The House

Chapter 15 - Day 2: The Cellar

Standing in front of the locked door in the kitchen, I'm having some serious second thoughts about unlocking it. 

None of my sound arguments is setting my mind at ease. Yes, I've apparently been in the basement before and am still alive and uninjured and able to tell the tale. Actually, I'm not because I cannot remember the tale to tell it.

If I use this key and it works on the door, what exactly does that mean? What have I been up to? How did I know that the key was in the statue? Why did I take it if it wasn't to hide the bag in the cellar? 

The key rattles against the lock when I try to stick it in with a shaking hand. Many tries later; it finally slides in. I turn the key, and it unlocks with a click.

Nothing weird happens. I let out a breath I didn't realise that I'd been holding. I was expecting some kind of eruption of noise from the clocks or someone slamming against the door from the inside. Something. The kitchen is quiet around me. Nothing is moving except the cuckoo clock's ticking heart.

"I don't want to go in there." I seem to be following a trend.

The door opens easily but noisily, as almost all the doors in this creaky house are programmed to do. From a small landing area just inside the door, stairs are leading down into complete darkness. 

Of course, it is!

I can now understand why I couldn't see anything from outside. The only light into the small space at the top of the stairs comes from the open kitchen door; the small ivy-covered window just inside the door is not helping at all. I flip the light switch, and to my relief, the stairs are no longer dark.

The bottom still is, though. I hesitate and then spin away from the door. Nobody is going to be able to say that I don't learn from experience. I find the mop in the passage where I dropped it earlier when I was still trying to clean up my footprint trail. 

Now I'm ready... well, sort of.

Mop held out in front of me, ready to slaughter any attacking entities, living or of the luggage variety; I go down one hesitant step, then another. Halfway down, some shapes are becoming identifiable. Shelves line all the walls; at least, that's what it looks like. 

Each set of shelves is kept sturdy by vertical board in-lays at their edges. A variety of implements and broken furniture are stacked around. Rodents chirp and scurry around, disturbed by my intrusion.

There seems to be a border of vents running along the tops of the walls, just below the ceiling. These are probably supposed to provide ventilation and light, but ivy and weeds have found their way in and are woven in and out of the small holes, completely defeating the purpose.

I shriek and almost run up the stairs when something tickles me on the head. Swiping with the mop handle and freaking out, I finally get a glimpse of the offender. It's a cord dangling from a light set in the ceiling at the base of the stairs. It is swinging around wildly, defending itself against my fierce attack.

Slightly embarrassed but mostly irritated, I yank it so hard, I suddenly fear that I might've pulled it out. Light glares down from the ceiling, dissipating all the remaining shadows.

I was definitely down here last night. The floor and the stairs are covered with footprints similar to the ones that led me to this room. What I cannot figure out is what could have caused my feet to be covered in mud, leaves and sand. 

I can easily follow the route of the prints down to the bottom of the stairs, but from here, it becomes impossible to figure out their exact path. I seem to have walked around the entire room, back and forth, stepping over my prints. I've really messed up the floor.

What was I looking for?

There are some damp spots on the floor that could've caused muddy prints in combination with the dust. Apparently, the leafy intruders forcing their way into the room through the vents are not keeping the rain out completely. The foliage in the footprints might come from them as well. There's quite a bit of sand on the floor, though. I noticed it in my footprints too. 

Sea sand.

There is a beach not too far from the house, I'm not exactly sure where, but houses close to the sea always have sand intrusions. There is a beautiful ocean view from the studio, but I couldn't see an actual beach.

Nothing in the room seems strange at all, except that my footprints cover almost the entire space. Was I dancing down here?

Aside from these prints, there are no clues in this room. The shelves contain the kind of left-over litter of broken tools and empty containers that usually stay behind in garages after people move to a new house. Nothing of interest, nothing of use, at least as far as I can tell. I'm not feeling inspired to lift dusty tarps and open cobweb-decorated boxes.

"Well, this is getting me absolutely nowhere."

And then all hell breaks loose. The same hell that woke me at two in the morning. The noise echoes and vibrates through the basement, pounding into my head. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, panicked by the assault of the intense sound. It feels as if the walls are closing in and the ceiling is about to collapse.

I run for the stairs, taking them two at a time to the top. I'm about to flee the house via the backdoor when I realise that now would be the perfect opportunity to call Ron and let him experience the joy of the broken clocks first-hand.

The entire house seems to be alive with sound as I run through the corridor and up the stairs to my bedroom. I have a headache by the time I reach my phone on the bed where I left it. I'd forgotten to plug it in. 

The battery has died.

"Agh, shit, no!"

I grab the charger from the drawer still lying on the bed and jam its plug into the wall outlet after dropping it at least three times in my haste. With the charger connected to the phone, I finally manage to start it up. 

It takes forever, as usual. I seriously need an upgrade! The last cuckoo is just fading when I finally manage to find Ron's number and am about to press the dial button.

"Come ooooooooooon!"

There should be a law against this kind of unfair garbage.

The house is almost eerily quiet after the cacophony dies down. Even the ticking clocks seem to hold their breath for a few seconds. There's a different sound among the ticks; it's a light ringing sound. I leave the bedroom and follow the sound across the landing to the library.

I carefully open the door and...

"Oh hell, why not?!" The clock on the desk doesn't bong or dong; it dings. Of course, it does!

I'm suddenly exhausted, emotionally and physically, and I'm more than just a little bit scared. I sink to the floor, my back against the door jamb. I really don't know what to make of any of this. I lower my forehead to my knees. I'm just going to sit here, sleep here, live here, in the doorway to the study, until I find the strength to get up and carry on or die here.

A new sound is audible now that the clock on the desk has decided to shut up. It's a threatening sound. A low growl.

My stomach is rumbling, and I suddenly find the strength to get up and carry on. 

Nothing ever destroys my appetite.

☼☼☼