By the time we’d run through every nightmare scenario — parasite, mutant mold, some kind of rotting animal part — the bathroom felt like a crime scene. My girlfriend kept asking if it was dangerous, if we should call someone, if it meant something was horribly wrong with the apartment. I tried to sound calm, but my skin was crawling every time I looked at it.
When we finally learned it was just a slime mold, harmless and weirdly common in damp places, the fear didn’t disappear instantly. Relief mixed with this lingering unease, like the world had quietly admitted it still had secrets hiding in plain sight. We cleaned it up, aired out the bathroom, laughed it off in that shaky way you do after a scare. But now, every time I step onto those tiles, I glance down — just to be sure nothing strange is quietly growing its way back.
