Anthony Horowitz: The Puffin Book of Horror Stories

The bathroom door was open. She was sure it had been shut when she had glanced upstairs only minutes before. But that didn't matter either. Swinging the monkey-wrench, she went into the bathroom.

The bath was waiting for her.

It had filled itself to the very brim with hot water — scalding hot from the amount of steam it was giving off. The mirror had completely steamed over. A cool breeze from the door touched the surface of the glass and water trickled down. Isabel lifted the monkey-wrench. She was smiling a little cruelly. The one thing the bath couldn't do was move. It could taunt her and frighten her but now it just had to sit there and take what was coming to it.

She reached out with the monkey-wrench and jerked out the plug.

But the water didn't leave the bath. Instead something thick and red oozed out of the plug-hole and floated up through the water.

And with the blood came maggots — hundreds of them, uncoiling themselves from the plug-hole, forcing themselves up through the grille and cartwheeling crazily in the water. Isabel stared in horror, then raised the monkey-wrench. The water, with the blood added to it, was sheeting over the side now, cascading on to the floor. She swung and felt her whole body shake as the metal clanged into the taps, smashing the C of cold and jolting the pipe-work.

She lifted the monkey-wrench and as she did so she caught sight of it in the mirror. The reflection was blurred by the white coating of steam but behind it she could make out another shape which she knew she would not see in the bathroom. A man was walking towards her as if down a long corridor, making for the glass that covered its end. Jacob Marlin. She felt his eyes burning into her and wondered what he would do when he reached the mirror that seemed to be a barrier between his world and hers.

She swung with the monkey-wrench — again and again. The tap bent, then broke off with the second impact. Water spurted out as if in a death-throe. Now she turned her attention on the bath itself, bringing the monkey-wrench crashing into the side, cracking the enamel with one swing, denting the metal with the next. Another glance over her shoulder told her that Marlin was getting closer, pushing his way towards the steam. She could see his teeth, discoloured and sharp, his gums exposed as his lips were drawn back in a rictus of hate. She swung again and saw — to her disbelief — that she had actually cracked the side of the bath like an egg-shell. Red water gushed over her legs and feet. Maggots were sent spinning in a crazy dance across the bathroom floor, sliding into the cracks and wriggling there, helpless. How close was Marlin? Could he pass through the mirror? She lifted the monkey-wrench one last time and screamed as a pair of man's hands fell on her shoulders. The monkey-wrench spun out of her hands and fell into the bath, disappearing in the murky water. The hands were at her throat now, pulling her backwards. Isabel screamed and lashed out, her nails going for the man's eyes.

She only just had time to realize that it was not Marlin who was holding her but her father. That her mother was standing at the door, staring with wide, horror-filled eyes. Isabel felt all the strength rush out of her body like the water out of the bath. The water was transparent again, of course. The maggots had gone. Had they ever been there? Did it matter? She began to laugh.

She was still laughing half an hour later when the sound of sirens filled the room and the ambulance arrived.

It wasn't fair.

Jeremy Harding lay in the bath thinking about the events of the past six weeks. It was hard not to think about them — in here, looking at the dents his daughter had made with the monkey-wrench. The taps had almost been beyond repair. As it was they now dripped all the time and the letter C was gone forever. Old water, not cold water.

He had seen Isabel a few days before and she had looked a lot better. She still wasn't talking but it would be a long time before that happened, they said. Nobody knew why she had decided to attack the bath — except maybe that fat friend of hers and she was too frightened to say. According to the experts, it had all been stress-related. A traumatic stress disorder. Of course they had fancy words for it. What they meant was that it was her parents' fault. They argued. There was tension in the house. Isabel hadn't been able to cope and had come up with some sort of fantasy related to the bath.

In other words, it was his fault.

But was it? As he lay in the soft, hot water with the smell of pine bath-oil rising up his nostrils, Jeremy Harding thought long and hard. He wasn't the one who started the arguments. It was always Susan. From the day he'd married her, she'd insisted on… well, changing him. She was always nagging him. It was like that nickname of his at school. Grumpy. They never took him seriously. She never took him seriously. Well, he would show her.

Lying back with the steam all around him, Jeremy found himself floating away. It was a wonderful feeling. He would start with Susan. Then there were a couple of boys in his French class. And of course, the headmaster.

He knew just what he would do. He had seen it that morning in a junk shop in Crouch End. Victorian, he would have said. Heavy with a smooth wooden handle and a solid, razor-sharp head.

Yes. He would go out and buy it the following morning. It was just what he needed. A good Victorian axe…