A Wicked Present || WITW

A Wicked Present

I received Mr. Bubbles three months ago. My sister got it for my birthday, he still had the sticker showing the price on the plastic bag he came in. He cost $4.99, and the bag full of water was already dirty as though he swam in it for weeks by now. She got me the cheapest aquarium, and no food for the small gold fish. Mr. Bubbles always looked at me like he already knew my browser history.

He swims in lazy circles most of the time. Clockwise. Always clockwise. I read somewhere that's a sign of stress, but mom always said that fish don't have feelings, so somebody's lying.

The first strange thing happened on a Wednesday, a week after I got him, and on the day I threw away the leftover cake I bought myself for my birthday. I was microwaving pizza that may have been two days old, but could possibly be five days old. I contemplated when was the last time I ordered takeout when I heard a voice say, "You shouldn't eat that." It was muffled, like someone talking through a fan. I checked my phone, the TV, even under the couch cushions. My sister pranked me before by placing baby monitors at random spots.

 Nothing.

 Then I looked at the small, round aquarium.

Mr. Bubbles wasn't swimming anymore. He was pressed up against the glass, mouth opening and closing in slow motion. I could swear the voice said, "Not enough sodium."

I laughed. Out loud. Because obviously I wasn't losing my mind over a goldfish. Obviously. The pizza fumes were toxic, I was certain. I threw it out, and ordered a pizza, not bothering to check how close to zero my bank account is. 

The next day, the microwave was gone. Just... gone. I called my landlord to ask if maintenance took it and he hung up on me, a murmur passing his lips just before the beep signaled he was gone. The sound reminded me of gurgling water.

I started paying closer attention. At night, when I pretended to sleep, I'd hear the water in the tank sloshing even though there's no filter. Once, I caught Mr. Bubbles halfway out of the water, balancing on his tail like a man in a fish suit. I blinked and he was normal again, but the water level had dropped an inch.

Then the letters started.

No return address. Just plain white envelopes slipped under my door at 3:17 a.m. exactly, waking me up every single day. Inside: one sheet of paper with a single word written in perfect block letters. Words like SPY. REPLACE. CHLORINE. The last one said RUN.

That night, I dreamt of space. Not like the pretty kind with stars. This was black and cold and endless, and I was inside a glass bowl the size of a planet. Something was tapping the outside with a claw.

I woke up to find the bowl from Mr. Bubbles' tank on my nightstand, full of water. For a moment I feel panic surge through me, I left him in front of the front door, as always. He was inside my room, staring at me with his fish eyes from the round container. I live all alone, so how?

I decided to test him. I put a chessboard in front of the tank. He swam to the pawn in front of my king and pushed it forward with his nose. The glass twists, like it's made of soft plastic. I didn't touch the board. The pawn moved three squares. Pawns can't do that. Fish can't do that. I touched the glass of the aquarium, and it was as solid as ever.

By the fifth game, he had me in checkmate. Twice.

I stopped eating fish entirely, just in case. Not out of guilt. I just didn't want him to think I was sending a message.

One morning, I woke to find the words I KNOW written on the inside of the tank in condensation. I wiped them away. They came back. Backwards. Like they were meant to be read from inside.

Know what?

I bought a camera to catch him in the act. Reviewed the footage at 4 a.m. and saw- nothing. No fish. The tank was empty. For six hours. Then at 6:01, he swam back in from the left side. 

My neighbor, Mrs. Holloway, stopped me in the hall. She asked how my "little diplomat" was doing. I said, "Who?" She said, "Oh, they haven't told you?" Then she coughed blood onto my shoe and walked away.

By the time I got to my sink, the blood turned brown, and smelled a lot like ketchup. It also tasted much like it, but even sweeter.

Maybe it was off brand, and Mr. Bubbles' familiar voice added again "not enough sodium."

I tried the police. They put me on hold. For three hours. When someone finally picked up, they whispered, "You shouldn't have called." and hung up.

That night, the same voice the warned me about the pizza spoke, clear as day:"They're coming for you."

Mr. Bubbles back fins were moving almost like he was dancing in triumph. 

I didn't sleep. I didn't blink. Every time I looked away from the tank, the furniture shifted an inch to the left.

On Friday, I woke to find him gone. The tank was filled with a thick, green gel that smelled like burning hair. I heard scratching from the bathroom. I opened the door and found him, halfway out of his goldfish costume, standing on two legs, peeling something orange and scaly off his body. Underneath was... not a fish. Not even close.

Small, yes.  About the size of my hand, no bigger than a hamster. But covered in slick, translucent skin that pulsed like it had veins on the outside. No eyes, just a slit of a mouth lined with tiny, spinning teeth.

It hissed and said, "The costume itches."

"I can only imagine," I agreed. 

I slammed the door. When I opened it again, he was just a goldfish.

I tried to tell people. My boss asked if I'd been taking my "medication." I don't have medication. My mother called and asked when I was "coming home from the facility." I don't live in a facility.

I called my sister to ask her, and she denied anything ever happening. The goldfish, a facility. My home. The cake she shared with me and told me tasted like ketchup. Then I said "I don't feel like myself," and she agreed, saying "I've never known yourself either."

The line cuts abruptly after that, and I cannot call anyone again for a whole week, before my mom calls again and asks when she can visit the facility and bring me my favorite salmon dish. In a hushed voice, while Mr. Bubbles looks at me, I tell her I don't eat fish.

She laughs, saying the facility changed me so much. I reply I don't live in one, but the thought of it being the truth starts dawning on me,

The walls here are white. They smell like lemons. Everyone wears the same blue clothes. Mr. Bubbles is gone all of a sudden. Or maybe he's in the nurse's office. Yes, the door in front of my house says "Dr. Thompson".

He tells me I've been here for months. I can't understand if they are referring to the time since I've moved here, or the time since I was admitted. A nurse starts checking on me, and she says she just next door.

"Do you live there?" I ask, still attempting to realize if she's a friendly neighbor, or a worker entrusted with my care. She laughs, telling me I should eat more fish.

I play along. I eat the food, even the fish, because Mr. Bubbles isn't looking at me anymore. I smile when the doctor from across the hall asks how I'm feeling. Because maybe they're part of it. Maybe this is exactly where he wanted me.

Today, they let me into the garden. There's a fountain there, full of koi. One of them swims in slow, perfect circles. Clockwise. Always clockwise.

The doctor says my paranoia is improving. He writes things in his notebook when he thinks I'm not looking. He has nice hands.

Too nice.

As he steps out of the room, I swear I see his arm twist, and become longer than my whole body, but the door is shut, and I am left with nothing but another paranoia.

My sister calls one day, telling me she got me a fish for my birthday. It's called Mr. Bubbles. When I look at the aquarium, I see a fish swimming in perfect circles, clockwise.

Clockwise.

Clockwise.

Until I realize I am the one pacing clockwise. I read somewhere that's a sign of stress, but mom always said that fish don't have feelings, so somebody's lying.

I look around, and the water around me are turning red, and there's the taste of ketchup again, it's sweeter, yes, but suddenly I feel what the sweeteners are hiding.

It's blood. And it's everywhere.