Poopy Man Doesn't Knock

He started showing up after the plumbing backed up.

Not immediately—about two weeks after the smell settled into the drywall and something oily began dripping from the ceiling vent. That’s when I noticed the stains.

At first, they looked like water damage. But they were too symmetrical. Too deliberate. One stain on the kitchen tile. One on the hallway baseboard. One on the underside of my mattress, in the exact shape of a crouching figure.

I called maintenance. The man looked at the stains for a long time and said, “No mold. Just memory.” Then he left, locking the door behind him from the outside.

The next night, I heard squelching footsteps in the walls. Not rats—too slow, too wet. Something kept brushing the inside of the drywall like it was testing for weak spots. My apartment smelled like bile and rust. I stopped using the toilet after I found teeth in the bowl. Human teeth. No roots. Just enamel, loose and polished.

I started sleeping in the tub, clutching the shower curtain around me like a veil. That’s where I saw him.

He doesn’t walk. He slumps. A wet man, slick with waste and hair, crawling slowly on his hands like his knees had been cut off decades ago. His skin is loose, like it's filled with warm broth. Every time he moves, something shifts beneath it—something pink, twisting. A meat worm.

No one talks about the meat worms anymore, but I remember. Back in ’99, a lab in Nebraska said they found them in improperly cured pork. Then it was in the water. Then it was in people. Then the lab burned down and everyone stopped asking questions.

Poopy Man doesn’t knock. He just shows up.

This morning, the neighbor came by to complain about the smell. Her face was tight with politeness, but her eyes kept flicking toward the corner where the air shimmered like heat. I told her not to come in. She pushed past me anyway.

She didn’t scream. She just froze—every muscle locked, like something behind her eyes had disconnected. Her mouth opened slowly, like she wanted to ask a question but forgot what language was. Then her legs gave out. Not from fear. From something else. Like her nerves were being unraveled one by one from the inside, tugged gently by a presence that had always been waiting.

He stood up. He reached into her chest like it was wet laundry and whispered something soft to the worm coiled inside. It listened. Then he folded her, joint by joint, until she fit into the basin like meat in a grinder.

I closed the door and turned the lock.

Later, I flushed what was left. Hair clogs easy, but the worms go down smooth.

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