Whisked Away

Prompt Day #230: Discover a tentacle monstrosity in a bathroom or a kitchen.

 

Whisked Away

 

She let herself in. Mr. Parkans never answered the door even when he was home. He’d given her the key when he hired her and told her as much. I’m a busy man, always tinkering in the basement. I can’t run up the stairs to let you in or out. He’d told her and that was one of the last times they’d even spoken. She came every day at 1:00, cleaned the house, made dinner, and every third day, she made scones or rolls for his breakfasts and packed up little single serve dishes of leftovers or soups for his lunches. When she’d finished, she would hit the intercom to tell him dinner was served and she left. She was forbidden to go to the basement where the retired biologist tinkered.

Today she would start in the bathroom. She carried her basket of cleaning products into the small guest bathroom first. It was rarely used and would be easy to tidy. Then she would move on to the larger one. She opened the door and noted the rusty stains on the sink and the dirty, wrinkled hand-towel rumpled over the bar. So, he’d been using this room now. Strange man.

She lifted the lid of the toilet and wrinkled her brow. Sitting in the clear water at the bottom of the toilet was a wire whisk. It was the kind covered in silicone. This one a murky green color. She wondered when they’d started using colors like that. Most silicone coated kitchen utensils were bright orange or yellow or red. Never mind the color, she told herself, what was the thing doing thrown in the toilet in the first place? Had the man lost his mind?

Shaking her head she reached into the water and pulled the thing out. She quickly dried it off with the dirty hand-towel and took it to the kitchen. She stopped. There, on the counters, in the sink, and the island were hundreds of the whisks. Strewn about everywhere. What was he up to? She turned the whisk in her hand, wondering what was so special about it that he needed so many. Yes, the handle was soft, gel-filled, and comfortable to grip. She supposed it would be perfect for making a good merengue.

She squeezed it harder and it moved. The lines of the whisk came apart and began undulating like tentacles. Before she could drop it, it seemed to pull back in her hand and then sprung into the air towards her face. She screamed just as the thing gripped onto her, each of the twelve writhing appendages hooked into the skin of her face with tiny sharp setae. She tried to pull it off but it felt as if her face would come with it. Just then the handle, or perhaps the body of whatever the thing was began pumping, mucus filled her mouth. It was pumping something with the texture of tapioca pudding into her mouth. She had no choice but to swallow it. It was swallow or choke. The balls of the tapioca were squirming as they slid down her throat. She gagged but it was no use.

Something else was in her mouth, something thin and snake like probing along her hard palate. Tears streamed hot down her face as she frantically searched the kitchen for a knife. Every drawer she opened was filled with these living whisks, every cabinet. The pain came then, pain like brain freeze shot through her soft palate and into her frontal lobe.

Mr. Parkans was standing at the top of the basement steps watching. His eyes were black and his skin had taken on the same greenish hue as the whisk monster. He opened his mouth and twelve tentacles came out whipping around furiously.

She was horrified but only for a second. The lobotomy took all that away, now she felt no human emotions, only an instinct to go out and spread the whisks. The larvae wriggled in her belly, growing strong, waiting their turn. She nodded to Parkans who nodded back. She filled her basket with his spawn and headed out into the world.

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