This story is one of five featured in SUM FLUX, V.3: “Plumbing.” Our mission is to spotlight the finest writers on Substack, curating a dynamic collection of original fiction. See the full contents page here.
Jean/Mother—whatever you want me to call you now,
You won’t like this one bit.
I won’t sugarcoat it.
I need to borrow money again.
It’s not what you think.
Before you put this letter down, please… hear me out.
What happened was unexpected. I had absolutely no control over the outcome. No, it’s not alcohol this time. Or drugs. I swear, I’ve been clean for months now. As long as I’ve been here in my own place, I haven’t had a thing.
I swear it.
But yes—it does have to do with my apartment.
And yes—you did warn me about moving into the Eighth Block Tower. You told me the stories about all the weird shit happening here. At first, it all sounded… well, ridiculous! You have to admit—the snail people, the trapdoors, the fucking toilet man!—they all sounded so… insane. I thought you were buying into a myth, but no… you were right. I’m not too proud to admit, you were right about everything.
I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.
I suppose I should get to the point.
A few months ago, not long after I first moved in, the shower drain backed up. At first I tried clearing it myself, so I wouldn’t have to call the slummy landlord. As you might recall, I don’t take kindly to folks being in my personal space—especially when they’re creepy little freakazoids like him—but, as I mentioned before, some things are out of my control.
I needed help. And if I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s knowing when to ask for help.
I had to beg the creep, but he finally agreed to send a service technician my way. The guy arrived a few hours later, looking a bit disheveled—think Uncle Mike, but taller—like he’d spent the last few hours draining bottles instead of pipes.
Although hesitant, I allowed the man inside my apartment. He took one look at the tub and laughed, the kind you often give me (no offense)—the kind that’s sort of degrading. I felt less than him, like he was superior because I didn’t know as much about plumbing as he did.
Whatever. Annoying, but I let it go.
The guy dropped his toolbag on the floor, spouted some braggadocious shit about, “never meeting a clog he couldn’t fix,” then spent the next 12+ hours introducing himself to one.
He’d never seen anything like it before. None of the tools or tricks he knew helped in any way. It seemed to get worse the more he tried to fix it. At one point, he attempted to take the entire drainage system apart, but as he tried, he found it was unlike any he’d seen before—whatever that means. I suppose it meant he wasn’t able to replace it, because in the end… he didn’t.
He was there for so long, I fell asleep on the couch before he left.
The next morning, I was pleasantly surprised to see both the man and the stagnant water inside my tub were finally gone.
But, mom—that’s when things got weird.
First, his tools were everywhere. He just left them there… on the floor, the sink, the back of the toilet. I don’t know shit about tools, but I know they’re expensive and something you keep up with if they’re essential to your livelihood. It had me wondering if he realized he cleared the clog at all. Maybe he got tired, gave up, and left everything there, thinking he’d be back in the morning. It seemed like a normal thing to do, so that’s what I assumed had happened.
I stuffed the tools in the toolbag, along with a note that said “Thanks! Drain is fixed!,” then placed them on the floor of the communal hallway, outside my front door.
He never picked up the tools, but that part comes later.
That next shower was one of the best I’d ever had. It felt like one of victory. Showers are always better when you feel you’ve earned them.
But then came the sound… that horrible, awful sound. A kind of moaning, straight from the bowels of the tub, and it bellowed with such raw intensity I could feel the vibrations of it hissing below my feet.
“GOBLA! GOBLA!”
It pains me to admit weakness, especially to you, my dear mother, but I confess, that sound really worked its way inside me. Suddenly my apartment seemed huge to me, as if I was a little girl lost inside that deep space. Instinct kicked in, but it wasn’t bravery or anything of the sort. It was telling me to run. But I fought the urge. For months I fought the urge.
Until now.
But that’s because things got worse.
So much worse…
Everytime I took a shower, that goddamn drain growled at me (sorry, I know you hate when I use that word, but I’m writing in ink and the damage is done).
“GOBLA! GOBLA!”
I tried tuning it out, but it proved impossible. The bottom of the tub, all the way up the walls, vibrated something awful with every gurgle. It felt as if I was standing naked inside some sweltering mouth. As if I was some kind of sacrifice, waiting to be eaten.
After that, I avoided the shower completely. For as long as I could stand, anyway.
Eventually, I gave in and called the landlord again, and that’s when he dropped the bomb on me: He hadn’t heard from the maintenance man since the day he came to fix my drain. “Up and quit, I guess” is all he said, then hung up.
I was on my own.
Just me and that awful sound, in that seemingly ever-expanding sick space I called ‘home.’
And to make things worse, the drain picked that specific moment to back up again, as if it had waited for the worst possible time to do so.
I won’t lie, for a moment I went off the deep end, questioning whether the hairball, or whatever it was, was sentient or if perhaps the drain pipe was alive and consciously terrorizing me. I felt like a target—my own bathtub, my enemy.
But I shook it off.
I’m not like those other Eighth Block weirdos.
Mom, I’m not.
Anyway, this time, it looked as if some nasty reservoir of water from somewhere deep within the pipeline had backed up into the tub, ‘cause the stuff floating inside it wasn’t anything that came off my body.
The water was a sort of greyish-black and had this cloudy look to it, like mop water after a month of not cleaning the floors. Swirling inside were flakes of what I assumed were metal shavings, shiny and copper in color, but thin and flimsy, like peeled strips of paint. The smell was atrocious—putrid, pungent, and reeked of death. It was then I decided to sift through its contents, searching for the source of that fetid stench.
That’s when I realized the metal shavings weren’t metal at all, they were rubbery strips of flesh.
I immediately dialed up the landlord and gave him an earful. He took no responsibility for the drain. Said it was out of his hands, all because “everyone’s so goddamn lazy these days… no one wants to work” (sorry, mom—his words, not mine). I screamed until he finally agreed to send someone over.
But he never sent anyone over.
I should’ve known better.
By nightfall, the odor of festering decay had slithered its way into every room inside my apartment. I couldn’t escape it.
I’d have to fix the problem myself.
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
Armed only with a plunger, rubber gloves, and a clothespin (for my nose—yes, I looked like a fucking cartoon character), I set out to clear the drain once and for all.
As I hovered the plunger over that grey, stagnant water, the drain gurgled and burped, each surfacing bubble containing its own unique hissing of “GOBLA!” I’m telling you, it was as if the drain knew what I was about to do, and didn’t like it one bit.
I thrusted the plunger down on the drain and pumped the handle violently, sending the stagnant water into a series of convulsions. As the waves thrashed about, droplets were thrown everywhere—on the walls, the ceiling, my hair… inside my mouth… everything was drenched in it.
I blacked out. I took all my frustrations and anger out on it. Not just over the tub, but everything. The addiction stuff. The relapse. Getting clean again. The constant irritations and disappointments of everyday life. I really let that drain have it, as if it was the source of my every problem.
“GOBLA! GOBLA! GOBLA! GOBLA!”
As I pumped, more of those soggy, fleshy bits spewed from the drain—as thick and pungent as vomit.
“GOBLA!”
At some point in all my mad thrusting, I looked down at what was left of the sloshing water and noticed there was a large crack running straight through the center of the tub. At first, I assumed my aggressive plunging was to blame, but upon closer inspection, I found the truth to be much more horrifying.
“GOBLA!”
The hairs gave it away. There were all these tiny curlies protruding from the crack, like thick patches of unkempt pubic hair. They slithered through the entirety of the slit, from the drain hole straight through to the backside. After removing more of the murky water, I discovered the hairs were moving, as well as the cracked porcelain at the bottom of the tub. It looked as if it was breathing.
“GOBLA!”
I should’ve gotten the hell out of there at that point, but curiosity got the best of me, as it usually does…
“GOBLA!”
I tore into the porcelain like a maniac, hammering the wooden end of the plunger down into it until, at last, I’d broken enough of it away to see the source of my little drain problem.
“GOBLA!”
This next part won’t be easy to read, but I need you to understand how desperate I am at the moment. I’ll write with as much detail as possible. Believe me, reading it will be so much easier than seeing it.
Those little curlies ended up being exactly what they appeared to be: body hair. They were attached to a grossly emaciated body, one that was oddly plump in the face and torso—to an exaggerated degree, as if the body was sick, swollen, and retaining moisture. His clothing was impossibly tight and split open in many places, exposing more skin than it covered. His flesh was sallow and riddled with oozing lesions, seeping the same grey water that once filled the tub. His arms and legs were severely atrophied, appearing thin and weak. Several teeth were missing and his greasy hair was matted down to his skull. His fingernails were long and filthy. His entire body reeked of tooth scum. His eyes were yellow in color, but also bloodshot and swollen. They turned slightly and made contact with my own as I studied his bloated face. Though he never touched my body, I felt somehow violated by his stare. I had to immediately turn away to keep from vomiting.
Yes—it was a man, and he was alive.
And he wasn’t just any man, he was the same man who came to fix the clog months before. The maintenance man from Eighth Block Tower.
I suppose pride got the best of him. That’s the only sense I can make of it. He said he’d never met a clog he couldn’t fix. I can only assume this was how he came to “fix” the clog, because not only was he inexplicably living beneath my bathtub, but his lips were firmly clasped around the bottom of the drain, seemingly replacing those unfixable ancient pipes with his own alimentary canal. Loose clumps of wet, black hair dribbled out of his mouth as he looked at me and laughed. It was the same laugh as before, the degrading laugh, only now he sounded sick and hoarse.
“GOBLA! GOBLA!”
He laughed again, but this time it ended in a coughing fit.
“GOBLA! GOBLA!” he repeated, between coughs.
It was then I realized what he was saying. He wasn’t saying “GOBLA! GOBLA!”, he was saying “GOBBLE! GOBBLE!”
The man had been laying there, gurgling down my dirty bathwater for the last few months. And from the crazed smile creeping across his face, he seemed to be enjoying it.
But I refuse to feed him anymore.
I don’t go near the bathroom now. I use the facilities at the laundromat across the street.
The man is still here, still laying in the same position.
The stench is still here, and getting worse by the day.
The landlord says it’s my problem—that the tub gobbler is technically a “guest” in my home. Can you believe that?
Anyway, that’s why I need the money. I need to switch apartments. Mom, I can’t live like this. These conditions aren’t good for anyone, but especially not me. Not now. Like I said, I’ve been good. I’ve been clean. But I’m still fairly fragile. Things could go south at any moment.
I need this.
More than anything I’ve ever asked of you before.
The money is for the apartment.
Nothing else.
I swear.
Please, believe me.
Mom.
Don’t give up on me.
I’m counting on you.
Love (yes, I do love you) your desperate, but hopeful daughter,
Sylvia
Artwork by: Jon T
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🤣🤣🤣 I'm sorry I'm like this. 😅
This ...is absolutely disgusting. And hilarious. I'm glad I hate baths. Always a shower for me. Especaially now.