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.
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