The Basket in the Hall

The house on Maple Street had a way of holding its breath. I noticed it the first night we moved in, how the floorboards creaked only when you weren’t listening, how the bathroom door stuck no matter how many times Derek sanded it. We’d bought the place at a foreclosure auction, cheap and desperate, and now with a newborn, we didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

That evening, we had friends over for a small gathering. I’d hurt my back earlier in the week, a sharp twinge that made bending over an ordeal, so I spent most of the night on the couch, sipping a single beer while everyone else laughed and drank. Around eleven, the last guest—a chatty woman named Monica—was ready to leave. Derek offered to drive her, and I handed him the laundry basket full of towels from the dryer, asking him to take it upstairs since I couldn’t manage the stairs with my back. He gave me a peck on the cheek, said ‘Sure, babe,’ and walked out with the basket in his arms. I watched him load it into the trunk of his car—why the trunk?—and then he backed out of the driveway.

The baby, Elsie, was down for the night, so I settled into our bedroom, folding socks and humming to myself. About twenty minutes later, I heard banging from the bathroom down the hall. Clunk, thud, clatter. It sounded like someone was rearranging the entire plumbing. I thought, wow, Derek must be cleaning the bathroom while I’m up here, and I felt a warm glow of gratitude. But then I remembered his car had pulled away. I peeked out the window—his car was gone. The banging continued, rhythmic, almost like something heavy being dragged across the tile.

I called his name, but the only answer was a wet, slapping sound, like a fish thrown on a counter. My heart started to thump. I crept to the bedroom door, and as I reached for the handle, I heard the front door open downstairs—the jingle of keys, the familiar squeak of the hinges. Then footsteps, slow and heavy, climbing the stairs. I thought, Derek is back, but the footsteps didn’t sound like him. They were too deliberate, too measured, like someone counting each step.

I stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the bathroom door, which was now slightly ajar. A sliver of darkness spilled out. The banging had stopped. From downstairs, a voice—Derek’s voice—called, ‘Hey, I brought the basket up. Where do you want it?’ But I was standing in the hallway, and the bathroom was behind me, and the voice came from the kitchen, not the stairs. I turned, and there he was at the bottom of the stairs, holding the laundry basket, but his face was wrong. His eyes were too wide, and he was grinning, a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

‘You didn’t take the basket with you,’ I said, my voice shaking. He tilted his head. ‘What are you talking about? I just brought it up from the car.’ But I saw the car pull away, I saw the trunk open, I saw him drive off. The basket in his hands was dripping, a dark liquid pooling on the hardwood floor. He took a step up, and the liquid splashed. ‘There was something in the laundry,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘It’s not towels anymore.’

I heard a sound from the bathroom—a soft, wet whisper. The door creaked open wider, and from inside, a shape unfolded: tall, pale, with limbs that bent the wrong way. It held a towel in one hand, and it was wringing it, slowly, water trickling down. Derek—or whatever wore his skin—gestured to the basket. ‘She wanted to help with the laundry,’ he said, and the thing in the bathroom smiled with too many teeth.

I ran. I grabbed Elsie from her crib, her cries swallowed by the pounding in my ears. The stairs were slick with something I didn’t want to identify, and the front door was a mouth of blackness. As I burst into the night, I saw Derek’s car parked at the curb, the driver’s door open, the interior dark. I didn’t look back. I drove to my sister’s house, and I never returned. But sometimes, I still hear the banging from the bathroom, and I know the laundry basket is waiting in the hall, filled with something that was never meant to be washed.