I’ve never trusted the cellar.
Hunkered down in the dark, it’s like it’s waiting for something. It exudes hostility, letting a little more of its anger out every time anyone dares to cross its borders. It is the place of forgotten things, odd things, shoes without a partner and the like. The leftovers and the unwanted, all of them doomed to rot in the cellar.
It’s simultaneously too hot and too cold, the walls slick with the humidity as a soul-chilling breeze flows through. The lights are effectively useless, doomed to flicker like candles and throw vile shadows that spread throughout the moisture on those painted bricks.
Dad kept the guns down there. ‘Safest place for them.’
I wasn’t so sure. The evil in that room was sure to spread, especially to tools such as those. I refused to even cross the threshold into that place. Somebody else always had to go instead.
It is an evil room. Something is waiting for me inside it, a beast that snores with a low hum. Disguised by the washing machine, but I know it’s there, hiding in the shadows on the wall, the moisture in the air, the chill on the wind.
The monster is hiding in the basement. Waiting…
So, let’s go off book. I recently stayed at a lovely little house in France, but there was the stereotypical creepy staircase with a wooden door at the bottom. The door had a key on a bit of string attached to the handle, but on the inside. Naturally, this conjured up all sorts of images (despite the obvious reason) and that is partly where today’s story comes from. Enjoy!
The Idiot in Tin Foil