It Lives In The Basement

by Sahara Foley

  Pushing a few more items around with his pen, he used his handkerchief to pick up a key-ring with a large silver tag that had a Libra sign stamped on it. Striding briskly to the front door, he used the first key on the ring to lock/unlock the front door. He walked out into the cold toward an old, rusty, red Mustang hatchback. Using the round key, he unlocked the hatchback and stared inside: an old paintbrush, a worn-out pair of gloves, a few empty beer cans, and bags from some fast food joints. Nothing else.

  Shivering, he shut the hatchback and headed for the warm house. At the front door, Flynn turned around. None of the eight people standing around had spoken to him, although they watched his every movement. Turning, he went back inside, content to leave the eight sightseers standing outdoors in the crisp, nine degree air. He shivered again as he headed toward the kitchen, grateful when he heard the furnace kick on again.

  In the kitchen, he took a coffee mug out of the dish strainer, filled it with water, and placed the mug inside the microwave, located in the pantry. After the microwave beeped, he added instant coffee, which he'd found on the counter. Sitting at the small, tan kitchen table, he lit a cigarette then sipped his steaming coffee. Leaning back in the kitchen chair, long legs outstretched, he surveyed the room.

  He had never seen a kitchen with five doorways. Two of the doorways were on the east side of the room, one for the backdoor and the other for the bathroom. On the south side of the room, behind where he sat, was a doorway for the pantry, and right next to it, the doorway to the basement. The last doorway was on the west wall, leading into the dining room / library. The kitchen table sat against the west wall, and when he leaned back, he could see from the kitchen, through to the dining room, and into the living room.

  He sat there, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray, waiting, but not sure why. One thing he felt certain of though, that Pat Forbes wasn't going to come home, and demand to know who the stranger was sitting in her kitchen, drinking her coffee. And he also felt John Sempek wasn't coming back home either. He couldn't find any hard evidence indicating something was wrong, just some circumstantial clues. Making a judgment call without some evidence of violence, a break-in or other wrongdoing was difficult. Yet he knew these people weren't alive any longer. He could feel it in his gut, as he sat in their kitchen, sipping their coffee.

  “Well, Flynn, if you're wrong, it sure as hell won't be the first time,” he murmured, and then smiled, as he knew his reputation over the years had proven his hunches were more often right than wrong. And when he felt as certain, as he did now, sitting here sipping their coffee, he had never been wrong.

  When his mug was empty, he refilled it and placed it back in the microwave. As he waited for the beep, he said to the kitchen, “Well, Pat, you're not talking to me at all. Maybe John will.”

  Flynn went back into the front bedroom, picking up the spiral notebook Daniels had shown him earlier, and then headed back toward the beeping microwave. As he passed in front of the bedroom doorway on the south side of the dining room, the old floorboards gave out a protesting squeak. In one spot, the worn floorboard felt squishy under his foot.

  Back at the kitchen table, with his hot coffee, he opened the notebook. “Okay, John, let's see what you have to say.”

  John Sempek wrote stories, and what the Lieutenant was looking at was obviously another of his efforts.

  “Well, John, since I have a lack of evidence to go on, and I sure as hell don't want to go out and talk with your neighbors in the cold, I think I'll kill some time and read your story. Let's see what kind of writer you were.” He smiled when he realized he had used the past tense.

  In the notebook were thirteen handwritten pages, in pencil. He turned to the beginning and read:

  'I hope no one reads this, because that means I'm dead. I know the cats are, and I'm positive Pat is too. They were killed by this Thing living in our basement. I know this sounds crazy, but what I'm saying is true. I've never seen the Thing, but have caught glimpses of it several times.

  'Being a rational man, and knowing the kind of imagination I have, I told myself what I was seeing was my eyes playing tricks on me, or a trick of the shadows. For example, when you're lying in bed in the dark of the night and you see clothing piled up on a chair. Even though you know those are the same clothes you took off before going to bed, you have one hell of a time convincing yourself, and your frightened mind, that there isn't someone, or something standing there, watching you.

  'It became easier for me to ignore what I was occasionally seeing, and I had myself half-convinced it was our new, black kitten I was catching glimpses of, as a dark ball of fur darted around. So, whatever has happened to Pat is my fault. Because, you see, our cats disappeared on Monday. Yet early on Tuesday, when I again saw that same dark ball of fur, I still told myself it was Charlie. I had too. What else could I tell myself? Please, be patient, and I'll try to explain the best I can.'

  Glancing up, Flynn rolled his shoulders then lit another cigarette. The handwriting was in light pencil, and difficult to read. The faint writing didn't make it any easier on his already tired eyes. He sipped his coffee and began reading again.

  'We already had two big, white female cats, Muffitt and Stuffitt, and a few months ago we took in a small kitten, Charlie, who had been born wild. We keep the cats' food and water bowls in the basement. Cats are sloppy eaters, and a kitten is worse. Anyway, after we took in the kitten, the amount of dry cat food we were going through more than doubled, and the water bowls were always empty. Pat and I thought it strange that suddenly we were going through eight to ten pounds of dry cat food a week. It wasn't possible for one small kitten to eat five or six times what our full-grown cats did, even when they had been kittens themselves. But we thought that had to be the reason, and let it go.

  'Monday, I was home all day until it was time to pick up Pat from work at 5:00 pm. I had been in the front bedroom we use as our office, working on my stories, except for trips to the bathroom or coffee breaks. At 4:05 pm, I went to the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and tried to unwind before I had to go fight traffic to pick up Pat. On each trip from the office, I had seen at least one or all three of the cats somewhere in the house. But when I went into the kitchen for the beer, I'm positive I didn't see any of them. Their disappearance didn't register with me at that time, as there had been more than one occasion when all three of the cats had been in the basement together.

  'Feline lovers understand that cats always seem to know what time you get up in the morning and when you come home at night. Well, all three of them would be there waiting for Pat as soon as she set foot through the door. They didn't care about me, but Pat always had to stop and pet or scratch them the minute she came home. This was an established ritual for them.

  'I picked up Pat, and we went to this bar we like to frequent. We arrived home around 7:30, and that's when it became apparent there was something wrong. We didn't see any cats. We searched all over the house, but they weren't anywhere. Pat became really upset. By the time we went to bed, she was convinced I had done something to the damn cats, because I always teased Pat about cooking them for dinner, and making house slippers out of their fur.

  'The only lame excuse I had was that the landlord might have stopped over after I left, and the cats had gotten spooked and ran outdoors. But we knew my explanation was a crock of bullshit. Our cats wouldn't go near the door as it was damn cold outside on Monday. Pat cried herself to sleep, hating me, while I laid there trying to remember the last time I saw the dummies.'

  Again, Flynn looked up from the notebook, rubbed the kink in his neck, and then lit another smoke. He sipped his cold coffee, and went back to the story.

  'Pat is a hard worker, and usually gets up at 5:00 am, but many times I wake up earlier than her. Once I wake up, I can't go back to sleep, so instead of tossing and turning and accidentally waking up Pat, I get out of bed and go work on my stories. Because I don't want to disturb her, I usually don't turn on the bedroom light.

&nb
sp; 'After a fitful night of sleep, I woke up early on Tuesday. When I glanced at the clock, it read 3:10 am. I carefully climbed out of bed, and using the flashlight from the nightstand, proceeded to dress. When the flashlight beam hit my pile of clothing, I thought I saw the Thing again, or at least a part of it, as it disappeared under the bed. I caught a fast glimpse of something that looked like course, brown hair. Then, it was gone. I stood staring at the spot for a few seconds, then I grabbed my clothes and left. And God help me, I never looked under the damn bed. I kept telling myself it was a shadow from moving the flashlight around. But you see, I never knelt and looked. If I had, Pat would still be alive.

  'I went into the kitchen and turned the light on, but not the bathroom light. After I flushed the toilet, I walked back out into the kitchen, past the open basement doorway, and from the corner of my eye, I thought I saw two, round, yellow eyes reflecting the kitchen light back up to me from the bottom of the basement steps. I stopped and peered down the stairs, but wasn't able to see very far in the dark, so I turned on the basement light. There was nothing on the bottom step.

  'I drink too much, and for a while, I've been hitting the beer pretty hard. I easily convinced myself I was seeing things from my overindulgence. Half my brain was telling me this, and it sounded much better than what my logical half was trying to tell me, so I promised myself to cut down my drinking. I shut off the kitchen light, and took my coffee into the office, closing the door so my typing wouldn't bother Pat. I switched on my radio and got busy.

  'I came out of the office at 5:40 for more coffee. It dawned on me Pat hadn't bothered me for her ride to work. Because Pat's usual ride to work was off this week, I was taking her back and forth. I figured she had either overslept, or wasn't feeling well. I went into the bedroom to see what was wrong. Her robe was there, on the door where it always hung, but she wasn't in the bedroom. As cold as the temperature was last night, I knew she wouldn't leave the bedroom without her robe. Still trying to be rational, I told myself she had already dressed in the bedroom, and was probably in the bathroom.

  'Flicking on the kitchen lights, I stood in the doorway, noticing that she wasn't in the dark bathroom either. I switched on the bathroom light anyway, just to make sure, but no Pat. I yelled her name with no response. I decided to check the basement, so I turned on the basement light. My heart stopped when I saw what was lying on the second to the bottom step. One gray, wool sock. As Pat's feet were always freezing, she usually wore that pair of heavy, old, wool socks to bed when it was cold.

  'I walked halfway down the steps and found the other one. Her second sock was lying on the floor next to the water heater, but it looked different. I walked over, picked it up and found warm, sticky blood on the sock. Oh, not much, a few drops, but enough to see it was blood, and the blood was fresh.

  'I stood looking around the basement, and then walked to the door in front of me. Half the basement is finished, and behind that door is the unfinished part. It's under the front part of the house, with a dirt floor and walls. We never go in there except to read the water meter, located just inside the doorway.

  'I opened the door, but couldn't see anything but blackness. Then, right at the edge of the doorjamb, where the dirt floor begins, I saw the scrapes. It looked to me like something had been dragged in there. Something heavy. Pat weighs around one hundred seventy pounds, which sounds overweight, but not for a six foot tall woman.

  'We had been in that dirt room Monday evening searching for the cats, and I was positive those scrape marks weren't there then. The room didn't look any different, just the one light bulb, the water meter, dirt floor, walls, and an old piece of cardboard leaning against the wall in the far corner. The light bulb hangs from the ceiling, about six feet into the room, right at the edge of the light shining in from the finished room. Everything beyond is blackness.

  'Now, whoever reads this has to believe me. I couldn't MAKE myself go into that room. Not even far enough to turn the light on.

  'There weren't any strange sounds coming from the dirt room, but I stood there paralyzed for what seemed a long time. When I could finally move, I closed the door and dropped her socks. I went back upstairs, into our bedroom, and retrieved my 9mm pistol out of the dresser drawer. Now, I'm sitting at the kitchen table writing this. And believe me; my back is NOT to the basement door.

  'I realize now there were signs I should have noticed before; items that had been moved, or food that had disappeared. I also remember the night a few weeks back, when the three cats were sleeping on the bed with us and the bedroom door was closed for warmth. Something, a noise, awoke me.

  'As this is an old house, it makes plenty of noises, especially in the winter. But there are certain noises the house makes when you stand or walk on specific spots on the dining room floor. That's the noise I heard, and it only comes from one place in the house, a spot about two feet outside our bedroom door. The noise is a very specific squeaking sound. The floorboard never squeaks when the cats walk across it, so it requires more than eighteen pounds of pressure to make the sound. I know that was the noise that had awoken me.

  'Pat heard the squeak too, whispering to me in the dark about the noise she had heard. I silently squeezed her hand, and we laid there, listening. Still in a whisper, she asked me if it sounded like something was breathing. And it did; a harsh, raspy kind of breathing, right outside the bedroom door.

  'I was trying to see the dresser in the dark, where I keep my gun, when we clearly heard another noise. Pat said it sounded like the cracking of knuckles, which I do on a regular basis. I agreed with her then, but I know better now.

  'As I'm writing this, it occurs to me that the noise wasn't the sound of cracking joints, but the clicking of clawed feet on the tiled, kitchen floor.

  'The furnace kicked on then, making too much noise to hear any more small sounds. So we jumped from bed. With my gun in one hand, and the flashlight in the other, I began searching the house, Pat right behind me. We turned on every light in the house, and checked all the windows and doors. Even the basement, and though we knew there were no openings in the dirt room, we searched anyway. Before long, we had ourselves convinced the noises we heard were the house settling from the cold. What else could it be? The place was tightly locked.

  'And my God, one part of me knew there was someone, or something, in the house with us. Because of my overactive imagination, I wouldn't let myself dwell on the possibility. Otherwise, I'd wind up weaving baskets in the funny farm.'

  The Lieutenant felt a chill creep up his long spine. He suddenly had the sensation of being watched. He nervously got up and made more coffee. He had been sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the open basement door. He surprised himself by sitting back down at the table, facing the open doorway. He surprised himself further when he reached to turn the notebook around, and found he had drawn his revolver. His snub nose .38 lay next to his left hand, near his coffee mug.

  He stared at his revolver for a few seconds, then over at the open basement doorway. Flynn smiled. “Shit. This guy is a damn good writer. He had me going there. Yeah, claws clicking on tile. Sure.”

  Smile fading, he watched his left hand trembling where it rested on the butt of his gun. He gave a shake of his head; slowly removing his hand from the gun butt, then lit a cigarette, and took a sip of coffee. He did this without taking his eyes away from the open doorway. He couldn't make himself tear his eyes from the basement doorway.

  Suddenly, loud clicking noises echoed up the stairwell.

  He snatched up his gun, dropping his cigarette and spilling his coffee. Nerves stretched to the breaking point, he almost pulled the trigger, and at the last second, made himself hold off, realizing the new sound was the furnace kicking to life down there, nothing else.

  Still staring at the doorway, and with a silly grin on his face, he said softly to himself, “Goddamn, Flynn. You had better calm yourself, old man. You almost shot into the basement because of the fucking furnace.”

>   He had searched every part of the house twice before, including the dirt room in the basement. The small room had a dirt floor with dirt walls. He didn't remember seeing any scrape marks on the floor, but at the time, he was looking for a new grave or a body, so he may not have noticed the marks. Thinking hard, all he could remember observing in the room was the water meter, a few pole supports, and the light bulb. And off across the room, in one of the corners, a piece of cardboard leaning against the irregular dirt wall. But nothing that would have sparked any interest, like drag marks, or footprints.

  As he put his gun down, and retrieved his fallen cigarette, his head jerked up. He thought he saw movement in the shadows of the stairwell.

  Staring at the shadowy, open doorway, he muttered, “Christ. You're losing it here, Flynn.”

  With gun in hand, he crept to the basement doorway, switching on the light. With the shadows gone, he leaned in and looked closely. After a few minutes, he realized he was holding his breath, and released it. He silently climbed down three steps, leaning out, so he could see the whole basement. His eyes stopped at the door to the dirt room, but he didn't go down any farther.

  Upset with himself, he climbed back upstairs to the table and sat. He never asked himself why he left the basement light on.

  Using the heel of his hand, he scraped the spilled coffee from the table, wiping the soggy notebook on his brown suit pants. When he picked up his half-smoked cigarette, he noticed how much has hands were shaking, and after one more flick of his eyes to the open, but lighted, doorway, he looked down, and again, began to read the now wet story.