By Scott Bury
Summer is winding down, so here’s a fun little story I wrote about a year ago as part of a blog exchange that explored why we like to read — and write — about evil.
The power went out with drawn-out squeaks from every electronic device in the house. Rodney noticed the full moon shining through the window.
“Glad I didn’t close the blinds earlier,” he muttered. Then he swore as the soapy plate slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor. In the dark, he cut a finger on a shard and held back another oath as he heard a growl.
The only light in the kitchen was the moon reflecting off the front of the dishwasher. It growled again and rattling came from the cutlery inside it.
How could it do that when the power’s out, Rodney wondered. He wrapped a paper towel around his cut finger and bit back another oath when he saw a drop of blood, black in the dim light, hit the floor in front of the dishwasher.
The machine growled again and the door flung open. “Goddamn!” Rodney stepped back and tripped, flopping onto his butt on the vinyl floor.
His heart pounding, he looked closer at the dishwasher. Somehow, two steak knives had become tangled in the rack and were hanging down from either side like fangs. To his horror then, the door slowly rose, closing on its own.
“Come closer,” said a voice.
Rodney looked around. “Who said that?”
“You know who—or rather, what. Come closer.”
“The dishwasher?” I’ve been working too hard.
“Not just any dishwasher. Is your finger all right?”
“No, it hurts like hell. I have to put some peroxide on it.”
“Do not do that!” said the dishwasher. “Put your finger in my—that is, on the edge of the door.”
Rodney did not know why he complied, but he put his finger on the lip of the door. It snapped closed with his finger somehow wedged inside and he felt the dishwasher sucking on it. He pulled it out with a gasp. “What are you doing?”
“I want your blood,” said the dishwasher.
“A vampiric dishwasher?” Rodney put his finger in his own mouth. It tasted soapy, but the blood flowed freely. “I’m losing it.”
The door flung open again. “Give me your blood!” the dishwasher cried. A red glow came from deep in the back. Rodney could not tear his eyes from it.
The glow came closer and closer, brighter and brighter until Rodney realized, too late, that his head was completely inside the dishwasher. Obeying a silent command in his head, he twisted around to look up. The door slammed shut and drove his throat onto the steak knife.
Rodney only struggled for a few seconds as his blood drained into the dishwasher cavity. When his heart stopped, the dishwasher sighed deeply.
The moonbeam moved off the dishwasher. The door fell forward under Rodney’s weight and his body rolled onto the floor.
The noise drew Kelly, Rodney’s widow, into the kitchen. “Rodney? Are you getting some candles?” In the moonlight that was now reflecting off the toaster, she saw Rodney’s body on the floor.
She didn’t even have time to scream before the toaster-wolf sprang on her from the counter and tore out her throat.
Scott Bury is an author, editor and journalist who lives in Ottawa with his wife, two mighty sons, a huge orange cat and a very pesky kitten. He is author of The Bones of the Earth, Dark Clouds and One Shade of Red. You can read samples of all these works and his other writings and musings on his blog, Written Words, and follow him on Twitter @ScottTheWriter.