Now, it was a standoff. Jasper was in his bathrobe, late for a shift at the bookstore, and the water was winning.
“Oh, for the love of…” Jasper nudged it with his toe. Nothing. Just a greasy film and the faint, sour smell of old soap and something else. Something deeper.
A long, dark rope of hair emerged, slick as an eel. Then another. But these weren’t his. They were far too long, with a strange, reddish tint. The previous tenant, he’d been told, was a man named Harold who’d worn tweed and collected stamps. Harold had been bald as a billiard ball.