Wasn’t a Snake
Here’s what happened.
I crept toward the bathtub, broom extended, heart pounding. The creature didn’t move. That was my first clue—snakes generally react when a broom-wielding woman approaches them with murder in her eyes. This thing just sat there, glossy and still.
I poked it.
It didn’t slither. It didn’t strike. It didn’t do anything except make a soft, squelchy sound.
That’s when I noticed that the “snake” wasn’t uniformly dark. It had lighter patches. And it wasn’t perfectly cylindrical—it had flat spots, like it had been pressed against something.
I put down the broom. I knelt beside the tub. And I reached out and touched it.
It was cold. Rubbery. And completely, unmistakably inorganic.
I pulled it out of the tub and held it up to the light.
It was a black rubber drain snake. The long, flexible kind that plumbers use to clear clogs. Someone—and
