The Mould

While his neighbour shouts at the other little kids playing in the street outside, Donnie Junior reaches into his toy chest and takes out another toy. A plastic tractor.

Amidst the action figures, metal cars, wooden cubes, skipping rope, odd socks and Lego, Donnie discovers something out of the ordinary. He finds an empty mug. It’s his own mug; he recognises it instantly because it has the Batman logo on it. He peers inside with his beady, green eyes, and discovers some dark residue in the bottom of it.

Mould.

Donnie Junior turns his nose up at it. In his little dungarees and strands of hair stained with blue from when he had done painting earlier, he races downstairs to the kitchen. He uses a stool to stand on, and he pours some water into the mug from the sink. When he’s finished, he climbs up onto the counter and opens one of the cupboards up. The one with all the clean mugs inside. He slides his Batman mug right to the back.

He returns to his room to continue playing. He listens again to his neighbour, grumpy old Mr Cotton, yelling at the kids whose ball has now accidentally landed on his lawn. Mr Cotton is always outside washing his car on the driveway. And he is always yelling at the kids. Donnie Junior hates him, and it’s the reason he plays indoors now.

A week goes by and Donnie forgets all about his Batman mug. He wakes up one morning much earlier than his parents. Eager to please them, he decides to make them both a coffee. And maybe a small cup for himself, seen as he’s grown up enough to boil the kettle.

Donnie uses the stool from before to climb up onto the counter, opens the cupboard, and reaches for his Batman mug at the back. With the mug in his hand, he glances inside, almost automatically, and gives a little yelp, almost dropping the mug.

He blinks. Terror rattling around in him.

He peeks inside the mug again. The black mould is still in there, but now it has grown two eyes and a tiny red mouth. The mould is panting like a dog. It peers up at Donnie with its tiny little red eyes, and says in a creaky voice: “What’re you looking at?”

Donnie cries out again and drops the mug. It breaks. Pieces of ceramic shoot across the tiled floor. The mould creeps out of one of the broken pieces, like a slug, and it fixes its fiery eyes on Donnie.

“Now look what you did! You just destroyed my house!”

Donnie, still blinking, puzzled and terrified, says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!”

The black mould slithers away. “I have to find somewhere else to live now, you silly boy.”

Donnie’s terror dissolves into guilt. He steps in front of the mould and says, “I really am sorry. You just scared me. That’s all. Please don’t be mad at me. I can find you a new place to live.”

The eyes of the mould roll over Donnie, its tiny pink tongue sticking out of its black mouth. “Oh really? Where?”

Donnie points to the ceiling. “Upstairs. I have a toy chest. I have lots of cars in there, and trucks. Maybe you can live in there.”

The mould seems to vibrate. It takes Donnie a second to realise he’s dancing, happy.

“Oh goody! I’d love to go back up there. That was my favourite place before you put me at the back of the cupboard.”

Donnie smiles. “Okay then. Jump on my hand and I’ll take you upstairs.” He lowers his palm to the floor and the mould slithers up onto it.

Carefully, Donnie brings him upstairs, making sure to stay quiet. Thankfully his parents hadn’t heard the noise from earlier. Donnie strides across his room and tucks the mould inside the toy chest.

“What’s that noise?” asks the mould. “I’ve heard it before.”

“Oh. That’s Mr Cotton. He’s probably washing his car again. He's really moody all the time."

The mould gurgles. “He sounds horrible.”

Donnie agrees. The mould thanks him and Donnie closes the lid.

Another week goes by and whenever Donnie checks on the mould, he finds it has gotten bigger.

“You’ve grown so much,” Donnie says. And the mould giggles and vibrates, dancing again in glee.

“Yes,” it replies. “I feel so much better without being confined to that mug.”

After a while, as most kids do, Donnie stops bothering to look at the mould, and even begins avoiding his toy chest altogether. He's terrified about how big the mould is getting. After a month, Donnie and his family go away to visit his grandparents. Two weeks they’re gone. On the way back, Donnie is eager to get home and play in his room. He might even check on the mould and see if its still happy being in the chest.

He follows his parents up the pathway to the front door. Mr Cotton is spraying down his car with a hose and when Donnie’s parents wave at him, the old man doesn’t wave back.

His father opens the door with his keys. The family step inside.

Donnie's mother screams.

The whole house is covered top to bottom in mould. The wallpaper is peeling off. The carpet is rotten. The furniture is soft and melting into the carpet. And the whole place reeks to the high heavens of rotten eggs and cabbage. While his parents cry and yell at each other, insisting they call pest control, or a radioactive crew, or even a goddamn priest, Donnie rushes upstairs to his room which he discovers to have the worst of the mould. Two eyeballs sit on his ceiling. He recognises the red beady eyes instantly.

“Look what you did to my house!” Donnie cries to the mould. "You've made a big mess my mum will have to clean up."

“I did what I was supposed to do,” replies the mould. “I don’t know what else you expected of me.”

Donnie stomps his feet. “I gave you a home inside my chest and then you ruined my home! And you made my mom and dad upset! I was so kind to you! Why have you done this?”

The mould gurgles sadly. “I’m sorry. But where am I supposed to go? I have to live somewhere!”

Donnie wipes his face, thinking. Then he grins and says to the mould. “I have an idea.”

Donnie scoops up a bit of the mould. Two eyes appear on it - pop! pop! - and then the mould is peeking up at him with a curious red smile.

“Where are you taking me?” it asks.

“To a new home. It’s much nicer.”

Downstairs and outside, Donnie wiggles up to Mr Cotton. His parents are rushing around outside on the phone, yelling and shouting about the mould.

“What’s going on?” demands Mr Cotton, his face forever in a scowl.

“There’s mould everywhere,” Donnie says. “I think it’s spreading from house to house.”

Mr Cotton’s wild eyes turn even wilder; he turns off the hose and rushes up to Donnie’s parents, demanding to know if what their son had said is true. While he’s gone, Donnie opens Mr Cotton’s car door and sticks the mould in the cup holder.

“How’s that?” Donnie asks.

The mould purrs and vibrates. “Very comfortable. And gosh, it’s so clean! I love it.”

Donnie then waves goodbye to the mould and closes the car door.