The Drain — A BSP Burst of Dread

It was a quiet evening, the kind where the world outside seemed to be wrapped in thick, muffled silence. Inside, only the sounds of the refrigerator humming and the clinking of dishes from the sink broke the stillness. But underneath it all, there was something else — barely there, like a sigh caught in the pipes, a suggestion more than a sound. Something shadowy and dark, laced with a malice that didn’t belong in a quiet home.

The mother stood by the stove, stirring something on the burner while her child played near the kitchen counter.

“I hear something coming out of the drain,” the boy said, his voice thin and uncertain.

She glanced over, her smile tight. “You’re imagining things,” she said, though her hand paused ever so slightly on the spoon, the rhythm of her stirring faltering. Something about his tone — uneasy, as if listening to something more than just her words — lingered in her mind.

“Maybe it’s a mouse,” she added, trying to reassure him. “Go wash up, dinner’s almost ready.”

The boy nodded and trudged to the sink, but he hesitated, standing still for a long beat. The cat, Oscar, was there too, staring at the drain, head tilted, ears pricked in silent attention. He was usually calm, indifferent even — but now his body was tense, his ears twitching slightly, as if catching a sound no one else could hear.

She sighed and turned away, dismissing it, but her gaze lingered on them for just a second longer.

Later that night, she tucked him into bed, his small form barely visible in the dim light, and kissed his forehead. But before she could leave, he pulled at her sleeve.

“Mom,” he whispered, “I heard it again. And Oscar’s still by the sink… listening.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing, darling. Go to sleep.”

Later, after tidying up the living room, she passed through the kitchen to clean up — and saw it.

Oscar, the cat, was sitting motionless by the sink, his pupils wide and unblinking, tail wrapped tightly around his body. He stared down into the drain with a fixed intensity, as if waiting for something — or listening to it.

No sound. No meow. Only stillness.

She hesitated for a long moment, then shrugged it off. Maybe it was a mouse after all. She walked over to the utility closet, grabbed the Drano, and poured it down the sink, listening to the hiss of the liquid as it slithered through the pipes.

“See? Whatever it is, it’s gone now,” she said softly to herself, trying to convince her own nerves that the matter was settled.

Later that night, she noticed something odd — Oscar was no longer by the sink. He wasn’t on the windowsill, the couch, or curled up on the laundry pile where he sometimes slept.

She checked the closets, the basement, and under the beds. Each place she looked, her pace quickened, her breath shortening. The calm of the house now felt suffocating, like it was hiding something. Every shadow seemed longer, every silence stretched too thin. Nothing.

When she asked her son the next morning, he only said, “He was by the drain… then he wasn’t.”

She tried to laugh it off, telling him Oscar had probably slipped outside, but even as she said it, doubt curled in her stomach like something wet and cold.

On a hunch, she walked to the sink and leaned in. The drain was dark, still damp from the dishes from dinner. But there — just barely visible against the metal — was a small clump of short, dense fur, striped in soft gray and charcoal. Her breath caught. Oscar’s fur. She stared at it, heart thudding, her fingers curling into her palm. She remembered petting Oscar just a few days ago, feeling the coarse softness of his fur under her fingertips. That same fur, now matted and stuck to the metal, was undeniable. It was unmistakable. The clump now looked torn, not shed, and she had to fight the instinct to reach in and pull it free.

She reached for a paper towel, hesitated, then stepped back instead, shaking her head like she could knock the thought loose.

The next morning, she woke to find the house eerily quiet. The boy wasn’t in his bed. Panic gripped her chest as she rushed through the house, calling his name — “Eli!” — her voice trembling with rising dread.

Nothing.

Then, outside, a faint, hollow sound echoed from the kitchen — a dark, distant echo, as if it came from a vastness that shouldn’t exist within the walls of their home. The air seemed to shift, cool and heavy, brushing against her skin like a breath exhaled from the deep.

“Mom.”

She froze. It wasn’t quite his voice — too layered, too dense. It carried his tone, but chorused with something deeper, older, as if something else were speaking through him.

She turned, her heart hammering, and rushed to the kitchen. The sound came again, clearer this time.

“Mom… I found Oscar. He’s down here with us… You should come down too.”

“You should come down too,” the voice said again — this time doubled, warped, as though spoken not just by Eli but echoed by a chorus of others.

“You should come down too,” it repeated once more, now thick with overlapping tones: a child’s voice, a man’s, a woman’s, something deeper still. The voices tangled together, weaving a call that was no longer a request — but a summons.”

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was a quiet evening, the kind where the world outside seemed to be wrapped in thick, muffled silence. Inside, only the sounds of the refrigerator humming and the clinking of dishes from the sink broke the stillness. But underneath it all, there was something else — barely there, like a sigh caught in the pipes, a suggestion more than a sound. Something shadowy and dark, laced with a malice that didn’t belong in a quiet home.

The mother stood by the stove, stirring something on the burner while her child played near the kitchen counter.

“I hear something coming out of the drain,” the boy said, his voice thin and uncertain.

She glanced over, her smile tight. “You’re imagining things,” she said, though her hand paused ever so slightly on the spoon, the rhythm of her stirring faltering. Something about his tone — uneasy, as if listening to something more than just her words — lingered in her mind.

“Maybe it’s a mouse,” she added, trying to reassure him. “Go wash up, dinner’s almost ready.”

The boy nodded and trudged to the sink, but he hesitated, standing still for a long beat. The cat, Oscar, was there too, staring at the drain, head tilted, ears pricked in silent attention. He was usually calm, indifferent even — but now his body was tense, his ears twitching slightly, as if catching a sound no one else could hear.

She sighed and turned away, dismissing it, but her gaze lingered on them for just a second longer.

Later that night, she tucked him into bed, his small form barely visible in the dim light, and kissed his forehead. But before she could leave, he pulled at her sleeve.

“Mom,” he whispered, “I heard it again. And Oscar’s still by the sink… listening.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing, darling. Go to sleep.”

Later, after tidying up the living room, she passed through the kitchen to clean up — and saw it.

Oscar, the cat, was sitting motionless by the sink, his pupils wide and unblinking, tail wrapped tightly around his body. He stared down into the drain with a fixed intensity, as if waiting for something — or listening to it.

No sound. No meow. Only stillness.

She hesitated for a long moment, then shrugged it off. Maybe it was a mouse after all. She walked over to the utility closet, grabbed the Drano, and poured it down the sink, listening to the hiss of the liquid as it slithered through the pipes.

“See? Whatever it is, it’s gone now,” she said softly to herself, trying to convince her own nerves that the matter was settled.

Later that night, she noticed something odd — Oscar was no longer by the sink. He wasn’t on the windowsill, the couch, or curled up on the laundry pile where he sometimes slept.

She checked the closets, the basement, and under the beds. Each place she looked, her pace quickened, her breath shortening. The calm of the house now felt suffocating, like it was hiding something. Every shadow seemed longer, every silence stretched too thin. Nothing.

When she asked her son the next morning, he only said, “He was by the drain… then he wasn’t.”

She tried to laugh it off, telling him Oscar had probably slipped outside, but even as she said it, doubt curled in her stomach like something wet and cold.

On a hunch, she walked to the sink and leaned in. The drain was dark, still damp from the dishes from dinner. But there — just barely visible against the metal — was a small clump of short, dense fur, striped in soft gray and charcoal. Her breath caught. Oscar’s fur. She stared at it, heart thudding, her fingers curling into her palm. She remembered petting Oscar just a few days ago, feeling the coarse softness of his fur under her fingertips. That same fur, now matted and stuck to the metal, was undeniable. It was unmistakable. The clump now looked torn, not shed, and she had to fight the instinct to reach in and pull it free.

She reached for a paper towel, hesitated, then stepped back instead, shaking her head like she could knock the thought loose.

The next morning, she woke to find the house eerily quiet. The boy wasn’t in his bed. Panic gripped her chest as she rushed through the house, calling his name — “Eli!” — her voice trembling with rising dread.

Nothing.

Then, outside, a faint, hollow sound echoed from the kitchen — a dark, distant echo, as if it came from a vastness that shouldn’t exist within the walls of their home. The air seemed to shift, cool and heavy, brushing against her skin like a breath exhaled from the deep.

“Mom.”

She froze. It wasn’t quite his voice — too layered, too dense. It carried his tone, but chorused with something deeper, older, as if something else were speaking through him.

She turned, her heart hammering, and rushed to the kitchen. The sound came again, clearer this time.

“Mom… I found Oscar. He’s down here with us… You should come down too.”

“You should come down too,” the voice said again — this time doubled, warped, as though spoken not just by Eli but echoed by a chorus of others.

“You should come down too,” it repeated once more, now thick with overlapping tones: a child’s voice, a man’s, a woman’s, something deeper still. The voices tangled together, weaving a call that was no longer a request — but a summons.”

Zoom image will be displayed

The mother stumbled forward, her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the sink. “Eli?” she whispered, barely audible, as if afraid the drain might answer.

Something moved within the drain, a shadow that twitched and pulsed, unfurling in jagged, unnatural motions as it curled upward.

And she could have sworn she heard Oscar’s meow.