A Tale of Two, Part 2: Caroline

September 4, 1891

Father made me go into the city today. Because Mother is away at work, we cannot bother her with such a menial task, and Father must tend to the fields; it is my job to purchase food for the next week. He has given me seven pounds and sent Marie and John with me. I only hoped they would not find trouble.

I should have known better.

John ran off to watch the artists as soon as he spotted them in the square, and Marie went to touch the jewelry for sale. Both of them were reluctant to leave their fascinations. This was only the start of my frustrations.

John had hidden charcoal and paper inside his coat and began to copy an artist’s painting. The artist nearly took off his head, he was so angry. Then John thought it would be wonderful to draw an artist. Only, when the artist kept working, John became frustrated and asked if he could hold still. If I had not been there to intervene, I do not know what would have become of John. And Marie, oh do not start me!

She thought she would see what I thought of a bracelet she was going to purchase with the small allowance Mother provides her monthly, and ran away from the cart with it in her hand. The woman was incensed, but pardoned it on account of Marie’s age. The jewelry cost her everything she had. Father would not be pleased with all the mischief they were causing.

I finally convinced them to play with a group of children who were in the square with their mother; they were neighbors of ours.

The shopping was difficult. I had to haggle with several of the sellers to afford food for the week. It should not surprise you I was horrible at this and ended up spending much more than Mother would have on some items. They are horrible people, those in the London market. If they could help it, they would not spare me halfpence.

It was the last seller who gave me the most trouble. I had only a bit left to spend and he would not lower his price. I was ready to concede when a kind gentleman approached us and asked after the problem.

“This woman has not the money to pay for my bread. She wants me to lower my price but cannot give me good enough a reason to.”

“I shall purchase it then,” he said reaching into his jacket for his coin purse.

“I do not need it that badly,” I hurriedly said, turning to leave.

“No, I insist. A meal is nothing without bread.”

The seller handed him the bread in exchange for the money. The gentleman handed me the bread. When I did not accept it, he placed it in Mother’s shopping sack with the rest of our goods.

“Thank you,” I said, gazing down. The hair on the back of my neck was raised as he continued to stand there considering me.nMother had warned me of men purchasing things for women they have never before seen. He wanted something.

The laughter of children running past stirred me. Everything was bought; now I needed to locate John and Marie and return home to start supper.

He followed me as I walked through the streets searching for them.

“For whom are you searching?”

“John and Marie,” I replied, not noticing I had spoken.

His head bobbed up and down as if he understood.

“Your children?”

I looked at him properly for the first time, my eyes large.

“Not your children.”

“I am dreadfully sorry; that was rude.” My cheeks burned.

“Not at all. It was my fault for assuming.”

“Caroline! Caroline!” Marie shouted, running down the street toward me. I knelt to pick her up.

“What is it?”

“John was chasing me with Robert’s knife.”

“Now why would he do that?”

She shrugged. “Robert told him I was an Indian, like the ones in America, and he needed to scalp me. Then he handed him a knife and he chased me.”

John came running up then, stopping dead in front of me and trying fruitlessly to hide the knife behind him.

“Hand it over, John.”

“But Robert said I was to scalp Marie for being a savage.”

“I do not care what Robert said. Hand it over.”

“But…”

“Do you want me to tell Father?”

“Oh, all right.”

Marie stood beside me as I set the knife in the shopping bag and turned back to him.

“We’ll return it to Mrs. Cole on the way home. But I do not want you accepting any weapon from Robert again. Robert does not know of what he speaks.”

“But Robert said a man is supposed to scalp a savage when he sees one in America.”

“Has Robert ever been to America?”

“No.”

“Then how does Robert know?”

“Caroline…”

“Do not whine. If you whine, I shall tell Father everything.”

“Do not do that! He shall take away my charcoal.”

“Then behave. I do not want you running off somewhere on the way home.”

“Yes, Caroline.”

“I want to eat, Caroline. When is supper?” Marie asked.

“I shall start preparing it when we are home.”

I took her hand and had just begun walking away when I remembered our “guest.”

“I am dearly sorry,” I said, turning to face him. “This is Marie, and this is John.”

He smiled at them. “And you are Caroline.”

“Yes, I am Caroline. But I know not who you are.”

“Josef Calloway.”

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Calloway, but we must be going.”

“I understand. It has been a pleasure.”

“It certainly has been.”

“Shall I see you again?”

“I do not know.”

“Where do you live?”

“On a farm. You undoubtedly live somewhere in London.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“The country dirt would soil your finery.”

“I suppose you are correct.”

“Caroline, may we go?” Marie whined, twisting her face to an odd distortion.

“Do not twist your face, Marie. Or it shall stay like that forever.”

“Well, may we?” John asked, burrowing his hands in his pockets and staring holes into his toes.

“Yes.”

“What is your father’s name?” Mr. Calloway asked.

“George Smith.”

“The man who harvests the best winter wheat annually?”

“That is what they say.”

He smiled—a rather brilliant sight; “I shall hope to see you again soon.”

I turned to Marie and John; “Say good-bye.”

They muttered their farewells as I wished him my own. I was nervous as we started home. My heart would not settle. It kept fluttering around in my chest. But I was not sure what it meant. I had never felt that way before. Of course, now I am better.

Mrs. Cole thanked us for returning her best cooking knife and promised us Robert would have a talk with his father. Marie and John kept inquiring about Mr. Calloway all throughout supper and until they were tucked soundly in bed. I answered the same thing every time. “He is a man who did our family a service today. We should be grateful.” I was too ashamed to tell them what exactly he had done. That would mean admitting I was horrible at shopping and that would shame Mother.

Whatever his reason for helping me today, I would not mind knowing. But what it will cost me, I will pay. It is, after all, my fault.

A Tale of Two, Part 1: Caroline

September 1, 1891

Mother has given this journal to me to record my thoughts in this critical period before I am fully a woman. I love no man, nor have met any for whom I truly care, so I do not see how this will happen anytime soon.

“One must not be so pessimistic,” Mother says. She does not know what it is like to be a woman of seventeen and longing for a companion. How could she? She was married at fifteen to Father.

I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Caroline Smith. I am the oldest of three children in our family. Father is a farmer, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Mother is a homemaker, occasionally working as a seamstress when money is scarce. We are not wealthy people, but we survive.

Lately Mother has been working for a seamstress in London so we can save money to move to America. All her friends have already left for the new world. I fear she is ashamed because she has not the money to go. She may also be ashamed that I still am unwed. But if I were not here, who would there be to care for John and Marie? Father is always busy in the fields. He has not a moment to spare. And with Mother always out to work, I am the only one left. Of course, if John ever decided to grow up, he might be a reasonable candidate for the job. That is if Father did not recruit him to the fields first.

John is a boy of thirteen. He is old enough to work, by Father’s standards, but is too busy drawing and writing to notice much else. I must give him credit for keeping Marie busy while I clean the house. She loves to watch him draw his crazy imagination onto paper.

Marie is only five, but she is an intelligent beauty. Her eyes glow whenever John takes out his charcoal. Mother says she needs to learn stitching soon, but with everyone so busy, I doubt she will.

Father has threatened several times to make them pay for their charcoal and paper; Marie takes a piece of John’s stash and tries to mimic him. I think it is fascinating. Her sketches never come out quite like John’s, but both are beautifully made.

Truly, if I had the choice, I would never marry. Anyone my parents choose would haul me into the city. I am terrified of the city. It is so different from the countryside of my childhood.

Marie and John beckon me to begin supper, so I must leave you for now.

Ellen, Part 2

Ellen stood and swung her bag over a shoulder, rushing from the office. Once she was half-way across the school, Ellen burst inexplicably into tears. Something swelled in her chest and her brain raced to find a cause, stumbling in the tangles of her self-loathing. Her legs collapsed from under her and she found herself caught in the arms of Dev, Jeremy’s friend.

Dev had bronzed skin and was remarkably tall; basketball was as natural for him as breathing. He was a gangly small-town boy, relatively new to the suburban school.

“You don’t look too good, Ellen,” Dev said. “You want to go to the nurse?”

She shook her head. “No. It’ll pass.”

“Aren’t you concerned about a repeat?”

Again her head shook. “I’m dying anyway, Dev. You know it; you were there when I got the first results.”

“So it didn’t change?” he asked gently.

“We both knew it wasn’t going to change,” she cried angrily.

Dev helped her to a nearby bench. “What’s wrong?”

“My life is over, Dev!” she choked. “Everything I had, everything I was…it’s all just falling away…I can’t handle this and keeping it together. I spend all day thinking about it. About what would have happened if I had said no that night. Or if I had never gone for the test. Or if I had just taken the flu and gone on with my life…nothing would have changed.”

Dev hugged her firmly. “Ellen, nothing has to change. Your obsession is depriving you of everything you had. Not your condition.”

She pulled away from him. “That’s not true!” Her face burned from tears and anger.

“It is,” he said. “You think about everything that went wrong and led up to this, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re still here, and you still have a life to live.”

At first, all she could do was stare at him, her emotions evaporating as his words sank in. Then traitorous thoughts appeared, convincing her he was right. Why should she allow everything she had worked so arduously for slide from her grasp? It was hers already; why was she letting it go?

She collapsed into tears, slumping against Dev and welcoming his comforting embrace.

“Let it all go. Forget about Jeremy; forget about dying; come to terms with it and your emotions. Once you do, you’re golden.”

Ellen cried for what seemed to be the better part of an hour. The anger, fear, and pain of the past several months seemed to wash away from her. The tangles of doubt and self-hate started to unravel. As she cried, the journal slipped from her hands, landing softly at their feet.

When she quieted, Dev handed her a handkerchief from his back pocket. Smiling, he said, “I thought you might need one.”

“Why? Why help me?”

“I figured someone needed to remind the genius that everyone is dying. From the moment we’re born, the one destination we all have in common is the grave. That doesn’t stop any of the rest of us. Live life to the fullest and all that jazz. Remember? It was in your speech for presidency.”

“Yeah,” she admitted, smiling a little. “I remember.”

“Even though you’ve got HIV, with treatment you can live almost as full a life as you would have had.”

“Not really—”

“I said almost;” he smirked, brushing her chin with a knuckle. “Don’t smart me, I know what I’m talking about. I did my research…just so I could reassure you.”

“Really?” She hadn’t realized Dev cared that much; yet, here he was, dragging her screaming and crying from the depths of her funk.

“The point is,” he said, “there is no reason you shouldn’t keep being who you have been.”

She smiled warmly at him, feeling a glimmer of her old herself. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand. Ellen picked up her journal. “There’s something I have to do.”

~*~

“I thought you didn’t want me to see this,” Mrs. Hardylen said, both eyebrows raised at the notebook being offered to her. “Change your mind already? It’s only been an hour or so.”

“Changes come quickly,” Ellen said. “It doesn’t matter if you see this or not. I’m going to be okay.”

Ellen, Part 1

Ellen stared at the mirror, pondering how it was possible someone else’s reflection could completely replace her own. The person staring back at her wasn’t the star student destined to be valedictorian, nor the class president, head of four clubs, and member of ten more. The person holding her gaze so gallingly steady was an HIV ridden horror, the disease practically crawling under her skin, draining the life from her eyes and the color from her limbs. But the answer she desperately avoided was that this wasn’t a different person.

It was her.

She didn’t have anything against people with HIV or AIDS. They were regular people, just with a shorter expiration date. When she had initially learned of her own contraction three months prior, her world had changed. She had thought, surely, the six-month result would be different. When it wasn’t, she felt as broken as when Jeremy had looked at her and knowingly shared his cursed disease.

Jeremy hadn’t contacted her since he had betrayed her trust, but she hadn’t been keen on tracking him down either. She hadn’t been keen on facing anyone, lately. Life didn’t seem like it could continue the way it had. Once you were doomed, what was the point in pretending nothing had changed?

“Ellen, sweet,” her mother called from the doorway, smartly dressed in a heather gray suit and her bob tucked perfectly behind her ears. “Unless you want to attend school in your nightgown, I suggest you change.”

Ellen stared a moment longer at the sickly image before turning to her mother. “What’s the point? In a few years, it won’t even matter.”

“Fifteen years is not a few. And even if it won’t matter then, I am not supporting you unless you attend and finish college.”

“Dad would support me.”

She scoffed. “Your father only supports us because the court requires it.”

“Maybe he’s changed,” Ellen said softly.

“People don’t just change over night, sweet.”

“I did.”

Her mother opened her mouth a couple of times as if to say something, but ultimately bit her lip and looked down the hall. Ellen turned back to the mirror, contemplating the day ahead. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, mother,” she said, turning her face from the deceptive device before her, forcing a smile.

“I’ll have your breakfast ready then.”

As she disappeared, Ellen gazed a while into the horrible lie of a reflection. She could no longer stand the notion of what had become of her because she had thought Jeremy loved her.

“Stop lying to me!” she screeched. Ellen stormed across the room, grabbing a bottle of perfume from her dresser and throwing it at the mirror; both shattered in an excellent explosion of glass.

~*~

Her mother had informed the school counselor of the morning’s incident. She didn’t, as agreed, mention HIV. It was a custom within the family not to discuss unpleasant details that were no one else’s business and would eventually fade from everyone’s memory. Ellen’s case had nearly led to a divergence of practice as her mother wanted the school to know in case of emergencies; Ellen had convinced her to treat it as anything else.

That is how she found herself sinking into the overly soft couch in Mrs. Hardylen’s office.

Her counselor swiveled in the cushy chair to face her, smiling brightly as though the world could forget its worries so long as she believed the sun was shining.

“Your mother tells me you had an episode this morning,” she began. “She also tells me that you’ve been suffering bouts of depression lately and aren’t comfortable confiding in her.” Ellen sat stoically, staring through the cheery woman before her to her terribly malevolent imaginings. “She wanted me to talk to you about it. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes.”

“Your teachers have noticed a difference in the last few months as well, Ellen. I’ve received messages about your slipping grades, lack of participation, and growing tendency to daydream in class,” Mrs. Hardylen said, genuine worry lacing her voice and causing a deep crease to appear between her brows. “Are you sure you don’t have something you wish to discuss?”

“I’m sure,” Ellen tartly said. She hated being treated like a child; if people could even begin to understand, she would gladly share. But that wasn’t the case.

“A few of your teachers also noticed you scribbling away sometimes in a journal…is that it?”

She clutched the pale blue hardback to her chest, wanting to protect her thoughts from prying, unworthy eyes. Her journal never questioned and understood everything. Within its covers she, the real Ellen, was safe. Every moment of doubt, anger, and overwhelming depression was carefully documented to relieve her from herself.

“May I go?”

“May I see the journal?” Mrs. Hardylen reached forth an open hand.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You might be surprised,” she said, her hand still outstretched.

Ellen stared blankly back, her hands white and shaking with the ferocity of their grip. The journal was the last bit of herself she could hold onto and she didn’t want to relent it to anyone.

Mrs. Hardylen’s hand fell gently back onto her lap as she leaned back. “I guess that will be all for today.”

Project Rebirth

"You think she'll thank you when she wakes?"

"Who knows what she'll do when she wakes. It's not like we asked her permission."

"But you must suspect something to come from this. Why else would you bring her back?"

"If you really want to know, it has nothing to do with who she was; it has everything to do with who she will be."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Cerebral damage of this extent is…there's no coming back from it."

"You just said she'd—"

"After this procedure."

"So this is experimental?"

"Of course. She signed up to be a donor. In this case, a donor to science."

"If this is successful—"

"When this is successful, you mean."

"If you insist."

"I do."

"So, when this is successful…what’s next?"

"She'll be a beacon of hope."

"Hope for whom?"

"For every person suffering extreme mental damage. For every parent with a damaged child. For any average Joe who cracks his skull open for kicks and giggles. She's the door to the new age."

"You think this will catch on?"

"People are always looking for cures; this is just that.”

"Will she remember who she is?"

"Who she was, you mean?"

"Of course."

"No. The damage was too much to recover personal memories. She'll remember basic motor functions, and will be able to learn.”

"But she won't be the same person."

"Never. We'll give her a new identity, re-teach her everything. We'll keep her safe from outside interference."

"Why?"

"People are viruses in themselves. They see a pretty new toy, have to have it, and then destroy it."

"So she'll be completely secluded?"

"Of course not. She'll have doctors and pre-screened tutors. She'll have the best of everything. The military insists on it; they want this project to succeed as much as anyone…maybe even more so."

"What is this project called, by the by?"

"I would think it was obvious after everything we've just discussed, Miss Watson."

"For the record."

"It's elementary dear. This is Project Rebirth. An artificial start at recreating life."

Sonnet

His brow is furrowed, but not in anger

His eyes light up as you walk together

And although you know there is no danger

You must tell yourself it’s not forever

You know the truth, though prefer to deny

He might dishearten and leave you broken

Yet there’s something like love trapped in his eyes

Words, he too, is afraid to hear spoken

So now you decide what path you will take

Silence and confession have pros and cons

Will you discover his heart is true or fake?

You imagine he will love, dote, and fawn

              Over you. But you fear you’re wrong, and he

              Will leave you alone, defective, and empty

House Down the Hill, Part 9

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, I can hear cars in the distance, and people talking about homework. The light through the floor is the soft gray of a cloudy day.

“Help!” I shout. “Please help!”

It crosses my mind many people will bolt the moment they hear the screaming, but I just need one person to call. Call 911, DPS, even the duty phone. I just need one person to call.

Somebody called. The ambulance, the makeshift ramp, being rushed to the hospital for x-rays and other health exams—it’s all a blur of sheer gratitude. My leg is broken in three places and Catherine chides me for running off. She calls my parents and lets them know I’m safe and alive because I ask her to. They won’t be happy with me, but they’ll hire the lawyer to reduce the charges to something minor and help coach me on handling the University conduct board.

The court requires me, among other things, to see a therapist. The psychiatrist tells me I had been going a bit crazy from the Diethylpropion. When I explain I had stopped taking the diet suppressant toward the end of the first week, the doctor merely says traces of the drug had likely stored in my fat bodies to be dispersed in the blood stream. I’m not sure I buy into his explanation; while it is possible, I feel like the hallucinations wouldn’t have been as powerful or lasted as long as they had. But who knows? By now, the drug is flushed from my system entirely. Though I try to accept this rationale and move on, I still feel some apprehension as I hobble past the house on my way to and from classes.

After that night, they re-boarded the window and posted “danger, no trespassing” signs on the yard. Since then, they have also erected a fence around the property. One of those cheap rent-a-fence things anyone can slip past if they really want. For weeks, it sat with its fence and its signs, quiet and still.

Today a bulldozer is sitting outside the house. Sometime between when I leave for class in the morning and come back in the afternoon, the house has been leveled. All that remains is rubble and the cement walls of the basement. I stand a while, watching the machine scoop up the chunks of wall and brick, dropping each load into a giant dumpster. In a couple more weeks, the hole where the basement had been will be completely hidden under dirt. But even before that, rumors of a shadow start circulating. The shadow is something big and angular, staring at the place where a house used to be. It makes me wonder if I hadn’t imagined it after all.

House Down the Hill, Part 8

Although the room is equally devoid of light, the kitchen seems brighter for its white counters and floors. There are three doors in the space, one leading outside, one shut tightly, and the third cracked open. I slink to the open one, careful not to touch it. I hold my breath as I shine my light through the crack, preparing to see stairs or, worse, some horribly disfigured face.

It’s a laundry room. A broken plastic basket sits on an old top loading washer. Just as I begin to breathe a little easier, I hear footsteps. Heavy, plodding footsteps. They’re coming from behind the closed door, the sound louder and more distinct with each passing moment. Any thoughts of proving my sanity are forgotten as I dash back through the living room, taking the shortest path to the—

Falling, and my own shrill voice filling my ears as something hard scrapes against my side and the streetlight outside disappears from my vision. I bat the carpet from around me and marvel at the hole above me. Then I remembered the woman last night had mentioned termites.

I flash the light around the room. It’s damp down here and smells of mold and mildew, but there are no chains or weapons or torture devices. There is no trace of blood or furniture of any kind. There isn’t even an echo of footsteps anymore. Just plain cement walls, rotted wood, a dusty old beast of a rug, and a single wooden door. I want to laugh and cry all at the same time. I’m going to live; there isn’t some psychopath waiting to kill me—if there was, I reason, he would have come back down stairs the moment I started screaming and falling. But all this didn’t explain what I had been hearing. I know I had heard it,but there wasn’t anything to prove it.

Discouraged but calm, I decide it’s time to go back, shower, and sleep. I roll around onto my knees and pain immediately shoots up through my right leg. My second attempt, I shift my leg to put less pressure and weight on it and excruciating pain seizes my entire body.

“It’s okay, Suze,” I tell myself aloud, taking the bag from my shoulders and starting to sift through it. “You’ll just call…or you won’t call 911.”

In all my planning, I have failed to remember my cell phone. I panic, realizing it isn’t yet one in the morning and I’m trapped, immobile in a house no one wants to go near. I start screaming for help, hoping there are yet one or two stragglers from late night excursions who might help me or at least call the duty phone. After a while, I realize it’s futile to waste my voice until morning. I spend my time trying to stand up. I even scoot to a wall, grimacing and biting my lip until my mouth fills with a strong coppery fluid. With much pain and effort, I find a way to my good foot and hobble to the door.

For a moment, I think I might be able to at least make it to the window. Then I see the narrow staircase. Not only is it about as wide as I am, but the stairs are steep and my left leg already feels like giving out on me. The thought of sitting down and going up backwards crosses my mind, but the stairs aren’t stone. Not only am I unsure if I could even use my arms to help push me up each step with as narrow as it is, but I can’t tell if the stairs are sturdy all the way up. The last thing I want to be is stuck in a staircase in a house no one will go near.

The February chill seeps into the basement, quickly permeating my skin. I pull my black sweater tighter around me, but I’m starting to shiver. Slumping carefully against a wall, I pull the heavy carpet over me. It may be grimy, but at least it’s something.

House Down the Hill, Part 7

While Catherine is away at class—which I opt not to attend today—I prepare a bag of supplies for that night. I find a hammer and a heavy monkey wrench in the toolkit in my car. After searching a while, I’m able to locate the flashlight in my backseat as well. It all goes into a little shoulder bag with my camera. Back in my room, it takes me some time to find a suitable outfit for the night, something all in black. It makes me feel like I’m in a movie, which makes the whole ordeal seem less real. I know it very much is real and my sanity relies on proving it. I’m not sure I can take the rest of the semester waking up to someone screaming bloody murder all night or someone pounding on the door again. I’m not crazy and I’m going to prove it.

My heart is racing the entire time I’m lying in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Catherine is snoring tonight; I think she’s coming down with a bug. I’m waiting for the screaming to start because it means the figure is inside the house and not outside my door. It starts about 12:30, as shrill as ever. I jump from my bed, swing the bag over my shoulder and head out. Shaking and scared or not, this ends tonight.

The walk to the house is eerie. Clouds hide the moon and stars while streetlights cast the trees as long spindly shadows. There is no one around, no parties raging on at the fraternities further down the hill, and no one shouting or playing on any of the athletic fields nearby. It seems even the residents of the apartment building have all turned in early, leaving the night desolate, with no one else to hear the screaming and pleading coming from within those mismatched walls.

All of the stories seem to suggest the psychopath uses the back and side doors. I’m hoping that means the front will be clear. With my size and the height of the windows, it also makes the most sense if I’m breaking in—uh, investigating. The screams are so loud standing on the porch, I want to cover my ears and cower in my fort. But I can’t; not if I want to prove to everyone I’m not insane.

I take out the hammer and wait for the scream to be loudest before swinging at the plywood. It takes quite a while, but eventually the wood gives way to a dark and dusty room. The hammer returns to my bag and I replace it in my hands with the flashlight and monkey wrench. My flashlight illuminates the sparsely furnished place. A few wooden chairs dot the room, all of them tipped over. An old faded carpet sits heavy in the middle of the floor, the tassels still a beige color showing through here and there from underneath the grime. There’s an end table with the remains of a lamp near a doorway with a fridge visible just beyond.

The screaming hasn’t yet stopped, so I hope if I’m less than graceful, my noise will be covered up. I swing a leg over the window sill, steadying myself as I bring the other one over and twist to face the interior. A shadow appears in the corner of my eye, causing me to almost fall backward through the window. I shine my flashlight in that direction, only to find a rocking chair with a coat draped over the back. Sighing, I slowly slip into the room.

The screaming sounds like it’s coming from the basement. As soon as I realize this, it stops. My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m sure the shadowy figure can hear it. He hears it and he’ll come bounding up the stairs any moment now to silence it. I push the thought out of my mind and begin to move towards the kitchen, walking along the outside of the room. It always seems the stairs to the basement are in the kitchen, especially in horror movies.