Room Beneath the Stairs

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  CHAPTER NINE

  I think it was the cold that awakened me. I hadn’t closed the windows, and the room was filled with an icy chill; a strong breeze was blowing through. I was sitting in the overstuffed jade green chair, still fully dressed. I remembered sitting down earlier, still filled with resolution; and I must have fallen asleep without realizing it. Rubbing my eyes, groggy, I went to the windows and closed them. What time was it, I wondered. How long had I been sleeping in the chair? Dark, ragged clouds had covered the moon, and the room was all blue and black shadows, the furniture barely visible, the whitewashed walls showing faintly in the gloom.

  Fully awake now, I stood in the darkened room, listening. Every nerve seemed taut, and I was cold, very cold. Why was I so tense? Why should I be straining to hear something? I couldn’t understand it. The chill had awakened me abruptly, true, but there was no reason to feel—alarmed. I frowned, trying to recall something, and then I remembered the nightmare. That was what woke me up. The details were foggy, vanishing when I awakened, but I seemed to recall a terrifying noise, so real that it had ripped away the layers of unconsciousness. My taut nerves were merely the aftermath of the nightmare.

  Weren’t they?

  I tried to relax, but still I listened. Outside, the wind raged; inside, the house was filled with those noises common to every old house. Windows rattled, curtains rustled, and there was an occasional scratching sound like paper tearing. In the darkness every creak and groan seemed magnified, but that was perfectly natural. It was absurd to be standing here as though—as though I expected to hear a bloodcurdling cry. Cry? Had it been a cry? I tried to remember, but the nightmare had completely eluded me now. I frowned, admonishing myself. Last night I had decided to be the intrepid girl detective, skillfully uncovering facts, and already I was acting like one of those jittery females I despised.

  As my eyes gradually became accustomed to the dark, I could see that the bedcovers were still smoothly turned down. Grey hadn’t come up to join me. Why? It bothered me just a little; and then I realized he must have gone to his own room out of consideration, knowing I was tired and irritable when I left the dining room. Dimly, I could see the luminous hands of the clock on the bedside table. It was just after four in the morning. I had no idea how long I had been sleeping, but the only sensible thing to do was undress and go to bed. Sighing, I walked over to the bed. I sat down, bent to take off my shoes and stockings … and then I froze.

  The cry rang out loudly, echoing through empty halls and rooms. It was a horrifying noise, half-human, half-animal, the hideous cry of a creature in anguish. Shrill, piercing, it swelled in volume, and then it ended abruptly. The silence that followed was almost as horrible. My hands were trembling. My blood seemed to have turned to ice. I stood up on legs that were barely able to support me. The cry was not repeated. It had come from downstairs, the lower regions of the house, the basement, I realized. Everyone in the house must have heard it, must be getting out of bed, turning on lamps.

  Not necessarily, I suddenly realized. I had already been awake, and there were no doors closed in my bedroom or sitting room. The others slept on the opposite side of the house. On this side there was only me, and Carlotta in the tower … and that staircase leading down to the basement. Carlotta might have heard it, but I doubted it. I might have been the only one. For a moment, standing there beside the bed, I was completely paralyzed; and then shock wore off and fear vanished, replaced by a curious calm that was almost as alarming as the fear had been.

  Quietly I stepped into the sitting room, not daring to think of the enormity of what I planned to do. It was insanity to go out into the darkness of the hallways, but I knew I couldn’t stay here alone. Grey. I had to go to Grey. He would know what to do. The wind blew strongly, and clouds swept away from the moon. Bright moonlight streamed through the windows of the sitting room, staining the floor with silver, filling the room with a misty silver-blue light and shrouding the walls with shadow. I peered at the dark opening of the staircase. It was a nest of blackness, and the narrow hallway below must be even worse. I couldn’t do it. Determination had given me temporary bravery, but not that much.

  Then I saw the small antique copper candlestick set on a table beneath the windows. A fat wax candle, half burned down, was crammed into the holder. A tiny drawer was built into the front of the table. I pulled it open, and, sure enough, there was a box of matches. I struck one and held the flame over the wick. In a matter of seconds the candle caught and began to spread a flickering yellow-orange light. Not giving myself time to think, I gripped the tarnished copper holder and started down the stairs, moving slowly, carefully, finally reaching the hall.

  It was a long, black tunnel. There must have been a light switch somewhere, surely, but I wasn’t going to waste time trying to locate it. My throat was dry. The hand holding the candlestick trembled. A voice inside me cried out that this was sheer madness; but the thought of staying alone in my apartment was far more terrifying than anything else. I wanted to run madly down the hallway. I wanted to scream hysterically. I forced myself to walk at an even pace, not daring to give way to the jangling emotions that beset me. Grey would know what to do. I must get to his room. I must keep calm. My skirt rustled as I moved. The noise echoed with the sound of whispers. My footsteps echoed, too. In the stillness, it sounded as though someone were directly behind me, matching my every step. The hall stretched ahead of me, interminable, stirring with shadows which the sputtering candlelight only served to intensify. I moved in a circle of dim, wavering golden light, darkness in front of me, darkness behind.

  The wind, soaring through some opening, sobbed plaintively. The sound was faint, coming from below, and I didn’t pay much attention to it. Reaching the wide hall, I turned to my left, walking faster now, eager to get to Grey’s room. This hall was much lighter, moonlight pouring through the end windows and creating a hazy grayish illumination. Shadows fell away as I drew nearer the windows. I stopped, startled, realizing suddenly that I had taken the wrong turn. I should be moving away from the windows, not toward them. I was only a few feet away from the doorway leading up to the tower … and the doorway that opened onto the basement steps. I was stunned, too frightened to move. The cry had come from the basement, and the sobbing … the sobbing was coming from there, too.

  I had thought it was the wind, but now I realized it wasn’t the wind at all. It couldn’t be. The sound that rose from the depths of the basement was human. Someone was down there, alone in the dark, heaving with sobs. The sobs were tormented, heart wrenching, an anguished expression of acute misery.

  My heart seemed to stop beating. It was a child. A child was making those sounds. I couldn’t believe it. Horror enveloped me like an icy mantle. The sobs rose, all the more terrifying now that I realized their source.

  After a moment they grew fainter, gradually diminishing. There was a soft whining noise, and then silence. The whole house was still. Even the wind had stopped blowing. My candle flame rose straight up like a thin orange taper, threads of smoke spiraling from its tip. I don’t know how many minutes passed—perhaps five, maybe more—before I was able to feel my heart beating again. Held immobile by stark horror, I had been unable to move, unable to think, and now, as I regained my senses, I felt the currents of cold, moist air eddying up from the basement. But there was no sound, none at all.

  Holding the candlestick aloft, I moved over to the doorway and peered down. Unlike the stairs leading up to the tower, these were wooden, bare of carpet. The flat brown steps looked worn and splintery, and a handrail was affixed to the wall on the right side. The candle washed the first few steps with pale yellow-orange light, but those beyond were shrouded in impenetrable black shadows. I was strangely calm, the hand holding the candlestick now remarkably steady. None of this was real. It was a nightmare. I was still dreaming. I would awaken in my bed, and none of this would have happened.

  In the darkness below, there was a soft rustle, a loud creak as weight was p
ut on wood. There was a grunt, another creak, another. Someone was coming up the stairs. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I was dreaming. I stood as though drugged, staring into the void of darkness beyond the flickering pool of light. The footsteps grew louder. I could vaguely see a dark form moving through the shadows.

  “Carolyn! What in God’s name—”

  I heard the soft rustle of heavy satin, saw the form take on shape and dimension and color. The shadows stirred, parted; candlelight burnished dark blond hair. Grey stood a few steps below, just within the range of light. He was wearing his tan pajamas and the opulent brown satin robe which gleamed darkly, rustling again as he moved up another step. His upturned face was sharply etched and pale. The corners of his wide mouth were taut, and his eyes were filled with incredulity and alarm.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely.

  “I heard a noise,” I said. “I started to go to your room. I took the wrong turn.”

  I should have been hysterical. I should have been babbling incoherently, flinging myself into his arms, holding on to him. I don’t know where the icy calm came from, but it possessed me completely. I held the candle steady, staring at my husband with a level gaze.

  “You must have taken leave of your senses,” he said nervously. “Wandering around in the hall—”

  “I told you, I heard a noise.”

  Grey seemed to pull himself together. He heaved his shoulders, sighing deeply. He came on up the remaining steps and stood beside me. He was large and warm; his blond hair was tousled, his expression guileless now. I should have felt relieved. I didn’t.

  “What was it, Grey?”

  At a loss, he hesitated, and then he spoke in a casual, studiedly innocent voice.

  “A cat,” he said simply. “Poor creature must have slipped into the basement sometime during the day and couldn’t find its way out. Its howling woke me up. I went down to let it out.”

  I didn’t believe a word he said. He seemed to realize that.

  “When I reached the basement, it was cowering behind a trunk, wailing like a lost soul. Took me forever to get to it. I put it out through a window. Little devil showed no gratitude whatsoever.” He held out his hand. There was a long red gash on the back of it.

  “Come on, luv,” he said affectionately, slipping an arm around my waist, “let’s go to bed. I’ll stay with you for the rest of the night. You must’ve had quite a fright—and no wonder. No telling what you must have thought. It was a cat, luv, just a cat.…”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The events of the night before seemed highly improbable as sunlight streamed into the room, strong, blinding, turning the walls a dazzling white. The darkness, the shadows, the fear were part of a dream that should have been forgotten when I awakened to the sound of sea gulls screeching. All of it should have receded into the hazy void where dreams languish and expire, out of mind, out of memory. Grey was gone. He must have left while I still slept. I bathed and brushed my teeth, put on a pleated navy blue skirt with matching top. I did all the normal, ordinary morning things, but this was no ordinary morning, I knew, and last night had not been a dream. It had been all too real, and no amount of rationalizing would make it any less disturbing.

  I sat down to brush my hair. In the mirror, my face was composed and curiously hard, the mouth set, a determined look in the eyes. This was a new, stronger Carolyn. The dreamy girl had vanished. Do people really change so much, I wondered, or had this Carolyn been there all along, dormant, waiting for the need to appear? In a crisis, people are the same; they don’t change, but they draw upon qualities untested before, not needed in everyday life, and they seem different. I seemed different, because the dreamy girl wouldn’t have been able to cope and so she had been replaced, if only temporarily. Would I ever be the same? After this, would I ever be able to drift along, serene, contented, uncomplicated as I had been before I came here? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to think about it.

  The house was filled with sunlight as I went downstairs, and there was a smell of wax and lemon oil. Judy was polishing furniture in the sitting room while Stella washed windows, dipping her sponge into a bucket of sudsy water. Through the open windows I could hear birds warbling merrily. Everything was peaceful, nothing out of the ordinary. Breakfast was served informally, buffet style, in the breakfast nook, a small, cheerful room near the kitchen with a yellow linen tablecloth and golden oak sideboard heaped high with dishes kept warm in silver servers. Fresh coffee perked in a tall silver pot. A plate of bread stood beside the toaster. Lifting heavy covers, I found rashers of bacon and slices of fried ham, eggs scrambled a fluffy yellow and hashed brown potatoes, all steaming hot. I was unusually hungry, having eaten little the night before.

  I was having my third cup of coffee when Evan entered the room. He was wearing faded jeans and a loose red and black striped jersey. With his disheveled hair and surly expression, he looked more like a beach bum than the executive of a large industry. He scowled at me and poured a cup of coffee.

  “Good morning,” I said pleasantly.

  He grunted, brows lowered over sullen eyes.

  “Are you always so charming in the morning?”

  “Look, I’ve been up since five, working, buried under a mass of important papers. There’s a little thing called the end-of-the-month report that has to be delivered this afternoon. You’ll forgive me if I don’t make pleasant chitchat. I have things on my mind.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Why, nothing at all. Do you dress like that when you go to your office at the cannery?”

  “My clothes offend you?”

  “You look like a waterfront thug.”

  “I’ve got the disposition of one, too. Watch yourself.”

  “My, my,” I said, goading him.

  Evan made a face, curled one hand around his coffee cup and sat down across from me. His face looked lined and weary. There were mauve-gray smudges beneath his eyes, as though he’d had little sleep. I wondered if he had really been working so early in the morning or if something else had caused that strained look. He sipped his coffee, lost in thought, apparently forgetting my presence.

  Five minutes passed. Sunlight slanted through the windows, shining on heavy blue dishes and making tiny sunbursts on silverware. The birds continued to warble, celebrating the glory of pure air and pale blue sky. In the sitting room Judy was humming, and there was a sloshing sound as Stella washed the windows. Evan peered down at his cup as though he were trying to find in the bottom of it the answer to an important question. He looked troubled—and fierce. I finished my coffee and folded up my napkin.

  “Have you seen Grey this morning?” I asked.

  “Huh?” He looked up, surprised to see me sitting there.

  “I asked if you’d seen my husband.”

  “He and Burke left over an hour ago. I think they were going down to look at the boat.”

  “And where is your mother?”

  “In her room,” he said impatiently, “with a damp cloth over her eyes, suffering nobly.”

  “Oh?” I said sweetly. “Did something disturb her?”

  He gave me a sharp look. He seemed about to explode, barely restraining himself from flying at me in fury. I managed to look very innocent. Finally he banged his empty cup down on the table and stood up.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” he said wearily. “I have to take the report over to the mainland after lunch. I suggest you find something extremely quiet to occupy yourself with.”

  “Knitting?” I suggested.

  He started to make some scathing retort but bit it back, glared at me, and then stalked out of the room. I smiled to myself, satisfied that I had gotten the best of him in our brief conversation. A few minutes later I heard the door to his office slam. Evan was very good at slamming doors, it seemed. I sat at the table for a while longer, debating what I should do. The morning stretched ahead of me. Evan was in his offi
ce. Helen was in her bedroom. Grey and Burke had gone down to the pier. It was an opportunity not to be missed.

  That curious excitement I had felt the night before welled up in me. I left the breakfast room, my pulses racing. The feeling was strangely like elation mixed with fear, the anticipatory feeling one experiences before a party, when one is eager to be there, yet afraid that something will go wrong to spoil it. I went upstairs and down the wide hall. It was flooded with sunlight now. The whitewashed walls were almost blinding. Without hesitating, I passed by the narrow hall leading to my apartment and moved on toward the dazzling cascade of light pouring through the windows at the end of the hall.

  There was probably a simpler way to get down to the basement, a door on the first floor opening onto the stairs, but I didn’t know about it. I wanted to start from the beginning, from the point where I had stood last night listening to the terrifying sobs that seemed so improbable now that night was gone and sunshine had replaced the shadows. Now, it seemed like a scene from a rather pedestrian horror film, wildly far fetched: heroine in darkened hall, paralyzed with fear as chilling sounds rise up from the sinister stairwell. But it had been real, all too real. The wind didn’t make that kind of noise. Neither did cats.

  With a tight feeling in the pit of my stomach, I started down the stairs. They creaked loudly, and although I knew the chances of anyone’s hearing were slim, I held on to the handrail tightly and placed most of my weight on the side, avoiding the center of the steps where the boards protested so audibly. Completely enclosed, with no windows, the staircase was naturally dim, but there was enough light for me to make my way down. I reached a landing and turned. It was darker here, and there was a sour smell of mildew and damp. Plaster hung to the wall in swollen flakes, and there were large brown spaces where it had fallen away completely.

  The second landing was larger, a square of shabby green carpet tacked over the floor. There was a locked door that obviously opened onto a hall somewhere near the kitchen. I could dimly hear the clatter of pots and pans in the distance. The steps leading on down were wider, veering sharply to the right. The walls were shrouded with thick black shadows, and there was barely enough light to see. I hesitated, wishing I had brought a flashlight or even the candle. My nerves were taut, the tight feeling in my stomach more pronounced.