Harriet Langley had a routine. Tea before teeth. Shower before emails. And a good five minutes of quiet contemplation in the downstairs bathroom before facing her inbox. She called it her "sanity stop." Her husband called it "weirdly ceremonial." Either way, it worked—until Tuesday morning, when the routine broke.
It had rained heavily the night before. The garden was soggy, the gutters dripping, but inside, everything seemed normal. Harriet padded across the tile floor, brushing her teeth with one hand and scrolling headlines with the other. She barely glanced at the toilet as she lifted the lid.
Then paused.
There was… something inside.
Not paper. Not water-stained debris. Something long. Coiled. Still.
She leaned closer.
And then it moved.
A ripple. A shift. A sound that wasn't quite a splash—more like the silk-rubbed slide of something alive. She dropped her toothbrush straight into the sink and stepped back, mouth foaming, eyes wide.
There, just breaching the bowl's surface, was the unmistakable glisten of scales.
When the Routine Bites Back
Harriet didn't scream. She couldn't. Her jaw was frozen halfway open, toothpaste dripping down her chin. The snake was already curling upward, slow and deliberately, as if annoyed at being disturbed. It wasn't massive—not movie-scene massive—but it was long, thick, and real enough to turn her blood to ice.
She fumbled for her phone but knocked it to the floor. The screen blinked out. There was no time to panic or Google "snake in the toilet what to do."
Instead, she did what no one in a thriller novel would ever do—she slammed the lid shut.
And sat on it.
Full weight. Knees locked. Heart pounding.
The porcelain trembled beneath her. Once. Twice. A muffled bump. Then nothing.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty. The silence was worse than the noise. Was it waiting? Was it gone? Was she sitting on a toilet with a live snake inside and still unsure if this was better or worse than skipping coffee?
Finally, she shouted for her husband.
When he opened the door and saw her perched like a shaken gargoyle on the toilet seat, he laughed—until she said the word snake.
They called the council. The snake catcher arrived within the hour, cheerful and unbothered.
"Common thing after rain," he said, lifting the lid with a gloved hand. "They swim up through the pipes sometimes. Get cozy in tight spaces."
"Cozy?" Harriet echoed, pale.
He reached in with a hook and lifted the culprit—a red-bellied black snake, agitated but unharmed.
"It's not venomous," he added, a little too casually.
She didn't ask for details. After sealing the lid with duct tape for three days, she started using the guest bathroom.
Her husband swapped the paper every week after that, just in case.
And Harriet added one final step to her morning routine:
Always check the bowl.