All Of Them (Sneaky Flash Fiction #5)

Back with the Fictionistas and their epic story suggestions - a tasty horror morsel for you

PROMPT: Write a story about a character who has an epiphany while doing a mundane, everyday task.

Wipe. Rinse. Drain. Repeat.

Then—

Witches. All of them witches. Had to be.

Christie could think of no other explanation. The hotel ballroom must have been invaded by a populous coven, a gathering of the kind of pissed off half sisters who show up at christenings and weddings and make it all about them with familial curses and redacted astrology charts. Hence the endless dirty dishes wheeled to Christie’s sink by the roboservers, spackled with concretized red sauce and leathery spinach. The ballroom seated 800 max, yet Christie felt she’d already washed triple that number of sticky plates.

Christie’s fingers swelled inside the rubber gloves. But she was grateful for the work, so she kept at it. It was rare these days to be able to exchange labor for a little credit, rather than donating chunks of her internal organs. Lucky for her these dinner guests insisted on the finest china, hand-painted designs and gilt edges. Fragile cups, bowls, and plates that could not be made by robots nor, as it turned out, washed by them. The glimmering porcelain needed a human caress.

Her back twinged. Time to step away, do some stretches. She glanced up at the bulging eye of the surveillance camera. It wasn’t blinking. Was it even on? Did they even care? She waved at it, held up five fingers, pointed at the back door. Nil response, but the thought of a few gulps of sweet sweet maintenance alley air was irresistible. She tucked her rubber gloves into her waistband and headed for the exit, dodging the approaching roboservers. They would keep coming, oblivious to her presence or absence.

Christie was unprepared for how cold it was. Out here, she could feel the damp seeped into every layer of her clothing. A steamy kitchen does that to you. She shivered.

”Darling,” said a gravelly voice from the darkness. “Take this, please.”

Christie found herself enveloped by a soft woolen shawl. It heated through the clammy surface of her skin down to the meat of her bones. Her backache faded. She felt alive, even. Warmed to her core, blood flowed to parts of her body that had been numb for months. Not just alive, awake.

A woman, neither old nor young, stepped from the shadows. A red smile that could curve into approval or a cruel lipstick streak. Long Titian hair, a black velvet gown, spindly fingers. “Don’t tell me you were—working in there? How barbaric! I thought we’d left such exploitation behind us.”

”Robots and porcelain don’t play well together”.

“They trusted you with the Meissen? It’s priceless. What if you dropped it?”

“I didn’t.”

“Not a single saucer?”

“Not one.”

The woman stared at Christie. “Then you must be quite special. Come with me.”

The woman led her along the alley, past all the service entrances and around to the grand front lobby. Somehow, along the way, Christie was no longer damp. Her kitchen whites billowed around her legs, no longer pants, but a dress, no longer cotton, but silk. Her clunky clogs flattened and pointed into dancing slippers, her hair unfurled from its bun by itself and cascaded down her back, lusher than it had ever been. For the first time in her life, Christie felt glamorous.

The woman led her through the golden doors, across the obsidian marble, and into the ballroom.

Mayhem. Raucous, lascivious, outrageous mayhem, the guests alike in splendor and intoxication. Dinner done, they rotated between tables, ruby wine and tawny bosoms spilling, bow ties dangling, anticipation peaking for the evening’s main event.

The woman stashed Christie at the side of the stage. “Stay here until I call you,” she said, then stepped up to the podium. “My loves, the time has come to present your champions.”

Christie watched as a number of people left their tables and made their way to the stage. They looked as somnambulistic as she felt, lined up in a row. The woman beckoned her to join the end.

“Yes,” said the woman, “I have my own skin in the game this year. Please make Christie feel welcome.”

There was a mocking edge to the catcalls. Christie didn’t feel so warm and cozy any more. She didn’t remember telling the woman her name.

”And so to this year’s challenge,” said the woman, raising both velvety arms aloft.

The air directly in front of Christie hazed, then solidified into a stainless steel sink, identical to the one she had walked away from a lifetime ago, filled with the same sudsy water. Beside it, a teetering stack of fine china.

A voice in the crowd. ”A dishwashing competition? Seriously?”

”I am the host. It’s my choice. The rules are simple. You break a plate, you lose. And—begin!”

Christie pulled on her gloves and set to work. The bubbles and warm water made her feel like she was back in reality. Wipe. Rinse. Drain. Repeat. Nothing mattered but the delicate porcelain discs. She shut out the ululating crowd, who yowled every time one of her competitors pulled a cracked, or even bisected plate from their sink. Those unfortunates were dragged offstage onto the ballroom floor, where they were consumed by the throng.

It could have been minutes, or hours, but Christie looked up to find herself the last one standing. She took a step back from her sink and it vanished. The woman took her arm and raised it, to a paroxysm from the spectators. 

“What have I won?” Said Christie.

”Freedom, if you choose, “ said the woman.

Christie looked out across the ballroom, at the greedy grinning mouths of the people, who she now realized were not people at all. Then she looked at the procession of roboservers, marching inexorable back towards the kitchen carrying the ragged remains of the losers. This was not witches.

But it was better than what she currently was. She removed her rubber gloves, for the very last time, and pulled her shirt away from her neck.

Vampires. All of them.

With acknowledgments to “More Than A Miracle” (AKA Cinderella Italian Style AKA Happily Ever After) 1967