The day of sorting through the house, deciding what to keep, sell, or donate, was over, and Rachel wanders through the Victorian house, her new home, feeling a sense of accomplishment. The two-story house, with its creaking floors and tattered rugs, was Grandma’s legacy to her. Rachel, finally on her own for the first time, will redecorate as she pleases. Grabbing her glass of Chardonnay, and the rest of the bottle, she trudges upstairs.
            In the bathroom, Rachel cringes at the vintage aqua green sink her grandmother refused to upgrade. The rectangular wall-mounted basin with two spindly metal pipe legs and exposed plumbing is an eyesore. Grandma had an odd fondness for that sink and had washed her hair in that old basin for years. She had sung “You Are My Sunshine” to newborn Rachel when she bathed her in it. In the last few years, Rachel witnessed Grandma steadying herself, hanging on to the porcelain when she got sick after chemotherapy treatments.
            Rachel taps the sink with her ringed fingers. “Grandma loved you, but I don’t.” She turns the knobs for water and a loud clunking noise responds to her. “Oh yeah, you are so getting replaced.”
            In the bedroom, Rachel is hesitant, as it offers sadness and joy. She spent so many hours here in the final days of her grandmother’s life. The angels and birds, intricately hand-carved into the rich, warm walnut of the Italian sleigh bed, seem to whisper a promise of comfort. Exhaustion overwhelms her, and she collapses onto the soft bed, falling into a deep sleep.
            At 2:00 a.m. Rachel awakes to a fast drip, drip, drip. “I can’t believe this. It’s ugly and it’s broken?”
            She throws the covers back and stomps into the bathroom to find the faucet leaking. The liquid is filling up the bowl. She flips the stop lever up to let the water flow down the drain, but it fills up as fast as it goes down.
            “What the hell? I didn’t plug this up before I went to bed.” Something makes Rachel dunk her hand in the water and bring it to her nose to smell. Nothing distinguishable. With a tentative lick, she brings her tongue to the small puddle in her palm, tasting the water with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Slightly salty.
            “Holy crap! Is this sink crying? Are you crying? I’m talking to a sink.” She pushes the faucet handles back to the off position. The dripping stops.
            “I know I turned the water off before I went to bed. At least I think I did. I need more sleep.”
            Two hours later, Rachel’s eyelids spring open. She listens to the unique rumblings of the old house sighing and settling. With a sigh of relief at the peaceful stillness, her full bladder forces her out of bed. She sits on the cold commode, her face hidden in her hands. When she rises to use the sink, a gasp escapes her lips. Her mouth falls open in shock.
            Tears roll down her cheeks as she strokes her fingers along strands of long, white, wavy hair piled high in the sink. “This is Grandma’s hair. How did it get here? I’m losing my mind.”
            Rachel gathers the hair and throws it in a large garbage bag in the bedroom. When she returns to the sink, it’s oozing with dark red blood. “Oh, my God. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” She holds onto the sides of the porcelain to steady herself, just like her grandma used to do during her last days.
            The sink pipes rumble. Bathed in the silvery glow of the moon, Rachel saw words mysteriously appear on the mirror above the sink, freezing her in place. The words “I saw what you did” seem to wriggle and dance in the slippery, iridescent soap.
            Rachel throws her hands up and wails, “Okay, I killed my grandmother. But she was sick and in pain. I gave her an injection to put her out of her misery. What do you want from me?”
            A violent bubbling in the sink created a red, frothy mess that looked like a pot of tomato soup about to overflow. With a sickening whoosh, a bloody hypodermic needle erupts from the drain, its sharp point piercing Rachel’s jugular vein. She’s thrown backwards against the wall and slides onto the mosaic tile floor. The sink empties itself, cranking a melody that resembles “You Are My Sunshine.“

Fern Goodman is an award-winning author, poet, and humorist. Her latest KDP short read is Knee(d) to Know – a humorous memoir of her total knee replacement surgery during the COVID-19 pandemic.