The Plumber’s Apprentice

In the late autumn of 1997, I was twelve, staying over at my cousin’s farmhouse on the edge of the Blackwood Forest. My uncle, a man who could fix anything with a wrench and a roll of duct tape, had invited us for the weekend to watch the heavyweight championship on satellite TV. The house was old, with creaking floorboards and a furnace that groaned like a wounded animal. After the fight ended—a brutal, bloody affair—we all collapsed into the worn leather recliners in the front room, the blue glow of the television fading to static.

I woke to the sound of water running. The pipes in that house sang when the toilet flushed, a high-pitched wail that echoed through the walls. It was maybe three in the morning. I figured it was my cousin Dave, or my brother, or maybe my uncle, who had the bladder of a man who drank coffee all day. I rolled over, burying my face in the musty cushion, but my own bladder was insistent. With a groan, I swung my legs off the recliner, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood.

As I stood, I saw something in the hallway. A figure stood about ten feet away, silhouetted against the dim light from the bathroom. It was tall, too thin, with arms that hung too low. It was wearing a shapeless gray coverall, like a workman’s jumpsuit, and in its hand it held a gleaming pipe wrench. It didn’t move. It didn’t make a sound. I froze, my heart hammering, my breath caught in my throat.

I tried to call out, but my voice was a ragged whisper. The figure took a step forward, and I saw its face. It was my uncle’s face, but wrong—the eyes were hollow pits, the mouth stretched into a grin that was too wide. The wrench in its hand dripped with something dark and thick. I stumbled backward, tripping over the leg of the recliner, and fell hard on the floor.

Then, like a candle blown out, it vanished. The hallway was empty. The only sound was the drip of the faucet in the bathroom, each drop hitting the porcelain like a ticking clock.

I scrambled to my feet, my heart still racing. I bolted down the hallway to my uncle’s room, flinging open the door. There he was, my uncle, asleep in his bed, snoring loudly, his tools splayed on the nightstand. I shook him awake, babbling about what I’d seen. He squinted at me, groggy, and said, ‘You had a nightmare, kid. Go back to bed.’ But I couldn’t sleep.

I sat in the front room, wide awake, watching the door to the hallway. The next morning, I told my brother and cousin what I’d seen. They laughed, said I was watching too many horror movies. But my cousin Dave paused, then said, ‘You know, old man Hargrove who lived here before? He was a plumber too. They say he went crazy one night and killed his whole family with a pipe wrench, right in this house.’ I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

That evening, as the sun set, I heard the toilet flush again. I didn’t want to go check, but something drew me to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. The light was flickering, and the air was cold. On the mirror, written in what looked like dried blood, were the words: ‘I FIX THE PIPES.’

I turned to run, but the figure was there, blocking the hallway. This time, it had my brother’s face, but his eyes were gone, and his mouth was sewn shut with wire. The wrench in its hand began to rise.

I screamed, and then everything went black.

I woke up on the floor of the bathroom. The mirror was clean. The hallway was empty. But as I stood, I noticed the sink faucet was dripping. I turned it off tightly. Then I heard a faint, gurgling sound coming from the drain. I leaned in close. A voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘You know the truth now. You’ll always know.’ I backed away, my hands trembling.

I never went back to that farmhouse. I told my family I had nightmares, but I never told them the full truth. Years later, I found out that my uncle had passed away. I went to the funeral, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face. As I left the cemetery, I saw a figure standing among the tombstones, wearing a gray coverall, holding a wrench. It tipped its cap at me, then turned and vanished into the mist.

To this day, whenever I hear a toilet flush or water running, I freeze, expecting to see that figure. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear a whisper from my bathroom sink: ‘Plumber’s coming. Plumber’s coming.’ I never know if it’s a memory or a promise.