So.

Remember those official prep instructions from Part Two?

Yeah, that one. The one I read, nodded at like a responsible adult, and then immediately ignored like someone who absolutely should have known better but chose chaos anyway.

You know the one.

The very official, very serious warning that I definitely did not treat like a suggestion on a takeout menu.

Specifically this one:

WARNING: One emotional blockage may reveal additional blockages previously thought to be resolved.

Which, in hindsight, is basically the universe saying:

“Hey babe… just so you know… this is about to turn into a group project. And you are the group.”

Yeah.

About that.

I need to remind everyone—including myself, my nervous system, and whatever gremlin is currently running my emotional Wi-Fi on dial-up in a thunderstorm—how this whole fucking thing started.

I was writing a perfectly normal blog post.

That’s it.

A nice little mid-August update.

Wow, August is going fast! Work has been crazy. Mother Nature is being a royal bitch. Mercury is probably doing backflips again. Here’s what’s happening in my life.

Normal.

Manageable.

Cute, even.

The kind of post you write when you still believe your day is going to behave itself and not turn into a full-blown emotional séance with snacks.

It was Gizmo.

Remember Gizmo from Gremlins?

Adorable little Mogwai. Big ears. Sweet face. The kind of creature you think you can absolutely handle as long as you follow a few very simple, very reasonable fucking rules.

Don’t expose him to bright light.

Don’t get him wet.

And whatever you do…

DO NOT FEED HIM AFTER MIDNIGHT.

Apparently somewhere during the writing of that innocent little August blog post, somebody fed the fucking thing after midnight.

Then threw water on it.

Because suddenly that nice little blog post started multiplying.

One thought became another thought.

Then that thought produced three more thoughts.

And listen—I don’t know who gave my brain permission to go full Mogwai in a basement at 2 a.m., but clearly someone did, and I’d like to have a very stern word with them… preferably while holding a cup of coffee and side-eyeing them like I’ve just caught them rearranging my emotional furniture without asking.

Because once it started, it didn’t just add ideas.

Oh no.

It started reproducing them like they were on sale at Costco and I had no self-control, a coupon, and a deep emotional need to stockpile feelings just in case the apocalypse shows up early.

One thought became another thought.

Then that thought produced three more thoughts.

Then one of THOSE thoughts crawled under the furniture, started making noises, and apparently reproduced again.

I looked away for five minutes and my cute little August update had become:

GRIEF!

BELONGING!

FRIENDSHIP!

ABANDONMENT!

BIRTHDAYS!

MOM!

BEING FORGOTTEN!

WHO WILL CHOOSE ME?!

What the fuck happened?

I JUST WANTED TO TALK ABOUT AUGUST.

At some point I realized we had a full-blown Gizmo situation on our hands.

There was no putting this shit back into one neat, well-behaved blog post. Nope. This wasn’t a “wrap it up with a cute little bow” situation—this was a “don’t feed it after midnight or it multiplies into emotional chaos gremlins” situation.

That’s how The Big Flush was born.

I didn’t plan a series.

The series happened to us. Like a bad decision at 1:47 a.m. that you absolutely swear you’re not going to repeat… right before you repeat it.

And now apparently we’re three parts into an emotional gastrointestinal event that began because I wondered why August was going so fucking fast.

Which, honestly, feels like a very on-brand way for a GenX woman from Jersey to accidentally summon a full-blown spiritual plumbing crisis. I didn’t cast a spell. I didn’t light a candle. I didn’t even mean to open a portal.

I just asked a question.

The universe said: “Oh, you want answers? Cool. Here’s your entire emotional drainage system. Good luck.”

Seems reasonable.

Anyway.

Back to the blockage.

Because somewhere between laughing about emotional enemas, Hekate not accepting insurance (rude), and trying to determine WHO PUT 1989 IN THE TOILET—and more importantly, why it still has emotional resonance—something started banging around in the pipes.

At first I thought maybe we could ignore it.

You know how that goes.

What’s that noise?

Nothing.

Should the pipes be making that sound?

Probably. Everything in Jersey is either “probably fine” or “call someone who charges by the hour and judges you silently.”

Is something bubbling up over there?

DON’T LOOK AT IT.

And listen.

I have watched enough horror movies in my life to know the rules.

YOU DO NOT INVESTIGATE THE FUCKING NOISE.

Something scratches at the basement door?

You leave.

Something whispers your name from a room you know damn well is empty?

You leave FASTER.

A mysterious child appears at the end of the hallway?

Oh honey. No. Absolutely not. That is not a “go check it out” moment—that is a grab your keys, your dignity, and whatever vaguely suspicious bottle in the back of the cabinet might be holy water if we believe in it hard enough—and get the hell out of the house moment.

That house belongs to the child now.

Congratulations on your new property. Hope you enjoy the new management. I hear the HOA is… unsettling.

I am, however, immediately and respectfully removing myself from the lease, the mortgage, and whatever cursed HOA situation is happening there. I did not sign up for supernatural real estate, and I will not be taking questions at this time.

I’m moving.

And if you hear something growling underneath the bed?

You do not bend down and look underneath it.

WHY DOES EVERYONE ALWAYS LOOK UNDERNEATH IT?

This is basic horror-movie survival, people. I don’t make the rules—I just survive them.

And Supernatural taught us this shit for fifteen fucking seasons, so at this point ignoring it is basically spiritual negligence.

Salt.

Iron.

And a firm “absolutely not” whispered into the void while backing slowly out of the room like a woman who has seen some things and is not emotionally available for more.

Don’t make deals with demons.

And for the love of all things witchy, if a woman in a long coat named Hekate tells you she “just needs you to come downstairs for a quick look,” you suddenly develop amnesia and forget where stairs are.

And when something starts making unexplained noises, the correct professional, horror-movie-survival, witch-with-common-sense response is not to go wandering toward it alone in the dark like you’re auditioning for “First to Die in Act One,” armed only with the world’s shittiest flashlight and questionable optimism while politely asking:

“Hello?”

WHY.

WHY are we like this?

Why do we always announce ourselves like we’re knocking on a neighbor’s door with a casserole instead of potentially confronting something that absolutely did not RSVP to our nervous system?

Because let me be very clear:

If something answers you back…

That is not a conversation starter.

That is a hard stop, turn around, and reconsider your entire life choices moment.

I know this.

Logically.

Spiritually.

Magically.

And yet here I am… still occasionally acting like the haunted basement is going to go:

“Hey girl, yeah sorry about the noise, just reorganizing some trauma down here, my bad.”

Which, let’s be honest, would actually be refreshing.

Like imagine the emotional plumbing just politely texting you:

“Hey, just a heads up, we’re backing up some unresolved childhood stuff. Nothing urgent. Maybe don’t open that memory tonight. Thx.”

But no.

Instead it’s always:

creeeeeak

thump

low ominous rattling that absolutely does not sound like a friendly explanation

And me, a fully grown GenX Jersey witch in my 50s, still going:

“…Hello?”

Because apparently I contain multitudes.

Wisdom.

Experience.

A deep respect for the unseen.

And also the survival instincts of a raccoon in a Wawa parking lot at 2 a.m. who absolutely knows better but is still like, “Hmm… what’s in that bag though?”

Because let’s be honest—if emotional plumbing did have customer service, mine would be on permanent hold with elevator music from 1987, a faint smell of burnt coffee, and a recorded voice cheerfully informing me that my call is very important while absolutely nobody is ever, in fact, coming to the phone.

“Your call is very important to us. Please continue holding while we ignore your entire childhood.”

And I would STILL stay on the line.

Because I’m polite like that.

And slightly unwell.

And also convinced I can fix it myself with vibes, sarcasm, and whatever witchcraft I picked up from watching Practical Magic too many times while eating cereal for dinner—because nothing says “emotionally regulated adult” like Frosted Flakes and candle magic at 11:37 p.m.

Which, honestly, feels like a very “yell at the universe, make a sandwich, and emotionally negotiate with reality while lighting a candle and muttering ‘absolutely not’” kind of solution. Like I don’t know what the universe is doing, but I do know how to argue with it like it owes me money and then go eat something while I’m doing it.

And yet here we are.

And also the absolute audacity of a woman who has watched Supernatural for fifteen seasons, learned every rule, yelled at every character for breaking them, and still thinks she might be the exception to the rule—like the universe is going to go, “Oh wait, you? Never mind, carry on, you’re clearly exempt from consequences and horror-movie logic.”

Like I’m going to be the one who says, “No, no, it’s fine, I can totally go into the basement alone, nothing bad ever happens in basements,” while every Winchester ghost in existence is screaming in the background.

Spoiler alert:

I am not the exception.

I am, in fact, the opening scene.

And yet… there’s a part of me that still wants to believe that if I just shine the flashlight at the right angle, whatever is down there will be reasonable.

Like it’s just a misunderstood emotional raccoon.

Or a slightly dramatic ghost with boundary issues.

Or maybe—if we’re really being optimistic here—a situation that just needed a snack and a nap and not a full existential excavation with power tools and a support group on standby.

Because I want it to be simple.

I want it to be the kind of thing you can gently nudge with a broom handle and go, “Ohhh, that’s what that was,” and then it politely leaves like it was never emotionally haunting your entire nervous system in the first place.

But no.

It’s never that.

It’s always something that looks at the flashlight, blinks slowly, and goes:

“Cute. Now let’s talk about your childhood.”

Or Hekate herself leaning on a shovel like:

“Girl. I told you. You were not ready for this pipe.”

And I’ll be like:

“I know, I know—but I just wanted to check.”

Because of course I did.

Because curiosity didn’t kill the cat.

It just made her a witch in Tucson, in her 50s with a flashlight, a wrench she absolutely does not know how to use, and the emotional stability of a Wi-Fi signal in a thunderstorm.

I’ve watched the training materials. I’ve seen the documentaries. I’ve yelled at the screen. I’ve specifically said, out loud, in my own house, “Girl, don’t go in there,” like I’m coaching a very stupid version of myself through a haunted house.

I am prepared.

Spiritually. Magically. Emotionally. Allegedly.

So naturally…

I grabbed the emotional equivalent of the world’s shittiest flashlight—the kind that flickers like it’s also afraid of what’s down there—and went toward the noise anyway.

Because apparently I’m the idiot in this movie.

The one who knows better.

The one who has seen every horror trope since VHS and still goes, “Hmm… but what if I just take a little peek?”

creeeeeak

Hello?

NO, RAE.

Is someone down there?

STOP FUCKING TALKING TO IT.

banging intensifies

Hmm.

I should probably investigate.

THIS IS HOW PEOPLE DIE IN THE FIRST TEN MINUTES.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t exactly salt and burn my own psyche.

Although I’ll admit the thought crossed my mind.

So there I am, metaphorical flashlight in one hand, journal in the other, slowly walking toward the emotional basement while every horror-movie survival instinct I possess is screaming:

GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.

And somewhere behind me, I can practically feel Hekate standing there with that fucking clipboard from Part Two.

HEKATE: Keep going.

ME: Absolutely not.

HEKATE: You heard the noise.

ME: I hear lots of noises. I’m almost 56.

HEKATE: Rae.

ME: Fine.

So I opened the emotional basement door.

Looked down into the darkness.

And checked the label on the pipe making all that noise.

BELONGING.

Oh.

Fuck.

Not that one.

Can we close the door?

No?

Can we pretend we didn’t hear it?

Yeah, no. Of course not. The universe has excellent hearing and zero chill.

Can Dean Winchester come handle this?

Also no. Because apparently I don’t get supernatural backup, I get emotional accountability.

Fine.

Get the fucking wrench.

Because of course it’s not a cute little surface-level clog you can fix with a Pinterest solution and a candle that smells like “healing and citrus.”

No.

This is the kind of blockage that requires emotional plumbing gloves, a flashlight you don’t trust, and the kind of deep sigh that says I already know I’m not going to enjoy this.

And I hate that I already understand what I’m about to find in there.

Because “Belonging” doesn’t just sit politely in the pipe.

No.

It tangles.

It sticks.

It wraps itself around every moment you thought you were fine and whispers, remember me?

Yeah.

Unfortunately I do.

Because apparently the Mogwai reproduced, the Gremlins are loose, there’s something banging around in the basement, Hekate is standing there with a clipboard like this is a routine inspection, and the universe is absolutely refusing to make eye contact while wearing metaphorical rubber gloves.

And somehow we are still only on Part Three.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

Except now I think we just figured out what that noise was.

And suddenly all the banging, bubbling, rattling, and suspicious emotional plumbing makes a hell of a lot more sense.

There’s something stuck in there.

Actually, judging by the amount of noise it’s making, there may be decades of emotional debris, questionable decisions, and unresolved “I’ll deal with that later” energy jammed in there like a cursed hairball made of memory and poor coping skills.

Fantastic.

So I did what any responsible, completely unlicensed, emotionally overqualified human conducting a very illegal plumbing inspection of their own psyche would do.

I looked closer.

And there it was.

BELONGING.

Oh.

Fuck.

That’s the clog.

And this isn’t some cute little hairball you can just yank out with a plastic drain snake and pretend you’ve “handled it” like a responsible adult.

No.

This thing has roots. Deep ones. The kind that don’t politely loosen when you ask them to. The kind that laugh at your tools and settle in like they pay rent.

There’s an 18-year-old in there who left home thinking she could just… find somewhere safe to land. Like it was a simple errand. Like you just show up, pick a place, and the world goes, “Sure, honey, we’ve been expecting you—here’s your complimentary sense of belonging and a matching set of emotionally stable friends.”

There’s a teenager who learned pretty quickly that keeping people at arm’s length wasn’t cold—it was survival. Because letting them get too close meant they might notice the cracks, the soft spots, the parts that didn’t come with instructions or warranty coverage.

There were parties I showed up to like I had a role to play and no script, just vibes and anxiety.

There were people I desperately wanted to like me, like it was a job I could finally get right if I just smiled correctly and laughed at the appropriate volume.

There were friendships I kept trying to earn like loyalty points at a store that was absolutely not tracking my purchases.

There were things that happened that didn’t just hurt—they rearranged the furniture inside me and then acted like they’d always lived there.

There were rumors about a girl who apparently existed in everyone else’s imagination, fully formed and confidently incorrect, while I was over here just trying to figure out where to put my hands in a conversation.

And there were people I kept going back to long after they had already shown me, in HD clarity, exactly who they were—like I was convinced if I just replayed the scene one more time, the ending would magically change.

And somehow all of that shit got tangled together around one tiny question:

Do you want me here?

Oh.

There it is.

That’s the clog. Right there. Sitting in the pipe like it pays rent and refuses to leave.

Not friendship.

Not parties.

Not popularity.

Not even rejection.

Belonging.

And here’s where it gets annoyingly honest.

Because I don’t think the question anymore is:

Why didn’t those people choose me?

I think the question I’ve been dodging like a responsible adult avoiding eye contact in a group text is:

Why did I spend so many years acting like I needed them to?

Well.

Fuck.

That’s… inconvenient.

Emotionally rude, honestly.

Like finding out the problem wasn’t the universe, it was your own plumbing the whole time.

So yeah.

We’re going to need a bigger plunger.

Or possibly an exorcism.

Because Part Four is no longer about what’s making the noise.

Nope.

We’ve located the blockage.

We’ve made direct eye contact with it.

We’ve confirmed it is, in fact, the issue.

Now comes the part where we have to actually deal with it.

And judging by what’s wrapped around it…

1989 is about to come up with it.

And judging by what’s wrapped around this particular blockage…

1989 is coming up with it.

Oh, this is going to be disgusting.

Because apparently we aren’t dealing with one neat little clog that pops loose, circles the bowl twice, and disappears politely into the sewer system.

Nope.

This bastard has been collecting shit for decades.

Old friendships. Old wounds. Bad decisions. Rumors. Rejection. Loneliness. People I desperately wanted to love me. People I desperately wanted to like me. People I kept going back to long after any reasonable person would have declared the plumbing condemned.

And all of it tangled around that same tiny question:

Do you want me here?

So Part Four comes with a warning.

Get your waders on.

Actually, fuck the waders.

Bring the gloves.

Bring the goggles.

Bring the industrial-strength plunger.

Bring something you don’t mind burning afterward.

And for the love of the Goddesses, keep your mouth closed.

Because we’re pulling this thing out.

All of it.

And I have absolutely no idea what’s going to come flying out of the pipe when we do.

There will be mud.

There will be bullshit.

There will almost certainly be some shit that does not belong to me but somehow ended up attached to my name anyway.

And somewhere in that mess is a much younger version of me who spent years trying to earn something she should never have had to beg for in the first place.

Belonging.

That’s who we’re going in after.

So suit up.

Secure your valuables.

Stand clear of the splash zone.

And somebody make sure Gizmo is locked in another fucking room.

Because if you thought the emotional enema was messy…

we haven’t even pulled the clog yet.

To be continued…