The House

Chapter 27 - Day 3: Family Secrets

I grab David's arm when he places a hand on the knob of the cellar door, getting ready to turn it.

I don't know how long we sat on the floor in the hallway, but it was long enough for my bum and my right foot to fall asleep. Needles and pins are relentlessly running up and down my leg. I feel better each time I touch David, and not just because feeling the play of the muscles under his warm skin gives me the strength and reassurance I crave.

When I'm touching him, I know that he is really here.

Yes, I touched the bed and the scratchy bear too, and they weren't really there, but that was then; this is now, and right now, there is a handsome man within touching distance, and I would really like to keep it that way. I'm going to touch him as much as I can without being totally creepy.

"It's okay, Belle," he murmurs, smiling that warm smile I'm starting to really love. "Whatever happens, I'm right here."

"Oh, I really hope you're not a mop," I say the only logical words that spring to mind, and David chuckles, nodding his head.

"Me too," he grins. "I'm more of a broom kind of guy."

I relax my face into a smile while the rest of me braces itself as he turns the knob. The door clicks open, unceremoniously getting out of our way as if it is not one of the most important moments of my life and it's not required to provide a bit more drama, at least. Never before in the history of mankind has a woman been so happy to see some wonky stairs leading down into threatening darkness. 

This is a good sign, right?

David flips the switch just inside the door, bathing the rickety stairs in watery light. Still clinging to his arm – there is no way I'm letting him go – I slowly follow him down the stairs into the body of the cellar.

The first thing I check when he pulls the light cord at the bottom of the stairs is the condition of the floor. It is clean, clearly recently scrubbed by a woman who wasn't just imagining doing so.

The sounds of the storm are much more muffled from down here, but the cold is more intense. It had been such a hot day before the storm started, and now, I'm shivering and not just from fear anymore. I can see my breath and David's, but the cold doesn't seem to bother him. He has enough warmth built up inside him to cope with it

I wrap my arms around myself, keeping an eye on him as he inspects the shelves covering every wall. He is lifting dusty tarps and moving dilapidated boxes, doing a thorough job of surveying the contents of the cellar.

"David, could we please leave the inventory-taking session for later and just see if the secret door and the tunnel are still here?" I finally ask, my nerves wound into a tight ball in the pit of my stomach. He drops the latest piece of plastic sheeting he's lifted and turns to look at me.

"Oh! Yeah! Of course," he says, moving towards me. "I was checking for mould since this is one space in the house I've never been in, and if there's mould, it's most likely here. I haven't seen any in the house, but then again, I wasn't searching for it. I definitely will, though."

"Does mould cause people to paint vibrant paintings in their sleep?" I ask, really not convinced of the toxic mould theory. It does not explain the clocks or the matryoshka doll and the... Wait! Where did I put those? Perhaps those weren't real, either! Oh, I hope the painting exists; it's the only one I have so far.

"Well, some artists can only work when they're high; maybe it's similar."

I'm not sure whether he is trying to say that I fall into that category of artists, but I won't blame him if he thinks I'm high. After all, not that long ago, I was sitting in his lap, crying about a disappearing room. I definitely would've thought that I'm high.