I never thought I needed to wash my bath towel.

After all, I dry myself off with that towel after showering every day. That towel should be getting cleaner whenever I use it.

But it was starting to develop a bit of a funky smell.

And once or twice I thought I saw it move.

I never expected what happened this morning, though.

My head was covered in shampoo and I was squinting my eyes closed so that they wouldn’t sting if any soap dripped down into my vision.

I live alone, so it was shocking to hear a voice from just a foot or two away. The tone was high-pitched and helpful-sounding.

“Hi, friend! How’s it going!?”

Surprised and terrified at the idea of someone else being in the shower with me, I looked up, but saw nobody there.

Soap began to sting my eyes and my vision clouded with bright red pain.

“OW!” I cried out. The sting was agonizing like acid.

I’m gonna need to go back to Children’s Baby Shampoo, I thought to myself again.

“Ouch! That must burn! Looks like somebody needs a towel!” the childish voice giggled.

“Who’s there!?” I asked the empty shower.

“It’s me, Mr. Towel!”

By this point I had washed the soap out of my eyes and managed to blink them open to see my brown, unwashed towel was climbing down from the bar where it had been hanging. It seemed to be alive and I felt momentarily nauseated.

“How is this happening? You’re a towel!”

I had seen that episode of South Park, but thought such a thing happening in real life was impossible. I wondered briefly if someone had slipped psilocybin into my apple cinnamon oatmeal again.

“Here, let me help you,” the towel said, leaping like a cat into the air.

I recoiled in terror and almost slipped and cracked my head on the porcelain bathtub. But I regained my balance and felt the warm towel on my shoulders a second later. I stepped out onto the bathmat.

“See, isn’t that good? All nice and dry,” Mr. Towel said from around my shoulders. “Now, what do you have planned for us today? How about taking me outside? Maybe to Bed Bath and Beyond? Check out some hand towels? Huh? Maybe some washcloths?”

The towel was getting a little stiff. Maybe it was time for a new one…

“Y’know, Mr. Towel… It might be time to retire you from service. I don’t think towels are supposed to be able to talk or any of this!”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Mr. Towel tensed up and I felt him begin to wrap around my neck like a Boa Constrictor. Before I realized what was happening, he had locked himself around my windpipe.

The room grew darker as I tried to free myself.

And slowly ran out of air.

Blood sprayed as my head hit the floor tiles.

And Mr. Towel drank it up greedily.

Satisfied.

For now.