Sulfuric acid.

That’s what Mrs Thomasin was thinking about when the phone rang: sulfuric acid. She had heard somewhere, perhaps on the television, about a man—a killer—who had used the substance on his victims. The acid as she remembered it caused a sort of liquidity, dissolving the muscles in half a day.

She didn’t want to go that far, of course, but as she stared at the wall and the mess around the feet of the tub—scrubbing for hours had done nothing for the grime, and there appeared in fact to be more of it on each return—she wondered now if it would do and, with more urgency, where to procure such a thing.

Mrs Thomasin set the powdered cleanser on the floor beside the row of towels, next to the steel wool pad, and on the fourth ring she made it at last to the kitchen. The voice on the line, a woman’s, was stern; it may have been rambling for several minutes when she answered.

“—at Westville Elementary,” it said. “In regards to your children’s absence. Now, I’m not seeing a record of exemption, nor did we receive a call from you or your husband this morning that your children would be out. Are they ill?”

Mrs Thomasin thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, of course. They’ve been sick with fever, both of them. I simply forgot to call. I’m sorry. I’ve been very busy.”

“Will they be returning for school tomorrow?”

“They’ve been quite sick,” said Mrs Thomasin.

The voice on the other end said, not wishing to hide an impatience, “That may be, Mrs Thomasin, but you’re obligated to inform us when your children will be absent; and on any absence as well, such as today’s, you’re obligated, once they return, to send with them a note. That is, a doctor’s note, a note from the hospital, if you’re inclined to take them.”

“A hospital won’t do them any good,” Mrs Thomasin replied.

“Come again?”

“I simply mean their fever can be dealt with at home, by normal measures.”

“Right. Also, please understand,” the voice continued, “that three days of unexcused absences will only escalate the situation.”

“Escalate the—”

“Police, Mrs Thomasin, a check on the state of your kids.”

“They’re perfectly all right, only sick with fever,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with a little fever, is there?” She pulled the receiver back, away from her ear—the voice went on, but there was a knock at the door now, distracting Mrs Thomasin. She said, speaking towards the phone, “The police won’t be necessary, thank you.” Then, as though it had only occurred to her to ask, she put the phone calmly back to her ear. “Excuse me, are you still there? I’m terribly sorry to bother,” she said, the voice on the other end cutting off. “But I was wondering if you could help me. You must be a wife, see, and I have a bit of trouble at the moment. I’ve been cleaning all day, an abhorrent mess that is so stubborn, and it seems in fact to be growing in size. I was hoping to procure—well, where I could purchase—some sulfuric acid. It’s so stubborn, as I mentioned.”

There was another knock at the door; the postman, she guessed, frowning. That was the trouble with the postman, she told herself, he always showed at the wrong time; that he hadn’t a set schedule, or, if he were meant to, certainly never followed it. He would come around in the early morning, in the late afternoon, such as this one, when she was tired and busy; once, even, much later, when she and her husband were making love—knocking, and with a sort of mad violence, as though perfectly insane. And she thought that of course he was. Most people were, in a way. She knew doubtless that the postal service, especially in this town, was content with hiring almost anyone. So long as the mail (the small brown envelopes, the birthday cards) all arrived, the lunatics—anonymous—would remain.

“I could only say a hardware store, Mrs Thomasin,” said the voice on the line.

“A hardware store.”

“Yes, a hardware store. Or a chemist, if the mess is exceedingly mulish.”

“It is,” she said. “Quite mulish. Very much so, thank you. Good-bye.” Mrs Thomasin pulled the receiver back again, letting it rest between herself and the wall. The voice kept on and she let it go for another few seconds before hanging it up, expecting it to ring again but, now, there was nothing.

She made her way to the window in the family room and pulled the curtain slightly, rustling the shade with the tips of her fingers. The postman was out there, of course—Lewis, an impotent little man with a small and scraggly mustache. There was still much left to do: it was a quarter to three and she still had to buy the beef and the onions and carrots for dinner, and to go to the hardware store for the acid. She had to finish cleaning before sundown, when her husband would be home.

For a moment Mrs Thomasin thought not to answer, but it was a foolish idea, one laden with consequence, and she decided against it. She crossed to the front door and peered through the textured glass. Finally, opening the door, she stepped barefoot through the frame.

+

It was four o’clock when Mrs Thomasin made it home. By four-thirty the carrots, the sliced potatoes, as well as the pound of beef and the onions, were simmering in a crockpot near the stove. At a quarter to five, while seated on the edge of the bathtub, she removed the contents of the brown paper bag, placing both the gloves and the safety glasses carefully on the lid of the toilet. The young man at the hardware store had told her, “And you’ll want to buy yourself a mask, too, along with the goggles. You don’t want this stuff in your eyes.” Finally, she removed the bottle of sulfuric acid, read the back of the label, then set the bottle decisively at her feet.

How foolish of me, she thought, with an abrupt sense of dread, if I were to spill the solution on my skin. No doubt I would be disfigured; there’s no coming back from that at all. At this Mrs Thomasin stood, receipt in hand, and laid the receipt on the table next to the front door. She found an old sweater on the top of the rack of the hallway closet and, after quick review—the sweater was large, and suitable enough for the task—pulled it over her head.

There was a certain way—a quite specific way, she’d been told—to dilute sulfuric acid; the solution, improperly mixed, would boil in less than a minute.

Mrs Thomasin recalled this as she made her way into the kitchen. She located an empty bucket in the cabinet beneath the sink, filling it halfway with water. She set the bucket on the counter, next to the vegetable knife and, sure that her husband would read it, glanced at the newspaper on the table.

+

Mr Thomasin came home earlier than expected. It was not at the usual sundown. The sound of the front door, as she listened from the bathroom, startled her, the sound of its closing, and her husband’s footsteps as they plodded confidently towards the hall.

“Honey,” she heard him say. “Dear, are you home?”

On her hands and knees, she peaked through the crack of the door. “In a minute, dear,” she replied, attempting to remove her gloves. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“Honey,” he called again.

“One second, please.”

His shadow stopped at the table. “Letter here,” he said. “From your sister.”

She offered a quick, final review of the mess on the floor, then darted up to her feet. He was holding the letter in the air when she met him.

“You haven’t opened it,” he went on.

“No, not yet,” she said. “Hello, by the way.”

“Wonder what it says,” he answered, turning it in the light.

“The usual I would imagine. I hadn’t expected you so soon, I was—” She paused. He frowned as he looked her over. “What is it?” she asked.

“That sweater—”

“This,” she said, and examined herself in it. “I found it in the closet. I know it’s yours, and it’s far too big of a fit for me—”

“Are you all right, dear?” he asked.

She thought for a moment then said, “Oh, it isn’t so terrible. You’ll find me a bit strange for saying this, but—perhaps I’ve missed you is all,” she said, with a credible smile. “You’re gone all day; and the children, when they’re at school. I suppose it’s the isolation.”

He returned the smile and said, “Too quiet around here,” as he set the letter back on the table. His eyes fell to the receipt. “Hardware store,” he said blankly. “Safety glasses, a mask—”

Mrs Thomasin picked it up. “That’s what I was going to tell you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “And I bought a lightbulb as well; there’s a broken one in the bathroom. Let me take your coat, dear. You must be tired. Dinner is almost ready, and I’ve set the paper out for you to read; it’s in the kitchen.”

“Good,” he said, as she watched him go down the hall. “Do anything special today?” he asked. She placed the receipt in her pocket, then set the coat on the rack by the door.

When she went back into the kitchen, Mrs Thomasin noticed quite suddenly, as he sat there reading, that her husband was losing his hair. “Nothing special,” she said. “I went to the market. I cleaned.”

“I do love a spotless house,” he said, not regarding her.

“Yes, of course. I went to the hardware store, as you’ve noticed. Oh, and there were these awful neighbors.”

“Dinner ready?” he asked.

She poured the stew into a bowl and set it in on the placemat in front of him. He flipped one page of the newspaper, eyed the bowl, then smiled at her with a wink. “They were parked in front of our house,” she continued. “They were playing this loud music and—it was so terrible.”

“Who was?” he asked.

“The neighbors,” she said patiently.

“I see,” he said. “Should I speak with them?”

“No, I don’t think so. I imagine you won’t have to speak with them at all, in fact. Afterwards,” she said, “that’s when I went to the hardware store. I parked as far away from the others as I could, like you’ve always told me. Before that I talked with the postman.”

“Keeps the dents out,” he said. “Parking like that. It keeps things looking respectable. And that new wax has held up nicely; I noticed the dew beads were even this morning.”

“I got that letter, the one from Judy. But, of course—” She paused. A photo had caught her eye, on the bookshelf in the family room. It was from last Christmas, the four of them together—her husband in his severe gray suit; their two children, captured in the moment as though perfectly acceptable; and she, too, standing out against the light and empty background. Or was it her? she wondered. It didn’t look like her at all: the hair was far too curled; the eyes too bright and hopeful and the hands, from what she could tell, the right hand pressing between her daughter’s neck and shoulder, were too soft, too untouched, she told herself, by physical labor. Unlike her own hands, which were rough and calloused.

She took up the knife and studied her fingers in its reflection. “Did you know that you shouldn’t add water directly into sulfuric acid,” she said seriously. “It’s the other way around, in fact. It would boil, and possibly scald.”

“What’s that, dear?” he said, not looking up. “Something about the postman. How is Lewis, anyway?”

She turned to face her husband. “Well it’s just that—I believe there may be something wrong with him. He was fine at first; but now I’m not so sure. If he were completely normal—” she tightened her grip on the knife “—well you know I wouldn’t say anything. And he’s married, or he says he’s married, which is hard to believe, really. I can’t imagine a man such as him that way, being in love and all. Isn’t it funny? Isn’t it so strange,” she said. “To believe there may be something wrong with the postman?”

“You never can tell with people,” he said. “Not these days.”

“That’s right, you certainly can’t.”

“Lunatics out there. Deranged. Crazy is what they are. No, never can tell. Not one from another.” He folded the newspaper in half and looked up at her. “Say, how are the kids?”

“The school called.”

He rose and set his glasses on the table. “I’ll go check on them. Are they awake?”

“I’ve already put them down,” she replied.

He stepped away from the table and started, slowly, towards the hall. She followed behind him. “Later on, perhaps, I could take them out to the cinema,” he said in a serious manner. “A good film has always made them feel much better.” He opened the bedroom door. They went in.

+++

Cameron Kohuss is a horror writer from Texas. He later moved to California, earning a degree in Behavioral Science. His work, influenced by a love of psychology and the absurd, has appeared in Unstamatic Magazine, as well as Vol. 1, Issue Three of Crab Apple Literary. He can be found on X @CameronKohuss.