From Within
by Arely Caraveo
The antique clawfoot tub, a precious relic given to Rosamée by a close relative, had seemed charming in the dappled afternoon light. Now, as the shadows stretched and swallowed London, the candlelight flickered, and the atmosphere was thick with hidden truths. The impeccable acrylic surface felt cold and unforgiving against Rosamée’s bisque skin. The water, once steaming and fragrant from the rose and chamomile petals, had turned lukewarm, mirroring the dread that swirled into Rosamée’s stomach, like an uncomfortable need to barf.
She hadn’t meant to do it. It had been an accident, a blur of fear and adrenaline. But a life had been taken, and the memory clung to her like the scent of damp earth, inescapable and suffocating. Every creak of the old Victorian house, every whisper of wind through the ancient oaks outside her window, felt like an accusation. Rosamée’s hands were stained by a sin that couldn’t be erased with water and soap.
A shiver, unrelated to the cooling water, ran down her spine. The drain, usually hidden beneath the fragrant flower petals called her with a low and unsettling scratch on the pipe’s walls. The sound echoed, and then, it began. A subtle ripple disturbed the water’s surface, followed by a gentle tap against the heel of Rosamée’s foot. Her breath hitched, a silent prayer escaping her lips. Just her imagination, she thought, her pulse quickening. But deep down, the sharp and cold claws of fear gripped her heart, whispering a different truth.
A finger, not severed, not bloody, but instead bone-white and impossibly long, emerged from the drain. Rosamée recoiled, a strangled cry trapped in her throat. The finger remained completely still, savoring the terror. Another finger joined the first, then another, their movements unnerving and sinister, like dancers in a macabre show. A hand, skeletal and dripping with a viscous, unknown fluid, clawed its way free of the drain, gripping the acrylic tub’s rim with surprising strength. And then, she saw it. An eye with a familiar iris and a network of crimson veins in the sclera, opened in the palm, its gaze locking into hers with chilling intensity. It pulsed with hunger, a secret that only Rosamée and the hand knew. Rosamée’s sin.
The air grew heavy, thick with anxiety and panic. The water, once a source of comfort, now felt like icy chains pulling her limbs down, down into the darkness. The hand reached for her, its long and bony fingers spread wide, a wicked smile now forming under the eye as it pushed her head down. Rosamée thrashed and kicked, water spilling onto the floor, but it wasn’t long until her body stilled, and the last air bubble escaped her lips gracefully.