Insinkerator | Blocked

He tried again. Nothing but a dull, electric hum, like a trapped bee in a jar. The sink held its breath, a shallow pool of grey water staring back at him. It was blocked.

WHIRRRRR.

The soft, wet laughter of something that has finally found its way home. insinkerator blocked

Mark stared at the cork. He thought about the silver "M." He thought about the previous tenant, old Mrs. Gable, who had died in the armchair by the window. They said she was a collector. They never said of what. He tried again

POP.

He picked up the cork. Wrapped in the red thread was a tiny scrap of paper, the ink faded but legible: "Thanks for unblocking me. I was stuck in there for seven years. —M." It was blocked

On Thursday, the blockage returned with a vengeance. The sink filled to the brim, a black mirror reflecting the kitchen light. This time, when Mark crawled underneath, the hex socket was warm. He turned the key. It moved too easily, as if something on the other side had already loosened it for him.