming not to notice Sophie’s discomfort, “and don’t read too long. Aunty Jean’s downstairs if you need her. Dad and I will be back around eleven.” She kisses Sophie and heads away.
     Ten is too old to be tucked into bed: she remembers telling this to her mother just last month. Tonight, however, Sophie would welcome the comfort of that once familiar routine. 
     She has tried several times to tell Mum about the hand but Mum just becomes annoyed and says she should save tales like that for creative writing at school. She has tried to tell Dad, too, but he only laughs and says he’s glad she’s developing a good imagination but she’ll have to be more inventive if she wants to find a way to stop him and Mum going out on a Saturday evening. 
     She hasn’t yet tried to tell Aunty Jean.
     Almost, she calls her mother and father back. Almost, she begs them to stay in tonight. Sophie sits on the edge of her bed, clutching her teddy bear. Maybe she is too old to hold a toy like this, but tonight she doesn’t care. 
     If only Mum would let her have a shower on a Saturday night instead of a bath. It never happens in the shower. Showers are safe because the water comes from the showerhead not the bath taps and this keeps the hand from appearing. She doesn’t know why it should be so; it just is. She doesn’t know why Mum insists on her having a bath once every week anyway. Showers are better. Showers save water. Showers are safe. Perhaps changing the night she has her bath would help.
     The front door shuts with a muffled thud and Sophie is alone with Aunty Jean. It isn’t long before the stairs creak as Aunty Jean puffs up them.
     “All right, dearie?” asks Aunty Jean, pausing at the bedroom door.
     Sophie hesitates before replying. It’s not that she actively dislikes Aunty Jean, but there’s something a bit strange about the way she dresses and the way she chatters on about odd things. She’s rather overweight, is Aunty Jean, and her hair’s a funny colour - a kind of orangey-brown with grey showing through in odd patches. She says it’s natural, but Sophie thinks she’s probably not very good at dyeing it. And there’s that smell, wafting around her like a tame cloud. Dad says it’s incense and Mum says it’s really quite pleasant but it makes Sophie want to sneeze. Mum and Dad reckon they’re lucky to have moved next door to such a treasure, but Sophie’s not so sure. Still, the hand being more there tonight has unsettled Sophie and, with no one else to turn to, she decides to sound out Aunty Jean.
     “Aunty Jean,” she says at last, “is there a ghost in this house?”
     “A ghost, dearie?” Aunty Jean plumps down on the edge of the bed next to Sophie. “What a question. Whatever made you think of that?”
     “It’s just something we were discussing in school,” Sophie replies, hoping her face isn’t going too red at the lie.
     “The things they teach you nowadays,” says Aunty Jean. “We never talked about such like in my day.”
     “It wasn’t a lesson,” says Sophie, defending her teacher against the falsehood. “Some of my friends were swapping ghost stories and I just wondered.”
     “Ah. I see. Now, is there a ghost in this house? Well, no. I don’t believe there is.” To Sophie’s surprise, Aunty Jean sounds disappointed. Her chins wobble as she leans forward conspiratorially. “It would make life more interesting if there was, wouldn’t it? Like something out of a storybook.”
     “So nobody’s ever died here?” Sophie persists valiantly. “Been - drowned, or anything?” 
     “Well, I’ve lived in this road all my life, and so did my parents before me, and I never heard tell of such a thing. It’s rather a shame, don’t you think? Now, you hop into bed and read for a bit. Just call me if you need anything.”

Days and nights pass too quickly; the relief of reaching Sunday is short-lived and the mind-sheltering busyness of school and homework cannot protect for long against the looming inevitability of the weekend. And this week, Friday is a particularly difficult day for Sophie. She fails to concentrate on her class work and Miss Murray tells her off for drawing on the cover of her jotter. Sophie hasn’t even realised she’s been doodling until Miss Murray points to the scribbled picture and makes her rub it out. Sophie is only too glad to obey. It is a hand that she has drawn.
     To add to her misery, she falls over in the playground during afternoon break and scrapes her arm. She manages not to cry very much but it does hurt.
     And then it is Saturday again.
     Sophie hopes Mum might let her off her weekly bath because of her scraped arm but Mum says the warm water will be good for it. Sophie asks if she can have a shower instead but Mum says no. Sophie asks her mother to fill the bath for her but Mum says she is running late and Sophie is quite capable of sorting out her own bath. So, with Aunty Jean downstairs and Mum and Dad getting ready to go out, Sophie sits on the bathroom stool once more and watches the water streaming from the taps into the waiting bath.
     The fingers come first, as they always do - long and thin, forcing their way through the round opening, swelling to full size as they leave the constriction of the tap. The wrist follows, elongated and sinuous, altering shape as it wriggles free. Sophie stares, transfixed. She wants to get up and run away but the hand seems to grasp her intent and hold her in place.
     The arm is there this time. Sophie almost expected it to be. What she hadn’t expected is the raw scrape near the elbow, matching exactly her own injury. She feels a bit sick.
     Once the hand and arm are floating in the bathwater, Sophie, moving like an automaton, turns off the taps. The hand rolls over and the first finger quivers. Appalled, Sophie gapes at the twitching finger. It is beckoning her. Her skin crawls at the very thought of climbing into the water but she finds herself taking off her shoes and socks and undoing the buttons of her dress. Her clothes puddle untidily to the floor as she places a hand on the bath side and lifts her foot to step in.
     Next-door-but-one’s dog barks sharply in its garden, startling Sophie and recalling her to her surroundings, and she shoots upright, aghast at what she has been about to do. She snatches up her dressing gown and drags it on. Holding her breath, and mustering all her courage, she reaches into the water to pull out the plug and flush away the nasty thing in the bath. The hand clamps around her wrist. A scream forms in Sophie’s throat but refuses come out. She yanks back as hard as she can. The hand tightens its grip.
     Footsteps thump up the stairs. Help is coming. Sophie only has to shout and surely Aunty Jean will come in.
     Voices sound on the landing. Aunty Jean - and Mum. 
     Sophie struggles to shout but the hand has stolen her voice. “Mum,” she pleads silently. “Mum, help me!”
     “Forgot my purse,” Sophie hears her mother say. “Dan’s waiting in the car and he’s getting impatient. I’d better hurry.” There is a short pause, then, “Is that child still in the bathroom? I swear she takes longer every bath night.” Her mother sounds half joking, half exasperated. “Sophie, what are you doing in there? Have you gone down the plughole?”
     “Not yet,” says Aunty Jean. “Not yet.”