I’m standing at the top of the stairs, looking down into the basement. I don’t want to go down there. Every time I do, something bad happens.

I hear a crackling sound, as if electrical currents are being zapped about.

I really don’t want to go down there. I’m too scared. Miss Schlump was right when she called me a coward.

‘Hurry up, Evie, we need to leave soon,’ says Mum.

I tuck the washing basket under my arm and put a foot onto the first step. The crackling sound is replaced by an eerie silence. It knows I’m coming. It’s waiting to get me again.

‘What are you standing there for?’ says Mum. She taps the floor with one of her crutches. ‘You know I can’t go down there – not with a broken leg. I’m relying on you to get the washing done.’

‘I know, Mum …’ I manage.

I’ve been spending my afternoons washing clothes for Mum. It’s all I’ve done since we moved into the new house. Not that it’s an actual new house. It’s very old. And it has a basement.

‘I’ll stay here and make sure everything is okay,’ says Mum. Her voice tells me she doesn’t believe any of the stories I’ve told her.

I take two more steps down the staircase and stop to listen. It’s dead silent. It’s as quiet as it is dark down there.

‘It’ll be okay,’ says Mum. There’s a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

A sharp zap sounds up the stairs. I shriek and almost drop the basket of clothes. ‘Did you hear that?!’

Mum shakes her head and limps off. She’s in no mood for games.

But this is not a game. It’s real life. It’s my life, and my life is in danger.

I hear another zap and hold my breath. It’s teasing me with terror. It’s hassling me with horror. The washing machine from hell is at it again.

Last week, when I pulled my favourite teddy bear, Mr Snuggles, out of the machine, he had no head. He had been decapitated. I know the washing machine ripped his head off on purpose.

The week before, the washing machine tried to bite me. I had just finished putting in some clothes when the lid came slamming down, almost trapping my arm.

I take a few more steps down the stairs to the basement. Apart from the soft light at the top of the stairs, it’s almost pitch-black. I’m nearly at the bottom and I stop again to listen.

There are no zaps.

Just silence.

Darkness.

I step quickly to the bottom of the staircase. My footsteps echo into the concrete blackness of the basement. I think I hear a metallic laugh, but it could be my nervous imagination. Then again, it could be the evil washing machine. I tighten my grip on the basket of clothes.

I can just make out a piece of string hanging a few metres in front of me. It pulls the switch that turns the light on.

I lunge forward and grab the string with one hand, but something hard knocks into me. I squeal and drop the basket. I yank the switch and the light flickers on just in time to see the washing machine leap back into the corner.

It tried to attack me!

The washing machine is now standing there innocently, pretending nothing happened at all.

I pick up the basket and carry it nervously to the corner of the basement. Two red lights are glowing at the top of the washing machine. They look like evil eyes, burning into my soul, laser-like.

I try not to think about the machine knocking into me. I try not to think about what it might do next.

I quickly jerk back the lid at the top of the washing machine and start throwing clothes in.

The machine starts spitting them out.

I throw faster.

The clothes fly out faster.

I grab a broom and use the bristles to push the clothes back in.

The broom snags on something and snaps. The washing machine spits out a volley of wood chips.

I scream and run upstairs as fast as I can.

Mum’s frowning as she puts bread into the toaster. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Evie,’ she says. ‘All I ask is for a little help and you can’t even do a simple chore.’

‘But it tried to attack me,’ I say.

Mum shakes her head. ‘Nonsense. I think you should stop watching so much television. It’s not good for your brain.’

‘It truly did try to attack me,’ I say quietly, though I know there’s no use arguing anymore. She doesn’t believe me. Burnt toast pops out of the toaster like a jack-in-the-box and lands in the kitchen sink.

‘Another dodgy appliance,’ says Mum sarcastically. I think she’s having a go at me about the washing machine. ‘That reminds me,’ she adds, ‘we need to start replacing some of our old electrical appliances. I have just enough money saved to buy something new.’

I want to tell her she needs to start with a new washing machine. But it’s not the time. I’ve let her down and I should be braver. She’s taken on an important promotion at work and needs my help with the chores. It’s hard for her to move around the house with a broken leg.

‘I’m going to work soon, Evie,’ she says. ‘You’ll be in big trouble if that washing isn’t done by the time I come home.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it.’

The last item at the bottom of the washing machine is my favourite white dress. I reach in and pick it up, placing it gently on top of the pile of clothes. This isn’t so scary. Maybe I was imagining everything that happened before. Maybe it’s an ordinary washing machine after all.

I’ve now completed three loads and nothing bad has happened. The clothes are beautifully washed and they smell like springtime. Mum will be so pleased with me. I hum a tune I heard on the radio and reach to close the lid.

Without warning, the lid slams down and traps my arm. I was not imagining things! The washing machine tricked me!

I try to yank my arm out but the lid bites harder. Something inside the machine wraps around my wrist and starts pulling me. The lid flies back open and I can see a plastic cord tightening its grip on my arm. The machine starts filling with water. It’s trying to drag me down into it. It’s trying to drown me!

I scream for help but it’s useless. Nobody else is home.

The cord continues to wrap itself around my arm and pulls harder. My feet are almost off the ground. I use my other arm to try to free myself.

The water keeps rising. It swishes madly inside the machine and gurgles louder by the second.

I struggle against the cord. I tug frantically. The washing machine is too strong.

I see some soap on the sink next to the machine. I reach for it with my free hand and manage to clasp it between my fingers. I thrust the soap into the swirling, rising water to make it wet. I rub it all over the cord on my arm. The soap makes my skin slippery and I manage to slide my wrist free.

I fall back onto the floor of the basement, panting. The washing machine growls and slams its lid shut, eyes glowing an angry red.

The doorbell rings upstairs.

The doorbell.

Upstairs.

That’s where I run.

A salesman dressed in a brown suit is standing at the front door. He’s holding a black suitcase.

‘Can I help you?’ I say, puffing. I still haven’t caught my breath.

‘Perhaps it is I who can help you,’ he says.

There’s something about his voice I don’t like. Something dark.

I close the door a little, just enough to show him I’m not interested in what he has to offer.

He points to a badge on his shirt. ‘Chap is the name. I represent H. O. Roar Appliances. Are you interested in buying any new electrical goods?’

‘No, thanks,’ I say, shutting the door.

Chap wedges his foot in the doorway to stop it from closing. ‘I believe you may be interested in what I have to offer.’

I shake my head.

Chap’s eyes peer into mine. They remind me of lasers …

I drop my guard and find myself answering. ‘We do need a new washing machine.’

‘That’s more like it,’ says Chap. ‘I’ll leave this with you.’ He pulls a business card from his pocket and gives it to me.

The business card says:

‘I’ll be seeing you soon,’ says Chap, turning to leave. He gives me a nasty smile and I get a clear view of his crooked teeth.

I watch through the window as he goes to the next house, and I hope for the neighbour’s sake that nobody’s home. I never want to see him again.

I throw the business card in the bin and go to my room.

Mum is impressed that I have washed three loads. ‘You’re braver than you think, Evie.’ She smiles.

‘You have to listen to me,’ I plead. ‘We need to get a new washing machine.’

Mum hobbles on her crutches to the top of the basement stairs. ‘Bring the three loads up here so I can see your hard work.’

‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘I can’t go back down there.’

Mum’s good mood vanishes. ‘Nonsense.’

‘It tried to kill me,’ I say.

‘What stupidity. Go and get the clothes now!’

‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I can’t go down there. I can’t cope with that washing machine.’

‘And I can’t cope with your games. This new promotion requires longer hours at work. All I’m asking for is a little help around the house until my leg heals. Besides, it’s about time you started earning your pocket money.’

My face feels like it’s drained of blood. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I can’t do it.’

Mum growls and totters away on her crutches.

I’m lying on my bed, crying into the pillow. I am such a bad daughter. Miss Schlump was right all along. I am nothing but a gutless girl.

Mum is in the kitchen. I can hear her rummaging about as she reads the mail and empties the bins.

‘What’s this business card?’ she says. ‘We need some new electrical appliances.’

I stop sobbing and sit up to listen. Has she found Chap’s card?

I can hear Mum talking. She is on the phone. ‘I would like delivery tomorrow, please,’ she says. ‘We are in desperate need of a replacement.’

I shiver at the thought of Chap Spark coming back to our house. I wish I had the courage to run and tell Mum to hang up. I wish I had more courage full stop.

‘Tomorrow after school should be fine … I’ll be at work but my daughter will be home.’ Mum lowers her voice and I strain my ears to listen. ‘Evie tends to be easily frightened. If she doesn’t answer the front door, the spare key is in the pot plant. You can let yourself in.’

Mum ends the call and I hear her shuffling towards my room. ‘Evie,’ she calls through the door, ‘if that washing is not upstairs and put away by tomorrow night, there will be big trouble. Mark my words, there will be big trouble.’

‘I’ll do it for you,’ I croak. ‘Goodnight, Mum.’

I take a deep breath and try to sleep. I try to ignore thoughts about the basement and what the washing machine will do to me. I try to ignore thoughts about Chap Spark coming into our house when I’m alone. I try to ignore it all. But I can’t.

This is it. I have to do it. I have to go back down the stairs to the basement to collect the clothes. I have to face the washing machine from hell.

I stand on the top step for an age, waiting for the courage to move. The staircase to the basement is a giant black throat. It wants to swallow me.

There will be big trouble … all I’m asking for is a little help … it’s about time you started earning your pocket money … Mum’s words echo inside my mind, reminding me what I have to do.

I take a deep breath and place a foot on the next step.

Nothing happens.

I steady myself and inch down again. All I can hear is the blood pumping inside my eardrums. It’s not a comforting rhythm. It’s the rhythm of impending doom.

Still, nothing happens.

I take five or six quick steps and stop.

My heart freezes. Something moves at the bottom of the stairs. I hear metal scrape on concrete. Something large whizzes overhead, brushing my hair. There is a loud thud on the stairs behind me.

I turn and scream. It’s the washing machine. It’s standing between me and the top of the stairs. It rocks menacingly from side to side, daring me to try to run past it to freedom.

The same plastic cord that tried to drown me slithers out of the half-open lid like a snake. It latches onto the doorhandle at the top of the stairs and pulls it shut. The cord flicks the bolt on the door, locking us in the basement, before stretching down to me and sliding over my face like a horrid, thin tongue.

The red eyes of the washing machine stare at me without blinking.

It begins to move slowly down the stairs, the plastic cord licking my face, forcing me backwards.

I am trapped. I can’t get past. I reach the bottom of the stairs.

The washing machine herds me further into the basement. I manage to find the string and the light globe flickers to life in the blackness.

The washing machine backs me into the darkest corner. It presses me against the cold concrete wall. It’s going to crush me.

The doorbell rings upstairs. Mum’s delivery has arrived.

The washing machine stops squashing me and listens.

The doorbell rings a second time. I hear a man’s voice call out. It doesn’t sound like Chap. It’s a friendly voice. I’m saved!

I open my lips to scream, but before I can call for help, the tongue-like cord extends further out of the machine and wraps around my mouth. It’s suddenly a lot harder to breathe.

I hear the jiggling of a key at the front door and footsteps overhead. The deliveryman is inside our house.

I must signal for help. I try to scream but the cord over my mouth is too tight.

I stamp my foot on the ground.

‘Is someone there?’ The man’s voice calls through the locked basement door.

The washing machine is fast and a second cord extends from under the lid. In a flash, it binds my feet together and pins them against the floor. A third cord wraps around my wrists. I can’t move a muscle.

‘I must be imagining things,’ says the deliveryman.

Footsteps move into the kitchen. He is directly overhead. I hear him call to another person. A second pair of footsteps enters the house.

‘Take the old one to the van and bring the new one in here. She wants it delivered to the kitchen and unpacked.’

The footsteps bang around for a minute or two, the door slams, and then they are gone. It’s quiet upstairs. The house is empty again.

The washing machine opens its lid fully and lets out a horrible metallic laugh.

The cords around my arms and feet lift me into the air. The machine spins its washer at a dangerous speed like a giant blender. The cords are pulling me inside headfirst. Water starts to fill from the bottom. It’s going to drown me and this time there is no way out.

My head is almost completely inside the machine. I’m so close I can read the label on the inside rim. It says:

The washing machine pulls me in further. The frothing, sloshing water licks at my hair.

Crash!

Something bursts through the locked basement door like a cannonball. It zips down the stairs and slices through the cords, freeing me. I stumble back and fall to the floor.

Silver streaks of light flash through the air. Something is whizzing around at lightning speed. It’s pounding into the washing machine from all directions. It’s punching and pummelling, denting and destroying.

It’s a toaster.

The toaster stops to admire its work, winking a bright green eye at me, before delivering a knockout blow. Sparks fly out of the washing machine and it topples onto its side.

It is dead.

Mum takes a beautifully cooked piece of toast out of the new toaster. She spreads butter over it and watches as it melts evenly into the crust.

‘I’m not sure what you managed to do to that old washing machine, Evie, but you made your point,’ she says.

‘When is the new one being delivered?’ I say.

‘This afternoon. Is that okay with you?’

‘Yep.’

Mum leans on one of her crutches and kisses me on the forehead. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so tough on you, Evie. I know life has been harder for you since I broke my leg. But the cast comes off next week and then things will go back to normal.’

‘I’m glad,’ I say.

My mouth waters at the sight of Mum’s golden-crusted toast. ‘The funny thing is,’ I say, ‘I thought you’d ordered another one of those H. O. Roar appliances.’

‘They’re no good,’ laughs Mum. ‘That was the brand of our last toaster and it kept burning everything.’

‘I’m pleased,’ I say. ‘I like this new brand.’

I place a piece of bread into the toaster and flick the latch down. I run my finger gently over the label on the side of the machine.