novella
Active Member
I've never written horror before, so figured I'd get in a little practice. This one's 1000 words. Bon appetit! 
The Plumber's Lunch
"Would you like a sandwich?"
The voice took Tommy by surprise. He hadn't realized that Mrs. Melchizidek was standing over him. He turned his head toward the sound. From under the sink, he saw her bony legs in their thick flesh-colored tights, nun shoes, the hem of her faded housedress.
"No, ma'am. I had some lunch before. Wife always packs me something." It was true. Maria had put a salami hero, garlic pickles, and a carton of yogurt in his lunch pail that morning, all of which he had eaten by 10. He'd also swung by McDonald's that morning for a quick couple of McMuffins and grabbed a bag of chips after that.
"Really, it's no trouble. A nice ham sandwich? A cup of coffee? I'm just making myself one."
He knew that he shouldn't. He'd been trying to take off the huge load of fat he'd accumulated on his ass and stomach. He's been packing on the lard for ten years. His butt was like two huge white balloons busting out of his green workpants. His belly flowed over the waistband. But Tommy liked to eat. He could practically taste the ham sandwich already, salty and smoky and moist, and the warm coffee to wash it down.
"Well, if you're sure it's no trouble, ma'am." Tommy looked up from under the sink. The lady was creepy, but she was clean, which is the important thing when it comes to food He didn't generally like to accept food from clients.. A plumber can tell a lot about a person, especially how much filth they will tolerate. Dirty sponges under sinks, mouse feces, sticky rags soiled with god knows what, dirty buckets, mucky corners. He couldn't believe the way some people lived. He tightened up the U-bend and sat up, wiping his hands on his job rag.
"Let me just test this for leaks. I think we've solved the problem," he said, turning on the tap and checking the repair. No drips. Tommy washed his hands thoroughly, using the brown soap at the sink's edge. He scrubbed up like a surgeon after each job.
Mrs. M. was at the table, spreading thick yellowish mayonnaise on slices of white bread. The jar was huge and unlabelled, the mayo creamy and rich looking.
"Homemade?" Tommy asked, smiling. His wife was a good cook. He loved real, unprocessed food.
"Hmmm," Mrs. Melchizidek said, laying three slices of carved ham on the bread and closing the sandwiches. She put the plate in front of a chair and gestured for him to sit. Her smiled revealed gray teeth and reddish gums. She didn't look very well. Tommy felt a pang of sympathy, remembering his own mother's final days, her unhealthy pallor, the odd smells that emanate from the dying.
She poured him a cup of coffee, freshly brewed and set the milk and sugar on the table. She sat across from him and picked up her own sandwich.
He felt himself salivate like a dog even as he brought the sandwich to his mouth and bit into the salty meatiness. The mayonnaise was wonderful. It had an undefinable frothiness, a familiar but unusual flavor that he couldn't put his finger on.
"I'd love to have your mayonnaise recipe, Mrs. M. I'll pass it along to my wife."
Mrs. Melchizidek chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty. She was probably about 80, Tommy thought. Skinny as hell. He'd noticed when she answered the door that her breath smelled rotten, with a sharp topnote of scallions. She moved stiffly, as if every movement was a struggle.
"Oh, let me give you some," she said, smiling her gray smile. Her gums looked almost bloody. He tried not to think about it.
"Well, I'm not going home right away. Do you think it will keep?"
"Oh yes, dear. It's very fresh." She put her sandwich down with a sigh. "My appetite isn't what it used to be," she said. "I'll give the rest to Harry."
"Harry? Is he your son?" Tommy asked. He was sure Mrs. M. lived alone. Long experience of visiting strangers' houses had taught him how to spot the signs. The television pointed at the one comfortable chair. One coffee cup overturned in the dish drain. The single cloth coat on the coat rack near the door. the chattiness, the eagerness to please.
"Oh, no." She laughed. "He's my husband. That's his room right there," she said, pointing toward a door at the other end of the room that Tommy thought was a broom closet or a pantry. "He keeps to himself. Had a stroke last year."
Tommy swallowed the last bite of sandwich. It was delicious. The flavor lingered in his mouth. He could really go for another, but was too polite to say so. Mrs. Melchizidek cleared the dishes as he gulped the last of the coffee.
"Well, that was most welcome. Thank you," he said, restraining a belch.
"I'll just be a moment, dear," Mrs. M. said. "Let me just fetch you a fresh jar to take with you. You can't make this at home, believe me." She smiled and retreated into the room at the rear, leaving the door open a crack. Tommy's curiosity tickled him and he couldn't help peeking in.
The room was dark, the blinds drawn, the shadowy shapes hard to make out. Tommy saw a single bed, a dim lamp with a yellowed shade. An old man sat motionless in a high-backed wooden chair, his face a blank. One arm dangled uselessly at his side. Under it was a large glass jar, unlabelled. The length of his arm was an open sore, oozing puss that dripped slowly and steadily into the jar. Two full jars sat on the dresser, their lids tightly shut.
"Hello, Harry," Tommy heard Mrs. Melchizidek whisper. "I'll be in to feed you in a few minutes. I just want to take our guest a little dressing." She picked up a jar from the table and walked slowly toward the nice young plumber.
The Plumber's Lunch
"Would you like a sandwich?"
The voice took Tommy by surprise. He hadn't realized that Mrs. Melchizidek was standing over him. He turned his head toward the sound. From under the sink, he saw her bony legs in their thick flesh-colored tights, nun shoes, the hem of her faded housedress.
"No, ma'am. I had some lunch before. Wife always packs me something." It was true. Maria had put a salami hero, garlic pickles, and a carton of yogurt in his lunch pail that morning, all of which he had eaten by 10. He'd also swung by McDonald's that morning for a quick couple of McMuffins and grabbed a bag of chips after that.
"Really, it's no trouble. A nice ham sandwich? A cup of coffee? I'm just making myself one."
He knew that he shouldn't. He'd been trying to take off the huge load of fat he'd accumulated on his ass and stomach. He's been packing on the lard for ten years. His butt was like two huge white balloons busting out of his green workpants. His belly flowed over the waistband. But Tommy liked to eat. He could practically taste the ham sandwich already, salty and smoky and moist, and the warm coffee to wash it down.
"Well, if you're sure it's no trouble, ma'am." Tommy looked up from under the sink. The lady was creepy, but she was clean, which is the important thing when it comes to food He didn't generally like to accept food from clients.. A plumber can tell a lot about a person, especially how much filth they will tolerate. Dirty sponges under sinks, mouse feces, sticky rags soiled with god knows what, dirty buckets, mucky corners. He couldn't believe the way some people lived. He tightened up the U-bend and sat up, wiping his hands on his job rag.
"Let me just test this for leaks. I think we've solved the problem," he said, turning on the tap and checking the repair. No drips. Tommy washed his hands thoroughly, using the brown soap at the sink's edge. He scrubbed up like a surgeon after each job.
Mrs. M. was at the table, spreading thick yellowish mayonnaise on slices of white bread. The jar was huge and unlabelled, the mayo creamy and rich looking.
"Homemade?" Tommy asked, smiling. His wife was a good cook. He loved real, unprocessed food.
"Hmmm," Mrs. Melchizidek said, laying three slices of carved ham on the bread and closing the sandwiches. She put the plate in front of a chair and gestured for him to sit. Her smiled revealed gray teeth and reddish gums. She didn't look very well. Tommy felt a pang of sympathy, remembering his own mother's final days, her unhealthy pallor, the odd smells that emanate from the dying.
She poured him a cup of coffee, freshly brewed and set the milk and sugar on the table. She sat across from him and picked up her own sandwich.
He felt himself salivate like a dog even as he brought the sandwich to his mouth and bit into the salty meatiness. The mayonnaise was wonderful. It had an undefinable frothiness, a familiar but unusual flavor that he couldn't put his finger on.
"I'd love to have your mayonnaise recipe, Mrs. M. I'll pass it along to my wife."
Mrs. Melchizidek chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty. She was probably about 80, Tommy thought. Skinny as hell. He'd noticed when she answered the door that her breath smelled rotten, with a sharp topnote of scallions. She moved stiffly, as if every movement was a struggle.
"Oh, let me give you some," she said, smiling her gray smile. Her gums looked almost bloody. He tried not to think about it.
"Well, I'm not going home right away. Do you think it will keep?"
"Oh yes, dear. It's very fresh." She put her sandwich down with a sigh. "My appetite isn't what it used to be," she said. "I'll give the rest to Harry."
"Harry? Is he your son?" Tommy asked. He was sure Mrs. M. lived alone. Long experience of visiting strangers' houses had taught him how to spot the signs. The television pointed at the one comfortable chair. One coffee cup overturned in the dish drain. The single cloth coat on the coat rack near the door. the chattiness, the eagerness to please.
"Oh, no." She laughed. "He's my husband. That's his room right there," she said, pointing toward a door at the other end of the room that Tommy thought was a broom closet or a pantry. "He keeps to himself. Had a stroke last year."
Tommy swallowed the last bite of sandwich. It was delicious. The flavor lingered in his mouth. He could really go for another, but was too polite to say so. Mrs. Melchizidek cleared the dishes as he gulped the last of the coffee.
"Well, that was most welcome. Thank you," he said, restraining a belch.
"I'll just be a moment, dear," Mrs. M. said. "Let me just fetch you a fresh jar to take with you. You can't make this at home, believe me." She smiled and retreated into the room at the rear, leaving the door open a crack. Tommy's curiosity tickled him and he couldn't help peeking in.
The room was dark, the blinds drawn, the shadowy shapes hard to make out. Tommy saw a single bed, a dim lamp with a yellowed shade. An old man sat motionless in a high-backed wooden chair, his face a blank. One arm dangled uselessly at his side. Under it was a large glass jar, unlabelled. The length of his arm was an open sore, oozing puss that dripped slowly and steadily into the jar. Two full jars sat on the dresser, their lids tightly shut.
"Hello, Harry," Tommy heard Mrs. Melchizidek whisper. "I'll be in to feed you in a few minutes. I just want to take our guest a little dressing." She picked up a jar from the table and walked slowly toward the nice young plumber.
. . .
