I Live In Your Basement

by R. L. Stine

  I nodded. “Yeah. I don’t feel bad at all.” I finished the last of the cereal and poured myself a glass of orange juice. “I feel a lot better than yesterday,” I declared.

  “Gwynnie called me last night,” Jeremy said. “She wanted to know how you were doing. She was really messed up. You know. About hitting you.”

  I snickered. “You mean she didn’t brag about what a great swing she has?”

  “No way!” Jeremy insisted.

  “Well, it wasn’t her fault,” I said. “I ran right into her bat. It was a real smooth move.”

  We talked about the accident for a while longer. Then I asked Jeremy if he wanted to feel the purple bump on the side of my head.

  “Hey—no way!” he cried, making a sick face.

  I knew that would gross him out.

  He helped me put away the breakfast stuff. “What do you want to do?” I asked him.

  “Your mom said you can’t go out,” Jeremy reminded me.

  “So we’ll stay in,” I replied.

  “Want to play pool?” he suggested.

  We have a pool table in our basement. It’s a regulation-size table, and there isn’t quite enough room for it. You have to tilt your pool cue up and play around the concrete beams.

  “Yeah. I’ll play you,” I agreed. He’s a much better pool player than I am. But sometimes I get lucky and beat him.

  I finished shoving the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. Then I led the way to the basement door.

  I reached for the doorknob—then stopped.

  I live in your basement.

  I remembered the boy’s voice on the phone. So flat and cold.

  You’re going to take care of me from now on…. I live in your basement.

  His words came back to me. They made me hesitate at the door.

  But I only imagined that call, I told myself.

  There was no boy. No voice. No Keith.

  I imagined it because I got hit on the head.

  Right?

  I pulled open the door. I gazed down the basement steps.

  Then, gripping the banister, I led the way down.

  As soon as I reached the basement, I ran around turning on all the lights. Even in the laundry room.

  Jeremy picked up a pool cue and began to chalk the tip. “What is your problem, Marco?” he called. “Are we going to play or not?”

  “I like a lot of light,” I told him.

  I peeked behind the big stack of cartons near the furnace. Then I squeezed behind the furnace to see if anyone was living back there.

  Nothing but a tall mountain of dust. I was beginning to feel a little silly.

  Why would anyone be living in my basement? The whole idea was silly.

  I trotted over to the pool table and picked out a cue. Then Jeremy and I began to play.

  He sank the three ball in a side pocket. On his next shot, balls clattered all over the table. But nothing dropped in.

  My turn. I had to squeeze between the table and a concrete pole and tilt the cue up toward the ceiling. Not an easy shot.

  I missed everything.

  “Did you ever play pool with Gwynnie?” Jeremy asked, moving around the table to find his best shot.

  “No. Never,” I told him. “Is she any good?”

  He snickered. “She plays pool the way she plays softball. She hits the balls so hard, she cracks them. A bunch of us were playing once at the Youth Center. Gwynnie sent a ball flying off the table, and it sailed out the window!”

  “Maybe she thinks she has to hit a home run!” I joked.

  We both laughed. Laughing made the side of my head hurt.

  Thinking about Gwynnie made my head hurt!

  Jeremy bounced the seven ball into the eight ball. The eight ball almost dropped into a corner pocket. “That was close!” He sighed.

  Maybe you don’t know the rules of pool. If the eight ball goes in, you lose.

  That’s the only way I ever beat Jeremy.

  “The Franklin twins were playing at the Youth Center too,” Jeremy continued. “And they got into a fight.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So what else is new?”

  “It was so dumb,” Jeremy said. “They were arguing over which is the six ball and which is the nine ball. They started fencing with their pool cues. And then they smeared blue chalk all over each other.”

  “Nice,” I murmured. I hit the twelve ball a solid shot, but it didn’t go in. “Why do you think the Franklin twins fight all the time?” I asked.

  Jeremy thought about it for a moment. “Because they’re twins,” he said finally. “Even they can’t tell each other apart. And so they have to prove they’re different from each other.”

  “That’s very deep,” I replied. I wanted to think about that.

  But a strange sound made me spin away from the table.

  A scratching sound. Very close.

  A scratch. Then a BUMP.

  “Did you hear that?” I whispered to Jeremy.

  He nodded. “Yes.” He pointed to the stairs.

  Another BUMP.

  We have a large pantry cabinet under the stairwell. The noises were coming from inside the cabinet.

  We both stared at the wooden cabinet door.

  Another BUMP.

  “There’s someone in there,” I muttered. “Someone trying to get out.”

  Jeremy narrowed his eyes at me. “Why would someone be hiding in your cabinet?”

  I made my way over to the cabinet door. “Who’s in there?” I called.

  No reply.

  A scraping sound. Someone right behind the door.

  “Who is it?” I repeated.

  No reply.

  I grabbed the cabinet door. Took a deep breath. Tugged it open.

  And screamed as a creature leaped out at me.

  “A squirrel!” Jeremy cried.

  Yes. A fat gray squirrel jumped from the closet—onto my leg.

  It fell off. Hit the floor, its eyes wild, its legs thrashing the air. Sliding on the linoleum, it took off across the basement.

  “How did a squirrel get in there?” Jeremy asked.

  I was still too startled to reply. I watched the squirrel try to climb one of the concrete beams. It slipped off, turned, and ran toward the laundry room.

  I finally found my voice. “We’ve got to get it out of here!” I shrieked. “Mom freaks out when animals get in the house. You know. They have germs.”

  The squirrel was staring back at us from the laundry room door. “Get him!” I cried.

  Jeremy and I chased after the squirrel.

  It darted around the laundry room. Behind the dryer. Nowhere to run now.

  “I’ve got it!” I shrieked. I stretched out my hands and made a wild dive.

  But the squirrel scampered right over my back. Dodged past Jeremy. And raced back into the main room.

  My head started to throb. I was breathing hard.

  I darted out of the laundry room. The squirrel ran under the pool table, its bushy tail standing straight up.

  I checked to make sure both basement windows were open. Then I grabbed an old fishing net from against the wall.

  The frightened animal stopped running and turned back to Jeremy and me. Its whole body trembled. Its little black eyes pleaded with us.

  “Here, squirrel! Here, squirrel!” I called to it, waving the net. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

  I swiped the net at it. Missed.

  The squirrel took off. Jeremy dove for it. He missed too.

  As we watched helplessly, the squirrel jumped onto the pile of cartons by the furnace. Climbed to the top. And leaped out of the basement window.

  “Yesssss!” Jeremy and I both cheered and slapped each other a high five.

  “Victory over all squirrels!” Jeremy boomed in his deepest voice.

  I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. But we both burst out laughing.

  Mom’s voice from the top of the stairs cut our laughter short. “What’s going on
down there?” she called.

  “Nothing,” I replied quickly. “Just playing pool.”

  “Marco—be careful with those pool sticks,” she shouted. “You’ll poke your eye out.”

  * * *

  Jeremy and I played a few games. He beat me easily each time. But we had fun. And we didn’t poke out any eyes.

  Mom made us sandwiches and chicken noodle soup for lunch. She kept warning us to blow on the soup or else we’d burn the skin off our tongues.

  Yuck.

  After lunch, I started to feel tired. So Jeremy went home.

  “Go up to your room and watch TV or take a nap,” Mom advised. “I warned you not to overdo it.”

  “I didn’t overdo it,” I grumbled. But I went upstairs and took a long nap.

  Too long. Late that night, I couldn’t get to sleep. I felt wide awake.

  I read for a while. Then I did a little channel surfing, but I didn’t find anything good to watch.

  I glanced at my bed table clock. A few minutes after midnight.

  My stomach growled. Maybe I need a midnight snack, I decided.

  I clicked on the hall light and made my way downstairs to the kitchen. But I didn’t get as far as the kitchen. To my surprise, the basement door stood open.

  “Weird,” I muttered. Mom always keeps that door closed. She’s a nut about keeping doors shut.

  I walked over to the door. And started to push it closed.

  But I stopped when I heard a scraping sound down there.

  Footsteps?

  I poked my head into the opening and peered down into the darkness. “Who—who’s down there?” I called.

  I heard more scraping steps.

  And then a boy’s voice called up. “It’s me. Keith. Don’t you remember? I live down here.”

  “No! You don’t exist!”

  The words burst from my mouth. My cry sounded shrill and frightened.

  I heard more footsteps on the linoleum floor. Then the basement light flashed on.

  And I stared down at—Mom!

  “Huh?” I gasped.

  “Marco—why aren’t you asleep?” she demanded, frowning up at me, hands at her waist.

  “Uh … because I’m awake,” I replied. “Mom, what are you doing down there?”

  “Laundry,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep, either. So I decided to do laundry. You know. It always relaxes me.”

  “Mom—come upstairs. Now!” I cried. “There’s someone down there with you!”

  She squinted up at me. Tilted her head, examining me with her eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked softly.

  “Hurry!” I insisted. “That boy. He talked to me again. He’s down there, Mom. He says he lives down there.”

  “Marco, I’m worried about you,” Mom said calmly. She started up the stairs, her eyes locked on me. “You’re not making any sense, dear.”

  “But I am!” I insisted. “I heard him, Mom. He talked to me—just now! He’s down there! Really!”

  “It’s too late to call Dr. Bailey,” she fretted. She stepped up beside me and pressed her palm against my forehead. “No fever.”

  “Mom—I’m not imagining it!” I wailed.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” she said. “I want you to rest all day. Then we’ll see if you are ready to go back to school on Monday.”

  “But, Mom—” I started. “I—”

  The boy’s voice interrupted me from downstairs. “Marco,” he called, “listen to your mother.”

  “Mom—did you hear that?” I shrieked.

  “Hear what?” Mom demanded, eyeing me sharply.

  “The boy—” I started. But I didn’t finish. Someone bumped me hard from behind.

  I stumbled toward the basement—and nearly fell down the stairs.

  “Whoa—!” I let out a cry and spun around.

  Tyler wagged his tail at me. He shuffled forward and bumped me again. He does that all the time. Just to be friendly, I guess.

  “You stupid dog!” I shrieked. “You nearly killed me!”

  Tyler stopped wagging. He stared up at me with his big brown eyes.

  “Don’t yell at the dog,” Mom scolded. “You’re really not doing well, Marco. Let’s tuck you in, okay? You are definitely overtired.”

  “But, Mom—”

  I decided not to argue. What was the point?

  I glanced down into the basement, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy. But I saw only darkness.

  Where was he? Where was he hiding?

  I knew I hadn’t imagined him. I knew I had really heard him.

  So what was going on?

  * * *

  Mom let me go to school on Monday. The way things turned out, I wished she had kept me home.

  I felt fine. The bump on my head was still purple. But it had shrunk to about the size of a quarter.

  When I went into the school building, everyone ran up to me. The Franklin twins were arguing about which backpack was whose. They are always getting their stuff mixed up.

  But when they saw me, they dropped both backpacks and hurried over.

  “Marco—how are you?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Let me see your bruise.”

  “Wow. That’s real ugly!”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I can’t believe you’re back!”

  “You must have a really hard head!”

  Everyone laughed and joked and made a big fuss over me. I enjoyed being the center of attention for once. Usually, no one pays any attention to me at all!

  I was feeling pretty good about things.

  Until the bell rang and Miss Mosely asked me to come up to the front of the class. “I think we’re all glad to see you in school today, Marco,” she said.

  Jeremy started clapping, and then everyone else clapped. Even Gwynnie, who sits right in front of the teacher.

  “Since we’ve been studying health care,” Miss Mosely continued, “I want you to tell everyone what it was like in the hospital.”

  Hospital?

  I stared at her. My brain did a flip-flop. My mouth dropped open.

  Had I been in the hospital?

  “What was your room like in the hospital?” Miss Mosely asked. “What kind of doctor examined you? What did the doctor look for?”

  I blinked. Thinking hard. Trying to remember.

  “Tell us everything,” Miss Mosely insisted. She crossed her arms and stared at me through her round, black-framed eyeglasses, waiting for me to talk.

  “I—I don’t remember,” I stammered.

  One of the Franklin twins laughed. A few kids whispered to each other.

  “Well, what do you remember about the hospital, Marco?” Miss Mosely asked, speaking slowly and clearly as if talking to a three-year-old.

  “I don’t remember anything. Nothing at all!” I blurted out.

  Gwynnie leaned forward so that she practically hung over Miss Mosely’s desk. “Maybe I should hit him on the head again,” she said. “You know. To help bring back his memory.”

  A few kids laughed.

  Miss Mosely frowned at Gwynnie. “That’s a terrible thing to say. It’s not a joke. Memory loss from a hit on the head can be very serious.”

  Gwynnie shrugged her big shoulders. “Just kidding,” she muttered. “Can’t anyone take a joke?”

  Meanwhile, I was still standing up there in front of everyone. Feeling awkward and confused.

  Why didn’t I remember the hospital? The first thing I remembered, I was lying on the den couch at home.

  Miss Mosely motioned for me to sit down. “We’re glad you’re okay, Marco,” she said. “And don’t worry about the things you forgot. Your memory will come back.”

  Up till then, I didn’t know it had left. I dropped into my seat, feeling weak and shaken.

  The rest of the day was a blur.

  I was still thinking hard that afternoon as I started walking home. Still trying to remember something about the hospital.

  I saw some kids s
tarting a softball game on the playground diamond. Thinking about softball gave me a chill.

  I started to turn away—but someone caught my eye.

  Gwynnie!

  She came chasing after me across the grass. She carried a baseball bat, raised high over her head.

  She had a grim, determined look on her face.

  “Marco! Hey—Marco!” she called, waving the bat menacingly.

  She’s going to hit me again, I knew.

  But, why?

  “No—!” I let out a cry. And gaped at her in horror.

  “Gwynnie—please don’t!”

  “Marco! Hey—Marco!”

  Gwynnie had a fierce look on her face. She swung the bat over her head again.

  I froze. My legs refused to move.

  With a loud cry, I finally managed to turn away. And I started to run.

  I hurtled across the street without checking for traffic. What is her problem? Does she hate me? I asked myself. Why is she doing this?

  Did Gwynnie really think she could bring back my memory with a smack on the head?

  I turned the corner, breathing hard, the backpack bouncing on my shoulders. Glancing back, I saw her on the other side of the street. Two school buses rumbled by, forcing her to wait.

  I lowered my head, shifted the backpack, and forced myself to pick up speed.

  By the time I reached home, my heart pounded so hard it hurt. And the bump on my head throbbed with pain.

  I dove into the house and slammed the door behind me. Then I pressed my back against the door and struggled to catch my breath.

  “Marco? Is that you?” Mom called from the den.

  Still gasping for breath, I tried to choke out an answer. But only a low croaking sound escaped my throat.

  Mom appeared in the living room doorway. She narrowed her eyes, studying me. “How was your first day back?”

  “Okay,” I managed to murmur.

  “You didn’t overdo it—did you?” she demanded. “Why do you look so pale? Did you take gym, Marco? I gave you a note to excuse you from gym—remember?”

  “We … didn’t … have … gym,” I gasped.

  Mom was always giving me notes to excuse me from gym. She was sure I’d poke my eye out or break every bone in my body in gym class.

  “Why are you so out of breath?” she asked, crossing the room to me. She placed a hand on my forehead. “You’re sweating. Didn’t I warn you about sweating? It’ll give you a cold.”