Horror - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. Dishwasher Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

DISHWASHER

Okay, so Beatrice hadn’t been an attentive mom since Barry died, but for the first time in her life she was living. Real deal living.

The rental house was dark and dingy. They’d move out of there in two months—sooner, if construction on the new house would hurry up. They’d come to town with bright eyes and bushy tails. Her mother had used that saying with her often, at least until Beatrice was weeks from sixteen and pregnant with the deacon’s son. She thought nothing untoward of her being fifteen when they met and his being forty-one.

Barry.

Bea shook her head gently, trying to rid herself of painful recognitions. She’d wasted twenty-six of the most important years of her life beneath the foot of a man with little brains and eyes that wandered in the presence of adolescent girls—something she’d told herself she never saw. And, sure, she’d had five beautiful kids. Four of them were out in the world; one of them, little Oliver-Oopsie she liked to call him in her head, was only eleven, and now her wingman. Motherhood was essential to Bea, but motherhood wasn’t all there was, not even close. She’d never even worked outside the home.

Barry’s death netted her a quarter-million in life insurance coverage. Enough to start new where nobody knew her or her history.

She scored a job at a flower shop. Had the rental house, and soon a new house. Most importantly, however, she had freedom.

“Where you going, baby?” the man said from the rented bed.

Bea switched on a lamp. She was on her knees, praying; she’d forgotten earlier when she and this man stumbled into the bedroom.

“You should go. I don’t want Oliver seeing you,” she said.

The man was a squinting fifty-something with a bowl belly and sparse black hair all over his body. He’d put on his boxer shorts and snuck out of the bedroom an hour ago to use the can. Bea had been asleep.

“I saw him, but he didn’t see me,” the man said, rising, bending to scoop up stringy grey socks from the floor.

“What do you mean?” Bea said, frown lines deep enough to demarcate the Rocky Mountains on a 3D map.

“I had to piss. He was in the kitchen. Sitting in front of the dishwasher. Didn’t even glance my way.”

Bea tutted. “Screw off,” she said, rising, tightening the rope on her bathrobe.

She was about to turn to visit Oliver in his bedroom, but she happened to glance into the kitchen. There, obscured by shadow but for his bare feet and boney ankles, was Oliver. He was sitting in front of the dishwasher.

She went to him and knelt by his side. Her hand went to his bare shoulder. Cold. Cold enough to suggest he’d been there a long time. “What are you doing? You sleepwalking?” she whispered.

He didn’t look her way.

“Sleepwalking,” she said.

Behind her, the man was heading for the door, fully dressed.

“Sorry I was curt. Will you carry my son to his bed. He’s sleepwalking.”

The man shrugged. He scooped the boy, his stiffness melting into the basket of the man’s arms.

—

“Mom, does The Bible really say marriage is forever?” Oliver said.

“Um, sort of, technically,” she said, stepping through the main door with an armload of groceries. “Why are you looking at the dishwasher?”

He was sitting as if watching TV and only shrugged at her question.

“Did you learn that at school?” she asked. She’d enrolled him as soon as she got to the new town, apologizing the morning of his first day—fifth grade—because he might be behind on everything but math.

“No,” he said.

“Oh, on the TV?”

She’d considered keeping up the child block on all but about four channels but had decided to pull the Band-Aid that had been Barry in a single, painful tear.

“No.”

Bea started putting dry goods into a cupboard. “Where then?”

“Larry, in the dishwasher.”

She stopped, signature frown creasing her forehead. She closed her eyes, working out possibilities. “Is it voices coming from another apartment?”

Oliver shook his head, sending his shiny brown bowl cut fanning outward like a poodle skirt at a dance off. His smile was huge. “It said marriage is forever; even if one side dies. It’s forever, even in Heaven.”

Bea leaned against the counter. “That’s how some people interpret it. Did they give you homework at school?”

He huffed through his nose. “I have to do quizzes to see where I stack. That’s what Mr. Principe said. He’s my homeroom teacher.” Oliver lowered his voice, as if conspiring. “He’s Jewish.”

Bea had to laugh. “That stuff’s all wrong. Your dad was wrong. He was wrong about everything. Other religions work for other people; nothing wrong with other kinds of Christianity, either.”

Oliver sighed. “That’s good because he’s real nice and they talk about all kinds of stuff and I got to go on a computer.”

This made Bea cringe. Everyone had devices, so she’d purchased one, but had only got as far as turning it on. She’d been raised with a great wariness toward electronics, and Barry had declared computers and cellphones windows for Satan.

“Maybe we’ll get you a computer.”

Oliver gasped, eyes wide as watermelons. “Really?”

“Yes. Best do your homework.”

—

“Jeepers!” Bea said, jumping a moment after flipping the light switch. She’d gone to the kitchen for a midnight drink. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

“Oliver!”

Bea knelt and grabbed his cool shoulder and began to shake. He didn’t react, so she yanked him, a growl playing out from behind her clenched teeth. He flopped forward, his head striking the black panel front of the dishwasher. He whiplashed his head back, coming to. He looked at his mother like he’d never seen her before that moment.

“What are you doing?” she said, the shaking becoming rubbing.

“Mom?” he said, his voice a hurt whisper. “Do you really let those men put their dirty penises in your vagina?”

“Who told you that!” The unexpected adultness of what he said staggered her.

“Larry,” he said, lowering his voice some. “He told me you wouldn’t believe, but it’s really him. He’s in the dishwasher.”

“Larry who?”

Oliver mumbled something Bea didn’t catch.

“Speak up.”

“Larry the Cucumber.”

“From Veggie Tales? Are you dreaming?” she said, squeezing his shoulder. “Wake up.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he said, but was again staring at the reflective black surface of the dishwasher.

“Go to bed. Stop screwing around with that thing; it hardly gets hot enough to work anyway.” She pulled him by the armpits until his feet were beneath him. “Probably I should demand a new one, but we’ll only be here a little bit longer. Then the new house will be ready.”

Oliver didn’t fuss, shuffling where he was guided, then up into his bed. On her way out of his room, Bea pulled the door closed. She headed back to the kitchen. As she sipped from a glass of tap water, she stared at the dishwasher.

“Hello?” she said, putting her ear to the hard metal panel at the front. She heard nothing, so she opened the door and tried again. “Hello?”

The dishwasher was halfway full of dirty dishes, none of them spoke. She guessed the upheaval of their lives was doing a number on Oliver. The only option available seemed to be prayer, so that’s what she did. She prayed, her butt on the cool linoleum floor, her hands teepeed before her.

—

Bea awoke on the couch with a tremendous hangover. She’d had a few too many last night; had almost gone home with a man named Jake…or maybe Jacques. Either way, the casual sex was becoming tedious, the novelty wearing thin. The drinking had to go next…though it was so much easier to socialize after a few.

She shook her head. New to freedom or not, she had responsibilities, and Oliver’s sudden obsession with the dishwasher was starting to feel like a hole in her rowboat. It was something that, if left ignored, would sink her.

“Oliver?” she said, hearing a strange clanking, rattling sound coming from the kitchen.

She followed the sound and found Oliver in the skinny alleyway that was the rental’s kitchen. He had the front panel off the dishwasher and was using tools—Barry had taught him tools; the man hadn’t been entirely useless.

“What are you doing?”

Oliver glanced at her from the corner of an eye. “Making it hot enough to clean away all the dirt.”

“Really?” she said. “Did your dad show you this…before he died?”

Oliver shook his head gently. “No. Larr—the dishwasher talked me through how.”

“Oh?” Bea’s heart was galloping. “What did it say.”

“It said, ‘I’ll talk you through. Nothing but a little fix.’ It wasn’t that easy, but I think I did it right. Now it will wash away all the dirt.” He lifted the panel and popped it home. He took up a ratcheting screwdriver. “Mom, is your brain dirty? From all the time spent out of the house? Away from a woman’s place?”

Bea rattled like a hockey card between bike spokes. “What? Where are you getting this?”

Oliver did not answer. Instead, he took a crusty casserole dish from the sink and popped it onto the bottom rack. “Let’s test it on this one. Bet it comes out cleaner, cleaner than clean.” He looked at his mother with naïve eleven-year-old eyes. “Cleaner than you.”

Unthinking, Bea stomped over to her son, reared back, and slapped his mouth. His top lip had cut on a tooth, and he licked at the wound, eyes full of tears.

—

Bea hadn’t meant to go out, but Jacques had stopped by with a bottle of fruity vodka and a jug of cranberry juice. Three drinks in, they went out, leaving Oliver to mind himself. When she stumbled back through the door, she cast a glance into the kitchen. Empty.

Thank goodness.

She’d almost invited Jacques home, but her brain reminded her that this was not being responsible. He tried to follow her anyway, but she said she’d call him, giving him a dry peck on the mouth.

—

Bea awoke to the sound of the dishwasher running. She kicked from bed, naked, and reached for her bathrobe.

“Mommy!”

The voice was deeply muffled, gargling, pained.

“Oliver?” she said, pulling on the robe as she charged out of the master bedroom. She held it together, the belt dragging like a wedding train behind her. She swatted at the light switch.

“Mommy!”

It was coming from inside the dishwasher.

“Oliver?” she said, yanking open the door.

A pink-hued steam cloud burst free, and she staggered backward. It smelled like barbeque. There, huddled up on the bottom rack, was Oliver. His flesh was oozing red sores and pink bubbles that rose and popped upon his curves as she watched. She reached in, ignoring how hot he was, hot enough to sting her palms. His flesh came away in matted chunks beneath her grip.

“Why? Why?” she moaned as more of his skin sloughed away like mounds of soft snow from a warm rooftop.

Oliver shook gently in her lap. “Was dirty…from you. Want to be…clean.” The final word came on a gasp, his eyes opening, his liquified eyeballs spilling from the shadowy orbits in chunky pink and red cream.

“Oliver!” she wailed, rocking back and forth.

“That’s what happens to girls who don’t mind their place,” the dishwasher said.

Bea snapped her head around. Though it wasn’t as it had been more recently, that voice was one she’d known a long, long time. It was the voice of a middle-aged deacon, before smoking had harshened his throat, before a faulty thyroid had let the pounds pack around his vocal cords.

“Barry?”

“Beatrice, your sins must be washed clean.”

She swallowed, her breaths hitching.

“You will accept this cleansing?” It sounded like a question but was clearly a command.

She nodded, as she always had at his demands, setting aside Oliver.

“Beatrice, you are my wife; you will do what you must.”

She yanked out the top shelf, then climbed into the dishwasher, leaving her puddled housecoat behind her.

“Dirty, dirty, dirty,” the dishwasher said.

On a slim fingernail grip, she closed the door far enough to latch. For three seconds, the water raining down upon her was merely hot. For another two it was scolding. It then came out in steam as much as water.

Her hair fell out all at once, including her eyebrows and lashes. Her skin came alive with humps and bumps and running rivers of natural defense fluids. None of which put up much defense against the molten putrescence that had become the dishwasher’s atmosphere. She did not scream, did not thrash; for her remaining nine seconds, she prayed for God to intervene, and as it had been for the first forty-seven years of her life, her prayers went unanswered.

—

“Does it still go?” Todd Williams asked when the dishwasher showed up at the recycling centre where he worked.

“Think so,” said the young man in coveralls dropping it off the back of a trailer loaded with funky linoleum, wonky cupboard doors, and a couple OSB counters full of damp bloat. “Some crazy lady used it to kill her kid, then herself; destroyed the whole kitchen with moisture.

The man frowned. His wife had been on him to replace their unit—a Maytag he’d purchased second hand a little shy of a decade ago.

“Well, the past ain’t the future, is it?” he said, knowing what his wife and seven kids didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. He could already imagine the thing in his home, could almost hear it demanding that he take it to his kitchen and hook it up, give it a whirl.

XX