Chapter Text
The Shitrus Incident: Bob Vila and Friends Vs. One Vicious Pile of Poo
(An excerpt from “Bob Vila’s Guide to the Supernatural, as told to y2ktoilet)
The first signs of the specific horrors to come were noticed in late February 1979- roughly 6 weeks into the project. It was a damp, chilly 47 degrees Fahrenheit in Dorchester, and Bob Vila was actually dressed appropriately for it. His yellow rain slicker had finally stopped dripping (thanks to a break in the drizzle) and his slacks were tucked into work boots because he meant BUSINESS. The only complaints he had were that he didn’t like the cold weather (for the first time this week 1) and that something just didn’t smell right (he believed this was probably a sewer issue aggravated by the rain- certainly nothing to actually worry about.) In other words, a typical day of taping.
“It's like being repeatedly slapped by a wet paper towel that hates you,” he ad-libbed to the camera. “I’m from Miami- you know, the one in Florida? My DNA is made up of oranges and patio furniture. I am NOT built for this.” Bob returned to the narrative- while construction progress had been made in some instances, setbacks had been encountered elsewhere- which of course meant re-prioritizing, shifting focus, and frankly putting out fires.
The primary concerns for today’s episode were, among other things, a light bit of demolition in the dining room and replacing the ancient furnace in the basement. Bob informed viewers that Norm would be doing something complicated and cool to fix a misaligned wall; afterwards, we’d descend into the creepiest basement in Boston to witness the removal of the ancient furnace. Although upgrading the heating system to something more efficient was already part of the plan, it now took priority (as forcing the various contractors to do without one this time of year was tantamount to torture.) This cast-iron monster -more than twice Bob’s age and looking like it originally came from a Victorian hospital boiler room- was well and truly dead, with absolutely no hope of resurrection.
Bless Bob’s heart; if he’d known what this seemingly standard system upgrade was going to unleash on humanity, he’d likely have tried harder to take this seriously.
The day’s taping progressed almost uneventfully. After watching Norm do his complex and awesome bit of engineering, he clomped down the stairs into the inadequately-lit basement. He announced to the camera that it was time to lovingly, respectfully lay the dead furnace to rest. Right that second, the vague, B.O.ish funk that had hung over the house for the past several weeks sharply increased into something worse- like a sewer system that had just experienced an existential crisis. This, along with the tremors that could be felt in the basement, should’ve been a huge red flag, but Bob was rather busy at the moment; he made a mental note to call the city about a potential sewer issue and to have a look around for anything awkward that couldn’t be explained to the authorities. He forced a smile and cheerfully greeted the plumbing contractors working on dismantling the huge, heavy, ancient furnace.
“Ron, what’s going on down here? Ya getting the dead body out?”
Ron Trethewey, veteran heating/plumbing contractor and longtime veteran of some absolute supernatural bullshit, was supervising the operation with an air of professionalism. He chuckled nervously in response to Bob’s joke about the boiler, then frowned, eyes narrowing. That revolting, undescribable stench wasn’t just a plumbing to correct; it was pure, unmitigated evil. He’d smelled it once before, and the experience thoroughly traumatized him; he didn't want to believe that he was gonna have to live through it again, but he knew that this thing was a danger to at least the entire city of Boston if it wasn’t stopped- which he couldn’t guarantee. Meanwhile, his loyal staff continued shoving the dead furnace over for dismantling and removal, while Bob watched and narrated the action (he was pretty sure Cousin Itt was currently wheeling in the new boiler, but Southern politeness demanded that he not judge or say anything.) Bob assumed that Ron’s sweating and stuttering were due to nervousness about the cameras.
Ron Trethewey, who had once battled a cursed urinal at a haunted Howard Johnson’s and walked away with only mild trauma, was visibly shaking- because Ron knew what the source of that increasingly horrific stench was.
The Golgothan. A.K.A. the Shit Demon. A.K.A. The Excremental. A.K.A. the worst case of IBS in supernatural history. Born from suffering and powered by the pungent rage of long-dead bathroom users, the Golgothan was a monster of unspeakable stink and emotional damage. Ron had met one before; he’d seen what it was capable of, and had barely survived to tell the tale. Although he was terrified to his absolute limits, he knew what would be needed for the eventual showdown. Once he and Bob finished slogging through taping, he fled to his office, claiming he had to “check the supply levels and submit some orders.” This actually was technically true; in order to arrange for a special delivery of the necessary supplies before the literal shit hit the metaphorical fan. He prayed that the Golgothan wouldn’t become fully active in the next few weeks (since Amazon didn’t exist yet, and cleaning supply orders could easily take that long to arrive.)
If you'd asked Bob Vila in 1974 where he saw himself in five years, he probably would’ve said something sensible and attractive, like “running a successful architectural design firm,” or “restoring historic properties to their former glory,” or “not screaming in terror at a floating Victorian baby doll while holding a flashlight in an 1860s attic.”
Yet here he was, up to his eyeballs in a nightmare that he didn’t dare try to explain to anyone who hadn’t witnessed all of the weirdness of the past nine weeks. Since the old furnace had been removed, renovations had continued at a steady clip as Bob continued to investigate the odd things that were happening (without alerting anyone besides Norm to what he was doing.) Norm had made it clear that this subterfuge was crucial, because some people just aren’t mentally or emotionally equipped to deal with the supernatural. Like, the man who created, produced and directed This Old House never caught on to all the supernatural bullshit that lingered around his show FOR DECADES because Bob, Norm and other contractors worked their asses off to ensure it. Bob got it- it had taken him some time and effort to come around to accepting the hauntedness of this house at the outset of this project. He learned quickly to keep the more esoteric activities from most people for their emotional and psychological well-being.
As Bob prepared to tape the ninth show of this 13-week series, his mind drifted back to how all of this had begun. The show itself seemed so basic in premise, yet revolutionary — explaining home renovation to the inexperienced. It was the brainchild of Russell Morash, the man who turned America’s favorite chaos gremlin, Julia Child, into a cultural icon (and in her wake, left a fine trail of butter, broken eggs, and scorched cookware.) Russ’ philosophy was simple: find people who are good at things, then shove a camera in their face and hope they don’t cry. (Too bad Russ just wasn’t mentally or emotionally equipped to handle knowledge of the existence of the supernatural- who knows what kind of award-winning entertainment gold could’ve been struck with concrete evidence of a haunting.)
Enter Bob, a charming, witty, and articulate professional whose renovation of a local Victorian had won design awards. With his boyish good looks, vintage leather boots, and astonishingly perfect hair, he was the sort of man you hired to make viewers trust you about crown molding. Also helpful was Bob’s practical experience with architecture, home design, and renovation.
What Bob didn’t know was that the Victorian house chosen for their first project had a few... extras. Not just the classic New England charm, but also an uninvited selection of spiritual freeloaders and malevolent creatures.To be fair, it had been standing since 1860. Anything that old was going to have skeletons in the closet. The trick was that these ones didn’t stay in the closet.
The first day of taping had been a real eye-opener.
The unease began subtly, like bad gas or the creeping suspicion that your new coworker might be able to read your thoughts. Bob first heard it in the old parlor, as the real estate assessor was looking the house over—: a low murmur, like people whispering in another room. He paused, tilting his head slightly—just enough to suggest quiet curiosity but not enough to spook the camera crew. He chalked it up to ambient noise. Houses had character, after all. But then he heard it again- in the dining room; and again, in the upstairs bedroom, where the mirrors were too old to reflect anything other than disappointment.
After taping wrapped and the crew cleared out, Bob lingered. He told himself it was just to double-check the plumbing layout, or the lighting, maybe even the position of Jupiter. He wandered through the empty house, every footstep echoing too much, every breeze slightly colder than it should’ve been. The voices—faint, unintelligible—rose and fell like conversational waves behind paper-thin walls. Still just whispers. Still deniable. But definitely wrong.
He jumped slightly when he turned a corner and found Norm Abram, the construction foreman, standing there with a thermos in one hand and the face of a man who could calmly watch a goat explode and say, “Yep. Probably sulfur.”
“Oh, hey, Bob. Didn’t think you were still here,” Norm said, with quiet calm and his thick New England accent.
Bob attempted a smile. “Just doing one last walkthrough. Something feels... off.”
Norm narrowed his eyes—not with judgment, but with the precise calculation of a man mentally checking his Holy Water inventory.
“Define off,” Norm said, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee.
Bob scratched the back of his neck. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
Norm deadpanned, “I already do. Just tell me.”
Bob sighed. “I keep hearing voices in empty rooms, like people having conversations just out of earshot. It’s... unsettling.”
Norm’s expression shifted from calm bemusement to that look people give right before they say something that changes your life forever.
“Well, Bob, you’re not crazy,” Norm said gently. “You’re just... new.”
Bob stared expressionlessly before responding. “New to what?”
Norm’s answer was cut short by a sudden, deep thud from the third floor. Followed by a scraping sound that could either be furniture moving or something with too many legs trying to find the stairs. They both froze.
“That wasn’t a pipe,” Bob said, very reasonably, as his voice cracked slightly like a cheap floorboard.
Norm didn’t reply. He handed Bob a flashlight, took another swig from his thermos, and started up the stairs.
“Wait,” Bob said, scrambling after him. “Where are you going?”
“Third floor. You heard it too. We can’t let it stay active this early in the project.”
Bob blinked. “It?”
Norm paused mid-step. “Yeah. It. We’re gonna see what it wants. And if it doesn’t want anything good, I’ve got three rosaries, a box of salt, and a backup crucifix made of reclaimed pine.”
Bob stood at the bottom of the staircase, heart racing, flashlight trembling in his hand. “You’re serious?”
Norm turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Bob. This house was built in 1860. You really think no one’s died horribly in it?”
Bob stared at him. “Why did I agree to this show?”
“Because you’ve got a voice that could tame werewolves and a face that makes ghosts question their life choices,” Norm said. “Now come on. I’m not letting you get eaten. You’re too damn pretty for that.”
Of course, when they got all the way up to the third floor, there was nothing. The whispers stopped, the house warmed up slightly, and all was peaceful. But Norm, the most sensible man Bob had ever met, had just informed him that ghosts were real AND about to become Bob’s personal problem, at least for as long as this renovation lasted. Bob wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but he was fully committed to this renovation, and he figured that he’d adjust in the coming weeks.
Although this project was essentially Bob’s supernatural activity bootcamp, he was quickly learning things that were crucial- like that, for example, the signs of supernatural activity are incredibly subtle. (Also, he learned that being possessed by the ghost of recently deceased, hotel-destroying rock stars was a terrifying dichotomy.) For example, Bob noticed that unusual sensory triggers were the first clues regarding paranormal activity- if something in that house smelled off, it was almost always tied to an incident. He had reported a potential leak to the city not long after the old furnace was removed. The city of Boston didn’t seem to be concerned, while Bob’s own investigation had turned up no plausible source for such foulness.
By the ninth week of the project, the stench had become nearly intolerable. Bob wasn’t sure how Norm and his crew weren’t puking their guts up all day, every day; he was only there once a week for taping, which was made especially hellish by his perpetual nausea. He’d been taking notes in a leather-bound notebook (all the while hoping for a few minutes of Norm’s time to compare notes, but the ever-growing list of renovation-related tasks kept him absolutely swamped.)
It was a busy day, as taping days tended to be- absolutely the least convenient time for supernatural bullshit. Norm and his crew were approaching the end of the allotted 13 weeks for this renovation, so everyone was under the gun trying to stay ahead of all the crises (supernatural or not.) Today’s taping began with a walk through the nearby park and a quick tour of the neighborhood, as Bob provided narration about landmarks, demographics, and tales of Dorchester local legends. It was a beautiful day for it- clear, sunny, and warm enough for Bob to roll up his shirt sleeves. Norm and his crew were hard at work constructing the back deck; it was finally time to strip the old lead paint off the clapboards to prepare for fresh, lead-free primer and paint, and bathtub installation was finally being finished upstairs. The point is, there was so much of the mundane that demanded attention that the supernatural just snuck up on Bob and Norm (although it still stunk to high heaven.) Everything appeared to be blissfully normal, yet Bob’s guard remained up as he continued to ignore the now nearly unbearable stench of what smelled like sewer gas mixed with sulfur and hot garbage. He somehow managed to get through a sanding demonstration, completion of the master bathtub install, and Norm showing how to cut a stringer for the deck steps without further incident.
When the taping finished and the production staff finally left, Bob took the opportunity to finally try to track down the source of the smell before it became a sentient weather system. Little did he know that instead, it would become a physical monster the likes of which he’d had never even read about, let alone encountered. The sunny, pleasant late afternoon had darkened ominously and become chilly; Bob tugged on a hooded sweatshirt, grabbed his notebook and a flashlight, and began trawling the grounds desperately for clues.
Norm found Bob by the garage about half an hour after everyone else had left, face buried in the neck of his sweatshirt, clinging to a tree like a traumatized koala. He’d dropped his notebook somewhere in all of the chaos, but right that second, his focus was elsewhere.The stench was somehow even worse now; it felt like Bob’s nose hairs were burning as he struggled to breathe the oily air. Bob managed to pull his face out of his shirt to vomit before collapsing against the tree, groaning something like “tell my wife I died fabulous.” Norm immediately wrapped an arm around Bob’s shoulders, propping him up before handing him a peppermint oil-soaked handkerchief like a true paranormal EMT. Bob took it gratefully, shoved it up to his nose with trembling hands, and began huffing.
The ground trembled with preternatural force. The sky darkened to the most unnerving shade of deep charcoal. Bob and Norm looked up and saw a ten foot tall,sludgy mound of unholy sewage and misery with eyes like greasy marbles and a scream like a broken tuba.
The Golgothan had arrived. Bob had never even heard of this thing, but here it was in all its disgusting glory. Bob immediately realized that this was what had been causing the foul odor. He also realized that they were severely outnumbered, and only armed with Norm’s canvas bookbag and Bob’s flashlight to boot. Neither had any idea what to do, so they made a mad dash for the nearest shelter, Bob’s car—a brand-new Honda Prelude that would never smell the same again— climbed inside, and locked the doors while they panicked.
“What the ACTUAL FUCK is THAT?!?!” Bob wheezed frantically, hoping for any sort of useful information. Norm, ever prepared and intuitive, delivered.
“Well, Bob, THAT is a Golgothan, also known as a Shit Demon,” he added helpfully. He explained what little he knew of them (their origins and history, their behavior.)
“Holy SHIT,” a stunned Bob gasped; upon further reflection he added, “More like, UNHOLY SHIT.”
Norm let out a mirthless chuckle. “So the thing about this… sewer demon, I guess is that very little data exists due to lack of research.”
Bob's eyes widened- he never thought that research was even involved in the paranormal- yet another aspect of this venture that he'd been unprepared for.
“Well…of course we’re being terrorized by a sewage homunculus. Why not? I guess this job was just getting a little too boring,” Bob deadpanned as Norm rifled through his notebook for potentially useful information.
The toxic air began leaking into the car despite the vents being firmly closed, making them both gag. The psychological torture, however, was so much worse. If Bob were to be honest, he had absolutely no idea how to articulate the actual experience of having his mind invaded by a demonic entity, but it was assuredly the most deeply unsettling experience of his life.2 When pressed for a description of the experience, Bob would liken it to having a drill sergeant scream direct orders in his face in a language that he didn’t understand. His ears wouldn’t stop ringing as he continued to dry heave and cry uncontrollably while trying desperately to understand what this THING wanted from him. Norm would later report a similar experience, although somehow he managed to stay calm enough to take better notes (which honestly is what passes for paranormal research.)
The car rose several feet off the ground as the Golgothan, still oozing and screaming, sloshed beneath. Bob involuntarily dry-heaved and clutched the steering wheel as Norm ransacked the glove box, eventually finding the most useful weapon he could've hoped for— a bottle of Polo aftershave. It had been a well-intentioned (and expensive) gift from one of Bob’s clients who definitely had no idea that he absolutely HATED it (he thought it smelled like cheap pine cleaner and failed to understand its appeal.) Norm yanked it out of the glove box like it was the holy hand grenade of Antioch and he was about to take the Killer Bunny DOWN.
“Bob, I’m sorry, but it’s our best option for survival,” Norm shouted over the racket as he unscrewed the lid from the bottle.
“NO, WAIT–” Bob interjected, hoping that the world’s worst (yet most expensive) aftershave wouldn’t spill on his still pristine upholstery; Bob felt very strongly that the smell of Polo was almost as bad as the hideous vapors hanging over them and everything. Bob wasn’t sure it’d ever come out of the upholstery, and he definitely didn’t want his sweet Prelude princess to smell like it.
Norm rolled down the passenger window and hurled the open bottle with all of his might at the Golgothan’s face, spraying it in the eyes with aftershave. It recoiled momentarily, screaming furiously as part of its head melted right off. Unfortunately, the blow wasn’t quite the kill shot that Norm had hoped for; it didn't need cognitive reasoning to terrorize humans and smell revolting.
As the monster prepared to regather its composure (also possibly its colon) and renew the attack, a van barreled up the driveway. The cavalry had arrived. Cousin Itt- rather, Richard Trethewey, son of Ron and heir to the ancient, sacred plumbing bloodline 3 , leapt from the back of the van like a hazmat angel of mercy. His cargo? Barrels of trisodium phosphate, several cases of Glade Orange air spray, roughly 100 pine tree air fresheners, 12 industrial sized jugs of hydrogen peroxide, and (most importantly) gas masks 4. Rich threw the masks to Norm and Bob, who immediately (and gratefully) yanked these over their heads before grabbing cans of glade in each fist.
“START SPRAYING!” Rich shouted, muffled by his gas mask. Fortunately, Bob and Norm understood immediately. The three of them alternated spraying Glade cans, emptying peroxide jugs, and hurling air freshener trees like grenade launchers of cleanliness. This was followed by the grand finale- opening the 8 massive barrels of TSP before shoving them out of the van and all over the already severely weakened Golgothan.
The effect was immediate - what was left of the monster wailed in a thousand soiled voices as it melted slowly, tragically into a puddle of steaming, bubbling, shitrus-scented ooze.
Bob never could remember the rest of that night at all — not the drive home, or how or how he explained the way he looked and smelled to his family. Not that he wanted to remember, per se, but it would’ve been nice to piece together some stuff- like how that smell came out of his car’s (still pristine) upholstery.
The next morning, Bob dragged himself back to the house expecting to face the aftermath of sewage and cleaning products. Instead, the yard was spotless, with no sign of the terrifying, putrid events of the previous night. He noticed Norm’s truck parked nearby and wondered if he was responsible. A few seconds later, the Trethewey Brothers’ van pulled into the drive. Bob shrugged and walked over the front porch, where he’d just seen Norm standing to assess the situation. Norm was holding the notebook Bob had dropped the previous night; he found it laying neatly on the porch. We were joined by Ron and Rich Trethewey, who had turned up for the same reason as Bob and Norm. The four of them stared at the tidy yard, then each other, baffled.
“I definitely didn’t clean this,” was all Bob could think of to say as Norm passed him the notebook.
“Me neither,” Norm replied, shaking his head.
Richard and Ron shook their heads. “That’s why we came back,” Rich offered [6] .
With nothing to actually do, everyone was suddenly hungry; they adjourned to have breakfast at the closest diner. They swapped notes over waffles, eggs and coffee. Apparently, Ron had been the mysterious van driver from the previous night, despite his sheer terror at the prospect of meeting up with another Golgothan; he wasn’t about to send his son to face that thing alone (even though Rich was obviously prepared to take it on.)
“I’m starting to think this isn’t a normal renovation 5 ,” Bob sighed, stirring cream and sugar into his third cup of coffee.
Norm nodded. “You think?”
Bob sighed. “Well, is there a demon fighter’s union or something?”
Rich grinned. “If they do, we’re overdue for our cards.”
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