Steam Cleaner

Yes, I'd contemplate renting a steam cleaner - used steam effectively on the bmw pleather seats, on carpet used a aerosol moussing upholstery cleaner(w/toothbrush) for headliner steam would be good for comparatively delicate surface, ozone isn't going to remove any impregnated smoke oils/staining, steam might. (just do a trial bit to make sure headliner glue is stable)

... have a Westinghouse where the "steam" is simply a depression in .... Personally, I'm not bothered with steam cooking. As far as Pyrolytic ... need to find an oven cleaner that works, because you can't...

... abides the law of CS2, steam itself, needless to say my... record on CS2 is much cleaner than your 99% solution isopropyl...

... hybrid classes, evolution was something cleaner, something inevitable. A transformation of... shockwave through the ruined street. Steam burst from my skin as...

... codes, but I could see steam in the exhaust. Putting a... the valves with the brake cleaner trick..... If I find a...

...perfect glass cleaner but with slow pulls of the trigger to steam the...misty spray of the glass cleaner directly onto the towel. Hold ...leftover residue of the glass cleaner itself (which inevitably happens); the ...clear glass surface. Optional: Apply cleaner wax so that your glass ... inch lines of Meguiar’s cleaner wax (red bottle) on the ...glass just cleans with glass cleaner and will leave behind tiny ...

Hey everyone, I need some advice. I have red microsuede seats (OEM, not aftermarket), and unfortunately the front passenger seat got soaked with bodily fluid on Valentine’s Day. It’s visibly stained and I’m worried about odor and permanent damage. I haven’t touched it yet because I don’t want to set the stain or ruin the material. My questions: • Should I let it fully dry first or try to clean it while still fresh? • Is a steam cleaner safe on microsuede, or will it damage the fibers? • What products do you recommend? (enzyme cleaner? upholstery cleaner? specific brands?) • Any specific technique to avoid water marks or making it worse? I’ve attached photos for reference. I’d really appreciate any professional or experienced advice. These seats are in great condition otherwise and I want to restore them properly. submitted by /u/Fit_Language_2289 to r/AutoDetailing [link] [comments]

I recently bought a steam cleaner and decided to clean out my refrigerator today because it was gnawing at me. Sorry, no before and after on that. As I was wrapping up, my attention was turned to the drain plugs in my kitchen sink. Even though these are two separate plugs, this is effectively before and after I’ve tried to clean these things before with no success. I cannot extol the virtues of steam cleaning enough. submitted by /u/Newplasticactionhero to r/CleaningTips [link] [comments]

I cannot find the original person that commented to use Dawn Powerwash on my shower but wow I would give you all the awards. I like having a tidy and clean house but cleaning my shower always makes me want to just burn the house down and collect the insurance money. We have hard water in our house. I loathe cleaning the shower, with a passion. I have tried bleach, scrubbing bubbles, the pink stuff, scrub daddy products, vinegar and baking soda, a steam cleaner, various srubbers and attachments (so much so I actually think I wrecked the bottom plastic pan on the shower). DAWN POWERWASH, get it in the pear/light scent. HOLY GRAIL look at my shower y'all!!! I wish I took before pics but it was bad. Loads of soap grime all over the walls, hard water stains, and that nasty pink mould I can never remember how to spell. I still have more work to do on the bottom pan but my Lord, the rest of the shower took me 30 minutes to scrub it VERY well. I used a scrub daddy, small brush, microfiber cloth, warm water in a jug and a cotton towel to wipe everything down after squeegeeing. I will never use anything else. I did include a final shot of the bottom pan of the shower, if you zoom you can see how I've ruined the finish in spots :( submitted by /u/winnipeggremlin to r/CleaningTips [link] [comments]

I am still NOT the Original Poster. That is still EmpressoftheBakkhai. She posted in r/AmItheAsshole and commented an update on the first BORU. Previous BORU here. New Update marked with *****. Thanks to OOP herself who commented on the BORU and let me know about the update! Mood Spoiler: good ending Original Post: January 12, 2025 I (27F) have a strange living situation. I live with a family (Chris, 65M, Danielle, 59F, and their daughter) and do household chores in exchange for rent. I've lived here for 19 months; it's mostly smooth sailing. I work full-time and am applying to law school. Danielle has some issues with boundaries (she doesn't understand why she can’t enter my room w/o permission, for example), and I know it's both due to age differences and the fact that they allow me to live in their house for free. I have to be very careful when enforcing boundaries. Yesterday, I made dinner for everyone after a full day of chores. Around 10 pm, as I was finishing the dishes, Danielle told me I needed to steam clean the carpet in the living room because the cats had peed all over it. I did, and as I was putting the steam cleaner away, Danielle entered and said she wanted me to do another room. Because it was 10:30 at this point and I still wanted to work on an application before bed, I politely but firmly said, "I'm not going to do that." I probably should have said, "I'll do it tomorrow," but I was exhausted, so I just said no. I put the machine away, submitted my application, and went to bed. Tonight, as I was finishing up my meal prep for the week, Danielle cornered me in the kitchen. "I don't want to fight about this," she said, "But I wanted to mention something. Last night when you told me you weren't going to clean the other room, I found it rude. You should be careful when you say things like that at work so that you don't get fired." I was floored. I snapped, "Danielle, you haven't had a job since before I was born. You don't get to give me advice about how to act in the workplace." Danielle rolled her eyes and huffed, "See, I didn't want to fight about this," and walked out of the room. I called after her, "Then maybe don't bring it up?!?" Danielle hasn't spoken to me since, and I don't know what's coming. For context, Danielle has only had one job in her whole life, from age 22 to age 25. After that, she quit to raise kids. I grew up very poor. I have been working since I was 14 and supporting myself since I turned 18. They offered to start our arrangement in 2023 because they needed help around the house and I was struggling financially. As for Danielle's work advice, I currently work as a Regional Manager at a small firm. Not only is her advice outdated, but I can't take it. I'm a people manager; a lot of my day-to-day job involves being polite but unyielding. I think she was frustrated by my setting a boundary and that's why she brought it up. I know part of my frustration is that I feel powerless to protest most of the time. I will be moving out in August of this year when I go to law school (hopefully!), and my goal is just to make it until then. I'm also really frustrated that Danielle felt like she could say whatever she wanted and then walk away as if I had no right to feel anything. AITA for what I said? Some of OOP's Comments: Commenter: INFO: Do you have a rental agreement IN WRITING? Work exchange needs to be clearly defined, including but not limited to: hours, availability, no contact places/times, tasks, etc. Someone who’s demanding you steam clean 2 rooms at 10:30pm is highly suspect. ‘Chores’ is too often seen as ‘women’s work’, aka UNDERVALUED & UNPAID Invisible Labour. However, Invisible Labour done by women is incredibly expensive both in cost & time, aka you may well be doing more than would cover the cost of your rent. Also, I’m inferring from your post that you’re most likely downplaying their ‘requests’. OOP: There is no agreement in writing. I have tried to bring this up on previous occasions because of Danielle's difficulty with boundaries and the sheer amount of work that I do, but it is not taken well. Danielle and Chris are very insistent that I am NOT their tenant and that they are NOT my landlords; I am their "guest." Danielle is also very insistent that she does not want to be called my boss or supervisor in any capacity. To answer other comments here as well, my current position does not pay enough for me to live on my own. I realize that the situation is probably predatory, but because there are only eight months left of this, I plan to just stick it out. It has saved me a lot of money, and I'm thankful for that. Top Commenter: YTA. Not for saying no, but for how you said it. You were not polite. Also, Danielle is not your housemate, she and her husband are your landlords/bosses. You may not be paying rent, but you are paying by being live in help. So, when you told Danielle "I won't be doing that", instead of I'll do it tomorrow. You were rude......to your boss. Also, her advice wasn't outdated, if your spoke to your supervisor at your job that way, there would definitely be a follow up conversation about your choice of words. OOP: (downvoted): Danielle and Chris are very insistent that I am not their employee or tenant and that they are not my bosses or landlords; I am their "guest," and they are doing this "out of the goodness of their hearts." Commenter (downvoted): Definitely NTA and good for you. May I ask how you came to live with this family though? Are they related? Why are you bothering with all this weird ass shit and her bossing you around? OOP: They're actually my best friend's parents. He suggested the arrangement because he knew I needed help; when I moved in I was a teacher and struggling to afford a studio apartment. Since I moved in, I changed careers and decided I wanted to pursue law school. I took the LSAT three times last year on top of all this. I can count on one hand the number of times I've refused a request - I've bleached the showers after midnight, rose at 5am to make requested meals before work, and other things like that without protesting. I see this as an opportunity to make my life better in the long-term while surviving short-term. I just wanted to say no this time because, truthfully, I physically couldn't handle fulfilling the request. Danielle was insistent it had to be done immediately because they wanted to go to bed at 11pm but I just couldn't do it. OOP is voted YTA Mini Update in Comments January 13, 2025 (Next Day) I was voted the asshole, which I understand. What I do adds up to about $2000 per month if you go by the standard of $20/hr, or about 100 hours/month. Most of those hours are concentrated on weekends and 2-3 evenings per week (I make enough food that there are leftovers so I can have a couple of nights off). Included in those hours is a lot of care for their adult daughter who lives with us and is disabled. If I babysit the house pets while the housemates go on vacation, which happens a lot, I charge a $20/day stipend. We have two dogs, three cats, a gecko, and some fish. One of the cats is mine; this is why I cleaned the carpet without protest, because it’s just as likely the piss was his as any of the other cats. I’ve said no to requests three times in 19 months, and each time has been met with pushback like this. All three were due to the time of night they were asked. A lot have called this a form of modern-day slavery, and I see where you’re coming from. I’ve been fine with the situation remaining largely undefined because even when I protest at chores, I haven’t been threatened with “eviction.” I entered into this situation at a time when I was overwhelmed and desperate. It might be predatory, but it was the best opportunity I had. I could have protected myself better going in. As to why I stay in it, it’s because there’s an end date in sight and it will set me up well to keep funneling money into savings for the next few months. If I were “evicted,” it would suck but I would be fine. It’s not ideal but it works. I recognize that I should have worded my response better than I did at the time. However, I do want to push back on the idea that I have to do everything they say because they own the house. If a boss demands overtime from me that’s not previously agreed on, I am allowed to say no, and I have done it many times without affecting my employment whatsoever. In fact, my current boss, who I’ve done this with the most (often using the same wording as here), wrote me an excellent letter of recommendation for law school. Times have changed since the 1980’s, and saying no to bad demands is becoming more and more acceptable. What she meant when she said, "You should be careful when you say things like that at work," was that I shouldn't be assertive at all in a situation where I am a subordinate, which I very much think is outdated advice. I was not invalidating the difficult work of raising a family that Danielle did. I would not dream of offering someone else parenting advice because I haven’t been in their shoes. Hypothetically, if the last time I had raised a child was 30 years ago, I also wouldn’t give advice on raising a kid in the iPad generation. Danielle should not be doing the same to me about work. She is not my professional boss. She has never worked in my field. She knows that she is not my landlady either; if she were, there would be a whole lot of rules she would need to respect that she doesn’t want to (such as entering my room without notice). Again, because I am getting some benefit from the situation, I don’t and won’t threaten legal action here, because I have enough documentation to protect myself. In addition, Chris, Danielle, and I all have personal stakes involved in this going well – we have a ton of mutual friends, one of whom is their son and my best friend. Danielle and Chris have some chronic illnesses that make housework hard for them, so they are also getting a lot out of this situation. I plan to apologize and smooth things over. I will follow much of the advice mentioned here about protecting myself better moving forward. Perhaps naively, I hope this will end well. Danielle and I actually get along very well most of the time; we don't hate each other by any means, and we both ultimately want to see the other happy. That's why this has worked for so long. To everyone who says that this situation proves I don’t have what it takes to be a lawyer, don’t worry—you will probably never be my client. Update (Same Post): January 14, 2025 (2 days from OG post) UPDATE: First, as an aside, a lot of the comments here missed the point. Danielle was not angry with me for refusing to do an additional chore at 10:30pm; that was not the issue. Even by the most generous of understandings, demanding additional overtime work at the end of a 14-hour shift is unreasonable, and she knew that. During our follow-up discussion, she added a detail I had totally forgotten about – the second room in question has a large potted Fiddle-Leaf Fig tree in it, and in order to steam clean the additional room, the tree needs to be moved. Neither she or I were able to move it after multiple attempts, so at that point I said, “Until Chris and I can figure out a way to move this, the steam cleaning will have to wait. I know you want it done tonight, but I will not be doing that.” Very important context that I missed adding when I was angry. The issue in question was the exchange the next day. As to how I responded the second day when she came to confront me on my wording, for that, I understand now that I was absolutely the asshole. As one of my close friends put it to me, “Those are inside thoughts.” My context about her work history was also unnecessary and irrelevant. Last night, I approached Danielle and opened the conversation with a profuse apology. No qualifiers, no protests, just that I was rude during our kitchen conversation and I needed to apologize. She in turn immediately apologized for her incredibly poor introduction to the follow-up conversation and for cornering me in the kitchen while I was otherwise occupied instead of meeting with me at a more neutral time. Chris then joined us and we had an extensive conversation. During the conversation, I asked them to define how they view our arrangement. They were immediately very clear that they don’t see me as a tenant, employee, or servant. I pointed out that if that is how they want to view things, then I need to be free to say no extra requests. They were receptive to this. I also pointed out that in our state, I could either be considered a tenant or a live-in domestic worker, but due to the length of time I’ve resided here and the conditions in place, I am definitely not considered just a guest. They did get offended that I see our relationship as fundamentally a transaction, which I found kind of funny, because while they have the freedom to frame it in their minds as “we’re helping this person out and she’s helping us out,” it’s wise for me to see it differently. I do have obligations to them and my life has substantially larger implications should this not work out. In the end, they agreed that because they aren’t landlords and I am not their employee (in their minds), I should be receiving more freedom than I have been given. Chris and Danielle have chronic illnesses that make most of the work I do very difficult for them, including a lot of the care I provide for their adult daughter who lives with us. We then outlined (again) exactly what my responsibilities are and what they’re not. Finally, to my surprise, they apologized for previous invasions of privacy and agreed that we would put a lock on my room door. It is an interior lock only so I can’t lock it while I’m gone, but I am fine with the progress. I was never threatened with eviction or anything like that; people can be emotionally mature enough to talk through issues instead of immediately pulling a metaphorical trigger, which is what happened here. After the conversation, I typed out a long email detailing the terms of my living here as it currently stands and had them send a confirmation in reply. While it is not officially a lease, it is something in writing outlining responsibilities that was agreed to by all parties. We agreed that my monthly hours would be reduced to 80 instead of the roughly 100 I have been doing. If the value of that is calculated according to the federal minimum wage, that’s a value of $580 every four weeks, which is more than most rooms-for-rent are in our area. Of course, the labor I do is somewhat skilled and has a market value of at least double, but I used the federal minimum wage for the sake of argument. I also established that the latest I would be available for housework is 9:30pm, barring some form of emergency, and if a task absolutely requires going past that time, I will be taking that time back on a different day. I know that I will laugh at this in Contracts class in the future, but for now, I’m fine with what it is. Like I said in a comment, it’s not ideal but it works. I’m not in a position where I desperately need this anymore, but I’m going to stay here until August because being able to funnel what otherwise would be paid in rent into savings is doing wonders to set me up for the future. To everyone that commented something along the lines of “You have to do everything she says” or “You’re the help” or “You’re entitled,” I encourage you to think about that perspective more. Employees, household help, and any people in a subordinate position are still very much an individual and deserving of basic respect to their space, their time, and their person. No laws, no matter how extensive, take those basic rights away. Also, if you said it was my “fault” for being in the situation in the first place, kick rocks. We are all working through our own situations where we pick the best option available even if it isn’t perfect. That’s not weakness or stupidity, that’s life. New Update *****Update Post: January 21, 2026 (1 year later)****\* I moved out of Chris and Danielle's house six months ago. We didn't have any more conflicts nearly as big as the one described in the original post. I was frustrated and under a lot of pressure at the time, so I was definitely unnecessarily verbose in the first post; my bad! Reddit was one of my only outlets and I got a little preachy. Sorry about that! I'm glad I apologized. It's a nuanced situation and I don't think my perspective was "wrong," but like...it doesn't matter and I'm glad I kept the peace. Things ended on good terms. I moved out as planned in August. Danielle actually co-signed my current apartment lease as a final act of kindness! I do have to laugh at my past self for entering into that weird living situation. Now that I've taken a Contracts class, I would never do that again, or at least not without putting terms in writing first. I don't fault myself, though; poverty is a tough place to be and I was desperate. I met Danielle for lunch last week, and we caught up on life. They haven't really changed their entitled attitudes, but that's none of my business, so, I just smile and wave and move on. Their son is still my bestie for all time! submitted by

I’m looking for a great steam cleaner for home use something that’s powerful, easy to use, and actually makes cleaning faster and better. The options are wildly overwhelming with all the different models, attachments, tank sizes, and features out there. I’m open to splurging if it’s worth it, but I also want budget-friendly options that actually get the job done. I’ve seen a bunch of brands like Dupray, Bissell, McCulloch, Shark, and Wagner mentioned, but honestly I trust real experiences over ads. If you’ve tried one and loved it or regretted buying it I’d really appreciate the honest take. submitted by /u/MollyChase9091 to r/CleaningTips [link] [comments]

My name is Micali. I’m fifty-two years old, and I’ve spent the better part of my life erasing the worst moments of other people's lives. I’m a technician for BioClean Solutions, a company specializing in "biological risk remediation." That’s just a fancy term for saying we are the janitors of hell. When the police finish their forensics and the coroner takes the body away, we go in. We clean up the blood, the bodily fluids, the bone fragments, and the brain matter stuck to the walls and furniture. We sort of make the place "livable" again so the family can sell the house and try to forget that Dad killed Mom at the dinner table. It’s a job that pays well. Very well. You don’t see job postings for this kind of work just anywhere. It requires a specific type of emotional detachment. You need to look at a bloodstain on the carpet and not see a tragedy; you need to see a protein that requires a specific enzyme to be broken down. I don’t use tablets, I don’t use drones, I don’t use digital UV lights. My work is manual, chemical, and solitary. Mop, industrial enzymes, hydrogen peroxide, and thick red bags. I like the silence. I like the methodical repetition of turning red chaos into a clean, sterile floor. There are unwritten rules in our profession, passed down from veteran to rookie like campfire tales. Don’t take anything home. Don’t look at the picture frames (seeing the happy faces makes the blood on the floor unbearably sad). And the oldest one of all: If the landline rings, let it ring. Houses where violent deaths occurred are like bells that have been struck hard; they continue to vibrate long after the sound has stopped. The air is dense. The electricity is unstable. And the phones... well, there are still people with landlines in their homes, and sometimes the person calling doesn’t know there’s no one left to answer. Last Tuesday, I was called to the Vales Residence. It was an old mansion, colonial style, isolated at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by tall eucalyptus trees that blocked the sun even at noon. The crime had been brutal. A robbery-homicide that happened three days prior. The victim, an elderly lady named Helena, lived alone. The police had already released the scene. The body was gone. Only the "mess" remained. I parked my old van on the gravel. The silence of the place was absolute. No birds, no crickets. Just the wind making the eucalyptus leaves whisper like muffled voices. I put on my gear on the porch. The white Tyvek suit, the thick rubber gloves, the boots, the full-face respirator mask with activated charcoal filters. I looked like an astronaut lost on a hostile planet. I went inside. The house was a time capsule. Dark solid wood furniture, heavy velvet curtains, Persian rugs. And the smell... the metallic tang of blood was there, strong, fighting against the scent of lavender and floor wax. The "incident" occurred in the music room at the back of the house. I walked down the long hallway, my boots making a muffled thud on the hardwood floor. I opened the double doors to the music room. It was a devastating scene. There was a grand piano in the corner. Shelves with sheet music scattered everywhere. And in the center of the beige rug, a dark stain—dry at the edges, but still viscous in the center where the pool had been deeper. There were drag marks leading from the piano to the broken window. I took a deep breath, the filtered air entering my lungs cold. "Let's get this over with," I muttered. I started the routine. First, remove the glass shards from the broken window. Then, cut and remove the part of the rug that was unsalvageable. Finally, treat the hardwood that had absorbed the blood. I worked for two hours in silence. The sun began to set, dyeing the room a melancholic orange. The shadows of the furniture elongated, looking like stretched fingers trying to touch the stain on the floor. I was on my knees, scrubbing the floorboards with a stiff-bristled brush, when I felt it. A sudden drop in temperature. It wasn't a draft. It was as if someone had opened a freezer door right behind my back. The sweat inside my suit froze instantly. I gripped the brush. My instincts screamed. I raised my head. The room was empty. But it felt... full. The dust motes dancing in the rays of the setting sun seemed to have stopped in mid-air, suspended. I looked at the floor, at the wood I had been scrubbing for twenty minutes. The stain. I had just cleaned it. I had seen the clean wood, pale from the chemicals. But now, the blood was there again. And it wasn't dry. It was bright red. Shiny. Hot. It bubbled slightly between the cracks in the wood as if it were springing from an underground source. I scrambled backward, dragging myself away. "What the hell is this..." I whispered. That was when the phone rang. It was an antique device, a rotary phone made of black Bakelite, resting on a side table near the piano. The ring wasn't electronic. It was a mechanical, physical, shrill clatter that echoed through the empty room like a scream. I froze. I looked at the pool of fresh blood. I looked at the phone. The rule said: Don't answer. But the house seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for me to pick up. The air was so dense it was hard to move my arms. The sense of urgency was physical, a hand squeezing my chest. What if it was the realtor? What if it was the police saying they were coming back? Logic tried to rationalize the fear, even if it made no sense. I stood up slowly. I walked to the table. My hand, encased in the yellow rubber glove, was trembling. The phone rang for the fourth time. I lifted the receiver. I brought it to my ear, over the straps of my mask. "Hello?" my voice came out hoarse. There was only static at first. A white hiss, like distant rain. And then, a voice. A woman's voice. Trembling, whispering, terrified. "They are in the garden." I felt a chill run down my spine. It wasn't a recording. The voice reacted to my breathing. "Who is this?" I asked. "Please, you need to help me," the woman continued, ignoring my question, speaking fast and low. "I saw through the gap in the curtains. There's a man in the garden. He's standing there staring at the music room window." I looked at the music room window. The window that was broken when I arrived. Now, the glass was intact. There was no hole. No shards on the floor. The glass was perfect, reflecting my face covered by the gas mask. "Ma'am," I said, trying to keep calm, though my heart was hammering. "Who are you? Where are you?" "It's me, Helena," she sobbed. "I'm in the living room. I'm hiding behind the piano. I tried to call the police, but the line is dead. I only managed to call... to call this number. Why did you take so long to answer?" Helena. The victim. The woman who was taken out of this room in a black bag three days ago. I looked at the grand piano in the corner of the room. There was no one behind it. I had cleaned there ten minutes ago. "Ms. Helena..." I began, feeling a nauseating vertigo. "You aren't there." "Of course I am!" she hissed, panic raising her voice. "Shhh! He's moving. He's coming to the window. My God, he's huge. He's wearing... strange clothes. All white." I looked at my reflection in the window glass again. White Tyvek suit. Black full-face gas mask. Yellow gloves. I looked like a monster. An alien. A "White Demon." "Ms. Helena," I said, my mouth dry. "What are you seeing?" "He has a rubber face," she was crying softly now. "He has no eyes, just big glass circles. He has a tube coming out of his mouth, like a trunk. He's holding... a weapon. A silver thing." I looked at my right hand. I was holding the metal scraper I used to clean the floor. Under the setting sun, it shone like a broad knife. A horrible realization descended upon me. Time in this house wasn't a straight line. It was a scratched record, repeating the end of the song eternally. I wasn't just cleaning the crime scene. I was haunting the crime scene. "Ms. Helena, listen to me," I spoke, desperate. "I am not the killer. I am the cleaner. I came to clean... afterwards. I come from the future, basically." "What are you saying? You're crazy!" she screamed, and I heard the sound of her voice not just on the phone, but echoing physically in the room, coming from the corner of the piano, even though no one was there. "He's raising his hand! He's going to break the glass!" I raised my hand instinctively to touch the glass, to show I was real, that I meant no harm. "No! I just want to help!" "NO!" she screamed. The moment my fingers touched the glass, I heard a deafening crash. The glass exploded inward. But I didn't break it. The glass exploded through me. Shards flew, passing through my body as if I were made of smoke. I fell back, dropping the phone. The room changed. The light vanished, replaced by the darkness of night. But I still saw the room. And now, I saw Helena. She was there. Cowering behind the piano. An elderly lady with white hair, wearing a blue silk robe. She was terrified, clutching a cordless phone against her chest. She was looking toward the broken window. But not at me. She was looking at the figure entering through the window. A figure dressed in black. Hooded. Holding a crowbar. The real killer. I was on the floor, invisible, watching. I was a ghost at the moment of her death. I tried to scream, "Run!" But no sound came out of my throat. I was just a spectator. An echo. The killer advanced. Helena screamed and ran. She tripped on the rug. The killer caught her in the center of the room. He raised the crowbar. I closed my eyes. I heard the sound. The wet, horrible sound of metal against bone. Once. Twice. Three times. I heard her last breath gurgle out. I opened my eyes. The room was empty again. It was day. The orange sunlight returned. The window was broken (as it was when I arrived). The phone was on the hook. And in the center of the room... the pool of blood. Steaming. Fresh. She had just died. Again. I was shaking uncontrollably. The nausea was overwhelming. The blood I was cleaning... it wasn't old. It was her blood dying now. And now. And now. The house was trapped in a spasm of agony, reliving the trauma repeatedly, and I, by entering and cleaning, was just part of the cycle. I grabbed my things. I threw everything into the backpack haphazardly. I needed to get out of there. I ran to the music room door. It was locked. I turned the knob. Nothing. "It's no use." The voice came from behind me. I turned slowly. Had the phone rung? No. The voice came from the corner of the room. There was a stain on the wall. A shadow that didn't belong to the furniture. The shadow had the shape of a woman. And she was looking at me. It wasn't Helena's ghost. It was... the house's memory. The psychic imprint left by the pain. "Why do you clean?" the voice whispered, echoing inside my head. "You erase the proof. If you erase the blood, no one will remember I was here." "I need to clean," I stammered. "It's my job. It's so your family can sell the house. So they can move on." "Move on..." the shadow laughed. A broken laugh, like ground glass. "No one moves on here. Time is a circle, cleaner. And you just stepped into the wheel." The phone rang again. I looked at the device. I knew who it was. It was her. Again. At the beginning of the cycle. She was calling to say she saw the man in the garden. And if I answered... I would see it all again. I would feel her death again. "Answer it," the shadow ordered. "Maybe this time you can save me. Maybe this time you get to her before him." It was a trap. The trap of hope. Hell isn't fire and brimstone. Hell is the hope that you can change a past that is already written in blood. If I answered, I would be stuck in the loop. I would try to save her, fail, clean the blood, and the phone would ring again. I would be here forever, an idiot in a white jumpsuit pushing a boulder of guilt up a hill. I grabbed my bucket of chemicals. I walked to the phone. I lifted the bucket. And with a scream of rage and fear, I brought the heavy bucket down onto the phone. CRACK. It shattered. The ring died halfway through. Silence returned to the room. Heavy. Resentful. The shadow in the corner flickered and vanished. The pool of blood on the floor stopped bubbling. It darkened. Dried. Turned into just an old, sad stain. I unlocked the door. It opened easily. I left the house without looking back. I left the dirty rug. I left the broken glass. I left the job half-finished. I got in my van and drove to the nearest town. I stopped at a dirty bar and ordered a double whiskey, still wearing the Tyvek suit unzipped at the waist, my hands shaking. I never went back to the Vales Residence. The real estate agency called me, furious, saying the cleaning wasn't finished. They said they would send another technician. I tried to warn them. I tried to tell them not to send anyone. I said the house was sick, that the house was stuck. They laughed and hung up. Yesterday, I ran into an old coworker. I asked about the guy they sent to finish the job there. A young man named Marcos. "Marcos?" my colleague shook his head. "Poor guy. He quit. Lost his mind." "What happened?" I asked, feeling a pit in my stomach. "No one knows for sure. The police found him in the house two days later. He was sitting in the corner of the music room, staring at the wall." "Was he hurt?" "Not physically. But he was holding the receiver of a broken phone against his ear. And he kept repeating the same phrase, non-stop." "What was he saying?" My colleague took a sip of beer and shuddered. "He was saying: 'This time I almost made it. This time I almost made it. Just one more time. Just one more time.'" I paid the bill and left. The echo hasn't stopped. It just changed listeners. And sometimes, when I'm scrubbing a tough stain in a silent house, and the phone rings... I drop everything and run. Because I know there are calls that, if you answer, you can never hang up. submitted by /u/davidherick to r/stories [link] [comments]