were no windows here. An old wringer washer and tub sat in one corner by a floor drain. Next to the ancient furnace sat a fairly new water heater with a box of kitchen matches on top. Harlan must have left them there when he came down to check the pilot light.
Two rooms led off of the first. Just to make sure there was no other way to get into the basement from outside, Miranda knew she had to investigate. One was a workroom with a rudimentary work bench. The window in there was not only locked, but partly boarded. The tools on the workbench were covered in blood. No, not blood, she told herself, shaking her head. Rust, it was just rust. But she couldn’t bring herself to look too closely in case she was wrong.
The other room was a giant pantry of some sort, with empty glass jars upside down on shelves. On one shelf she could see jars of slimy pickles that looked like rotten slugs floating in black blood. The room’s two windows were locked. At the back, a wooden door was closed with an old fashioned latch.
The musty smell that permeated the basement seemed to be coming from behind the door. The nausea she’d felt earlier flooded back and intensified. She took two deep breaths before lifting the latch. With the lantern held high, she opened the door onto an inky blackness. The rotted smell made her cringe back. Heart pounding, she forced herself to step forward, shining the light around the room.
A stench emanated from bins on the dirt floor which were filled with rotten potatoes and squash. Beneath the odor lingered a more subtle smell, like sulfur. The depth of the darkness was due to having black paper tacked across the shallow windows high on the wall. The rest of the small room was lined from ceiling to floor with cupboards. Staggered on the floor were long wooden crates, like coffins for children.
Miranda started shaking. Not coffins, crates. That’s all they were, crates. Tomorrow, tomorrow she would come back and…
She shrieked as a moth flew into the light from her lamp. Its shadow wavered and danced against the opposite wall.
Miranda snapped the door shut and ran back to the stairway. Her spine prickled as she hurried up the steps. Closing the door behind her at the top, she leaned against it. Perspiration beaded her forehead and her breathing was labored as if she had just run a long way.
A tree branch swayed in the rising wind outside, scraping against the kitchen window with a sound like fingernails. The house itself seemed to be breathing and groaning as it shuddered with the wind. It’s just an empty basement, Miranda told herself. Just a room without light.
Yet somehow the thought only brought back a memory of playing with the knickknacks years ago and her grandmother’s unexpected, harsh words as she snatched the pieces from the child’s hands.
Chapter 6
For the first time in weeks Miranda took two of the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for her. The wind continued to rattle the bones of the house. She pulled the couch as close to the hearth as was safe and curled up on it. Despite the warmth of the fire she’d started, she lay shivering and shaking. The flames twisted and flared like goblins in a frenzy and she alternated between closing her eyes to keep from looking at them and opening them again afraid she’d find herself surrounded by darkness. Rufus watched her for a while, as anxious as she was, then eventually snuggled up at her feet and went to sleep.
Despite the pills, lanterns, candlelight, and her father’s gun within easy reach, it took her a long time to fall asleep. The couch was narrow and lumpy. She tossed and turned, sweating and mumbling. The house still smelled musty with misuse. No matter how natural the creaks and groans and wind gusts were, they crept into her disturbed dreams like ghosts from her past.
She was a child again, running toward her grandmother’s house, looking over her shoulder at the barn, terrified by orange flashes from the loft that
Two rooms led off of the first. Just to make sure there was no other way to get into the basement from outside, Miranda knew she had to investigate. One was a workroom with a rudimentary work bench. The window in there was not only locked, but partly boarded. The tools on the workbench were covered in blood. No, not blood, she told herself, shaking her head. Rust, it was just rust. But she couldn’t bring herself to look too closely in case she was wrong.
The other room was a giant pantry of some sort, with empty glass jars upside down on shelves. On one shelf she could see jars of slimy pickles that looked like rotten slugs floating in black blood. The room’s two windows were locked. At the back, a wooden door was closed with an old fashioned latch.
The musty smell that permeated the basement seemed to be coming from behind the door. The nausea she’d felt earlier flooded back and intensified. She took two deep breaths before lifting the latch. With the lantern held high, she opened the door onto an inky blackness. The rotted smell made her cringe back. Heart pounding, she forced herself to step forward, shining the light around the room.
A stench emanated from bins on the dirt floor which were filled with rotten potatoes and squash. Beneath the odor lingered a more subtle smell, like sulfur. The depth of the darkness was due to having black paper tacked across the shallow windows high on the wall. The rest of the small room was lined from ceiling to floor with cupboards. Staggered on the floor were long wooden crates, like coffins for children.
Miranda started shaking. Not coffins, crates. That’s all they were, crates. Tomorrow, tomorrow she would come back and…
She shrieked as a moth flew into the light from her lamp. Its shadow wavered and danced against the opposite wall.
Miranda snapped the door shut and ran back to the stairway. Her spine prickled as she hurried up the steps. Closing the door behind her at the top, she leaned against it. Perspiration beaded her forehead and her breathing was labored as if she had just run a long way.
A tree branch swayed in the rising wind outside, scraping against the kitchen window with a sound like fingernails. The house itself seemed to be breathing and groaning as it shuddered with the wind. It’s just an empty basement, Miranda told herself. Just a room without light.
Yet somehow the thought only brought back a memory of playing with the knickknacks years ago and her grandmother’s unexpected, harsh words as she snatched the pieces from the child’s hands.
Chapter 6
For the first time in weeks Miranda took two of the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for her. The wind continued to rattle the bones of the house. She pulled the couch as close to the hearth as was safe and curled up on it. Despite the warmth of the fire she’d started, she lay shivering and shaking. The flames twisted and flared like goblins in a frenzy and she alternated between closing her eyes to keep from looking at them and opening them again afraid she’d find herself surrounded by darkness. Rufus watched her for a while, as anxious as she was, then eventually snuggled up at her feet and went to sleep.
Despite the pills, lanterns, candlelight, and her father’s gun within easy reach, it took her a long time to fall asleep. The couch was narrow and lumpy. She tossed and turned, sweating and mumbling. The house still smelled musty with misuse. No matter how natural the creaks and groans and wind gusts were, they crept into her disturbed dreams like ghosts from her past.
She was a child again, running toward her grandmother’s house, looking over her shoulder at the barn, terrified by orange flashes from the loft that
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