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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TomWritesTrash on 2024-09-08 17:44:15+00:00.

Blood gets in the strangest places.

Under a rug, in a drawer, hell, I once pulled a chunk of brain matter out of a ceiling lamp. My point is, when you’re in the business of cleaning, you can’t leave a single stone unturned. All it takes is one thing out of place, one whiff of bleach, and the pigs’ll bring out the big guns; UV lamps, chemicals, swabs, and then the whole thing is fucked. Your client, your payday, your life: all gone cause you made one miniscule mistake.

I guess this is a story about that, kind of. A story of shit hitting a fan which was turned up to its highest speed, flinging the feces about the whole room. The word fuck getting fucked by fuck.

You might be wondering how someone even manages to get themselves in the position of cleaning up after other people’s dirty work.

Don’t.

All it takes is a single bad choice, one tiny misstep on the map of your morals. It’s certainly not something you seek out, not something you wake up and decide to do one day.

But none of that’s important.

I’m here to tell a story.

It started off routine, regular. A random message on my burner. Some guy heard my name from some other guy who knew a guy and so on. The way these things usually work. I gave him a call and from the panicked whispers on the other side of the line, I gathered that it was a domestic. An argument got out of hand and the girlfriend ended up with a knife in her throat.

It happens pretty often, more often than you’d think. A lot of guys out there snap like a dry twig the second their masculinity’s on the line.

Like I said, regular.

The scene was supposedly contained to the living room; hardwood floors, central rug, nothing too complex. An easy two grand for a night’s work. I instructed him to leave the scratch at the scene, toss the phone, leave the back door unlocked, and lay low at a hotel for a couple nights. He thanked me like a preacher praising God before cutting the line.

Snapping my burner, I grabbed a new package on the shelf and went through the monotony of activating it before sending a message to my regular clients so they’d have my new number.

I packed my things and hit the road; handheld UV, scrub brushes, nylon coveralls, body bag, and a couple gallons of what I call Magic Milk sitting in my duffle. The milk is a combination of chemicals I probably can’t name here, my own orchestra of compounds dangerous enough to melt skin if exposed directly. A couple wipes and what was once a red stain on the floor was now cleaner than a government grow lab; albeit, minus a layer of lacquer. So I carried some of that with me as well.

Like I said, no stone.

It was a longer drive, about an hour outside of the city, and it was teetering on midnight by the time I rolled into suburbia. I checked the address and pulled into a picturesque yellow cottage straight out of Better Homes Magazine. The fact a bachelor lived here surprised me, I would’ve guessed mid-30’s soccer mom.

That’s when it hit me, it wasn’t his house.

I sighed. These jobs had to be meticulous, perfect. If it had been the killer’s house, the cops wouldn’t have free reign over the crime scene since there was someone actively living in it.

But a soon to be missing girl? Her apartment would be chock full of pigs trying to sniff out a truffle. Now, I treat every job as if a whole precinct would be taking magnifying glasses to the place, but I still feel the added pressure. It’s not a job that gets less stressful over time.

I hopped out of my car, slung the duffle, and headed for the door as if I belonged. Looking confident is a sure way to stop potential witnesses from remembering a thing about you. As instructed, the back door swung open without a hitch. Good boy.

The scene would’ve made a fly gag. The body was there, sprawled across the floorboards, knife handle protruding from a bruised neck.

But the cat.

The fucking cat.

The little bastard had slid through the puddle of blood which haloed the poor girl’s head and painted a mural of gore all about the room. Streaks of blood weaved between furniture legs, under the sofa, on the sofa. The thing had wreaked havoc on the poor, country-style, interior.

And it was nowhere to be seen.

In a mild panic I began opening doors, careful to avoid any of the streaks. I didn’t need to be tracking more around the place. Not to mention I hadn’t even changed into my coveralls yet.

Into the dining room, through the kitchen, and into a small reading room I went until finally, I laid eyes on the little shit. I spotted a small kennel in the corner and, sliding on a pair of elbow high latex gloves, I approached the furry friend.

It stopped licking blood from its paws and looked up at me, eyes wide before letting out a tiny squeak and trying to rub up against me. I grabbed it before it had the chance, and carefully put it into the crate. Its lock was finicky, and didn’t feel too strong, but it’s not like the thing could burst out.

The job just went from one room to four. If I had a way to contact the fucker I’d demand more pay, but I knew he had probably already tossed the phone and disappeared. I could’ve left, but that’d get the dude caught and he’d most definitely try to take me down with him.

I was backed into a corner, fuming, pissed, angrier than a gay conservative. The only way forward was to clean.

I put in some earbuds, flicked on some Grandson, pulled on my suit, and got to work transferring the body and murder weapon into the black bag. She would go by the door until it was time to leave.

I took pictures of how the room was arranged, and moved all the furniture to one corner of the room. First step was rolling up the central rug and tossing it in a milk bath. Thankfully the girl had a ceramic tub otherwise it’d have to go in the sink bit by bit.

Next, I dabbed up the wet blood with paper towels, careful to avoid smearing it. The dried stuff would be cleaned shortly. I took toothpicks to every single crack and crevice between the floorboards, scraping up dried flakes of blood. Once the ‘pores’ were open, it was time for the milk. A whole gallon on the floor, squeegeed around everywhere to get into the cracks. It immediately brought up the dry blood and any stains that might’ve started to form.

Sopping up the milk with a whole roll of Bounty, I got to work hand washing every single board with a sponge and yet more milk. By the time I was done the floor had lightened a couple of shades. That was fine.

The leather couch was easy, just more paper towels and milk made it look brand new, and I rinsed it thoroughly with water to avoid taking any color out of the leather. If it has been a cloth couch, the whole thing would have to go in a milk bath or be reupholstered. I’ve had to do both.

While the floor and sofa dried, I took a lint roller to every single surface in the room, the only real defense against stray hairs of my client. I took off the vent covers and cleaned out all the dust, threw every dish that was visible into the dishwasher, then took the lint roller to the underside of any removable cushion. The legs of all the furniture would get some care, just in case the cat rubbed up against them. The doorknobs each got a wipe-down with a damp towel along with the arms of each chair and every other possible point for fingerprints.

When I was pleased with my work, I laid a layer of lacquer over the floor and started in on the dining room. It was the same process again and again and again until I saw the sun start to rise through the windows.

All things considered, I had a day or two before the police bothered doing a wellness check, but I’d rather not live in a murder victim’s house any longer than necessary. After finishing the dining room, I headed into the kitchen. The mess wasn’t near as bad here; just a trail of bloody paw-prints leading around the island to the reading room. I wouldn’t even have to move around furniture this time. I checked the countertops to make sure the rogue feline hadn’t run across them, and when I was happy with the results I took a step back to scan the room in full.

The stove was expensive from the looks of it, a flat, black top gleaming in the light from a low-hanging fixture. The refrigerator was equally nice, equipped with a touch screen which displayed the interior temperature. I swung the door open to look for a drink and almost had a coronary. The bottom and middle shelves were lined with mason jars, each one full of what at first appeared to be entrails. Human organs.

I took a closer look and felt my heart start beating regularly again. Various roots and leaves sat submerged in some kind of pickling agent, each jar containing a separate curiosity. I grabbed one at random and turned it in my hands. It appeared to be a bundle of Sandalwood, like the uncoated tips of hippie-shit incense sticks. Another had a tight knot of thin tendrils, taproot maybe. I set it back down and grabbed a soda from the top shelf. I was parched. I’d of course take the empty can with me once it was time to leave.

Closing the door, I scanned the room for the knife block. I’d have to clean and replace the murder weapon before I left; even the dumbest cop would note a missing knife. Spinning in a slow circle, I cracked open the can and scanned the room once more. Fancy microwave, chef-level mixer; this girl clearly enjoyed cooking. Finally I found the block perched beside a row of neatly stacked cutting boards. Two neat rows of pristine damascus knives glared…

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