The Horror at Home

By Van Swan

In most of these stories, that is, these stories of horror... In these stories of fear, these stories of sweating, fainting horror… In these tales of fear, of loathing, of menace and degradation and shame… In most of these stories, you know that the Hero was warned. He was warned! He was warned: Don’t go in there!

Don’t venture in, my Hero, don’t tread into that dark cave from which flows yellow, choking, sulfurous fumes, fumes that growl in and out, in a terrible rhythm.  

Don’t tread into that dark malevolent forest, the home of unseen and unknown dangers. It’s not a journey to be considered by any sane person. It’s not a springtime walk among the wildflowers, but instead it’s a fearful expedition into the darkest and dankest swamp, a morass of mud made of the flesh and bones of monsters and Heroes, mingled together for eons.  

It’s a cave of the living and the dead, each feeding off each other. My Hero, never venture innocently into that fearful forest, that dark cave of peril, or the innocence will be stripped from your very soul.    

His friends, his family, his kin united in their warnings. Don’t go in there. It is more awful than any human thought, nay, it is beyond imagining!

Despite the warnings, our Hero shrugged. He sneered at the excessive caution urged on him by those he would otherwise trust.  

“Not to worry!” he said. “It is a job for me, a job that needs doing, and I am the one to do it. A duty, perhaps, to which I have been called all my life.”

With a moaning intake of breath, they called out to him. They called from a distance, a distance that they hoped was safe. But of course, it wasn’t. Was anyplace safe, this side of the Gates of Heaven?  

Their call was pitiable.

– Please, please, don’t brave the evil that causes us to shrink in fright. We would turn and run if we could. Please, please, don’t go in there! We quail with fear, even the strongest and bravest of us. We can see the curse that surges and flows toward us, hungrily seeking our lives, our souls.–  

The friends and family, well-meaning and loving, implored him

– Hesitate now, step back into safety, before you are consumed! Don’t go in there! –

But of course, our Hero smiled and ignored their clamor. What’s the big deal! It’s just a bathroom!  

Oh, an innocent child, a beginner, a neophyte in household chores, might ask that question. A question of that sort would betray the child’s purity, destroy the innocence of the rose petal, sparkling with morning dew. Do not ask those questions!

But surely not our Hero. He’s been there and done that. Hasn’t he? Yes, many times, and always has he emerged from the fray with the laurel wreath of victory crowning his brow.  

But today? Today? Today, the bleakest and blackest of days. The very day that all fear. Can our Hero be unaware of the vile nature of the threat he is facing? We have all seen monsters, yea, monsters aplenty, in our lives. Not only are we afraid, but all those monsters themselves, from our darkest dreams, would be afraid to venture in to fight the evil… of the bathroom!

Because it was not just a bathroom. NO! It was the bathroom of …

Not of death. Not the bathroom of death. Death would almost be preferable. An Heroic Death, with monsters fighting over the honor of ripping the Hero to little bite-sized pieces. A death by the acid fumes from the dragon who lives deep in the cave, whose caustic breath, spewing from the foul maw of the centuries-old monster, would dissolve flesh and bone into a putrid puddle.  

A death by a monster’s claws. A death by a dragon’s breath. These would be very definitely preferable to what the Hero now defies with his grin.  

Oh, it certainly was the bathroom of evil, a desecration of any comfort of the commode. Oh, definitely, the bathroom of evil, with all those terrible things that can only be imagined by those depraved of mind and devoid of human sympathies. But into the bathroom of disgust and of putrefaction, into the realm of glowing and luminescent aromas, he would go. For after all, who else would attack the Evil? After years of preparation, and to his everlasting credit, he showed no hint of the trepidation he surely must feel.  

He was born for this job. It is his destiny to take it on and conquer!

Of course, unknown to our Hero, but present in the forefront of the thoughts of all those cowering down the hall, was the dire truth of the matter. Our Hero was not concerned. All those gathered there in their place of hoped-for safety, all at once and so very loudly, tried to inform him. But to no avail. He would not be apprised of the nature of the Evil.  It was of little or no matter to him, to him whose might and will were never doubted, never questioned.  

Perhaps if he had paused, perhaps if he had asked even one simple question! Perhaps just a little inquiry into the cause and nature of their distress? But no, it was not necessary. He was ready!

Of course, he did not know what was known by all the cowering and trembling group gathered around the corner of safety. They knew what he did not because they had been witnesses to the start of the debacle. They knew, but they had retreated in fright, with no thought of moderation or warning of the distress that was to come.  

The young son, the Hero’s son, who was more than the apple of the Hero’s eye. He was the son who was the sun in the Hero’s heaven. That strapping young man, whose fortune shone with promise, had eaten cold left-over pizza (with extra garlic and double-extra pepperoni) every day for lunch at school.  It was too bland for his taste, so a little Tabasco and a little Insanity Sauce (imported from the Philippines) were sprinkled on the cold pizza. Insanity Sauce from the Philippines, purchased on a whim, in secret at a street fair, when he had a little money in his pocket, but unfortunately, no forethought of things to come.  

Of course, the cheese, daily for a week, had slowed the natural peristalsis. The hot sauces had stimulated it. A true digestive disaster, a Donnybrook of the digestion, a Waterloo of the water closet, ensued. A digestive explosion of atomic proportion was the result.  

When asked, the young lord of the home admitted a high level of juvenile embarrassment, and he had done his best to “hold it”. And hold it he did. Oh, praise the strength of his will, the iron determination he demonstrated. Praise the strength of his sphincter muscle. It was his mad desire to avoid the “Accident”.  

No car crash, no bus plunge, no lightning storm, no meteorites from the sky, all put together at once, could ever equal the terrible awfulness of an Accident! So, his sphincter muscles clinched. His jaw clenched. His fists protected his tender gut. Pale of face, with beads of sweat showing the level of his exertion, an Olympic performance it surely was, though unappreciated by any spectators.  

His effort seemed the work of days or weeks, but in reality, it was only for about fifteen minutes, on the ride home from school. The Accident was avoided! He had made it, by a hair, to the safety and privacy of the home.

Oh, the relief! All those muscles, from jaw to sphincter, from abdomen to fists, could finally and thankfully relax. Peristalsis took over and biologic imperative was satisfied. Then, per his routine, the silver handle was pressed. The artesian waters flowed. And flowed. And flowed.  

The waters, mimicking the Niagara cataract, flowed and poured and splashed. The Oceans Blue Water Park, located across the town, the summertime delight of boys and girls, never did splash and pour as much as that toilet did. The king of toilets, the premium porcelain, doing its job! But you can imagine the scene. If you dream of monsters of the night, if you dream those nightmares we all have but which we all quickly hide away when the sunlight wakes us, then you may have a weak sense of the catastrophe our Hero faced: the stopped-up toilet in the bathroom of death!

Our Hero, his strength of will masking a child-like innocence, had ignored the warnings of the cringing, crying crowd. He threw open the door and strode in, chest out and head held high, with pride in his position and family role. Our Hero! He marched in, strong and prideful, to attack the job of a lifetime, the job for which he was destined. This task and no other had called to him from birth, its summons irresistible to the Hero.    

Holy S**t! he cried, in fear and loathing.  

Yeah, that’s right. That’s it, all right. That’s exactly right, came the voices of the gathered crowd, cringing behind the corner of safety, as they nodded in almost religious agreement.  

How in the (heck) did this happen, cried the Hero. The Hero, angry and perplexed by the disaster, received no answer to his question. 

The crowd nodded to each other, sagely agreeing that the Hero should have listened to their warnings. We wanted to tell you, but we were not heeded, was their mutual thought.  They crouched and cringed lower and shrunk back further around the corner. The corner of safety was no longer safe, it seemed.  

Of course, there was no human answer, no answer possible, from the assembly. For after all, there was actually no such human answer. It was nature that was at fault. Not at fault as such, for nature does not plan out such disasters. They happen through the natural processes, those processes performing their natural functions, in their natural ways. Those natural processes that have been and will ever be supreme in their place in the world.  

The natural processes did this? Our Hero was debating in his heart whether to start with the thunders or with the lightnings that were at his command.  

“That’s right,” said a quavering voice from the crowd. “Natural processes!”  It’s a clear demonstration of hydrostatic forces, acting upon the surrounding environment. The cowering crowd took in a frightened breath, and drew back from the young lord, who had come to the forefront of the crowd to make his pronouncement. He stood there, confident in his own pride.  

The Hero paused and scowled. That mountainous and rugged brow wrinkled in consideration.  

His scowl cleared, he took the breath that shook the forests, and said, “Well, let’s get this cleaned up! Bring me the plunger. Bring me the mop and bucket. You all, cringing there, get moving!”

The assembled cowards ran here and there, in seeming frenzy but actually in well-regulated routes to do the Hero’s bidding.  

One older (but really, not so old as all that) and wiser (definitely much wiser) woman, was well used to the ways of nature. No doubt, her knowledge, passed down by the generations of wise women had made her well aware of the masculine urges that sometimes seemed a force of nature in themselves. She directed the crowd and managed the efforts of young and old, while all the while encouraging our Hero in his task. Hercules himself, in the stables of Augeas, could have used the help of such a wise woman.  

The Hero took a mountain of breath, let it out, and set to work. “Not a problem I’ve not seen before. We’ll set it to rights. Remind me sometime to tell you of the days before pizza was invented, to tell you of the figs and the persimmons. Or, on reflection, maybe not!” And so, he set to work.  There was a bit of a shrug and perhaps a bit of a smile on his countenance, perhaps at an evanescent memory of childhood that flitted through his mind just at that moment.  

The next day, all was righted. The house was restored to whatever normality it may have had before the deluge. Children were scrubbed and clean and were off to school, their memories forever anchored in the appreciation of the near magical feats of the Hero. Quiet contemplation and contentedness were everyone’s treasure that day.

“Now,” said the wise woman, “Tell me about those figs and persimmons?”