The Cellar

Into the blinding dark you step, descending down a few stairs as the trapdoor shuts behind you. Darkness hugs the cold cellar walls. All you can hear are drops of water landing on the floor and wind squealing past the wooden floorboards. You take out your lighter and let its flame be your guide. You make out a switch on the wall nearby and doubtfully flick it. Still, an old dust covered lightbulb comes to life like a reignited dead star.

Light flickers in the center of the small room, and you wonder how long before it dies out again. The walls are covered with moldy wallpaper and drops of muddy water drip from the ceiling in several places. There's a half rotten oak desk in front of you. On it lies a vintage recorder and several reels of audio covered in a thick layer of gray dust. The recorder is broken and will not run. There are shelves with tools on the wall over the desk and a large wooden box next to it, all standing in two inches of musty brown colored water that spreads over the whole cellar floor.

On looking inside the box you find black and white photographs but time and humidity turned them into faded pictures of memories long dead. At the bottom of the box, under the piles of ruined photographs, lies a smaller metal lockbox but the lock has been broken.

Very curiously you explore the rest of the cold wet room. Towers of paper crates, box shoes and black plastic bags reach out towards the damp ceiling and two mold and fungi covered wooden beams supporting it. Various pieces of clothing stick out of the crates, decades old shoes have been laid to rest in their own containers and the bags have in them plush toys and child brick sets. After looking through some of the bags and realizing none of the shoes match your size, you notice they've been concealing another desk. You clear the bags and boxes out of the way and reveal a workbench. Theres nothing on it but rust and dust but you investigate its drawers.

Even though you don't hope to find much, among useless junk there's a small unkempt notebook and a single shotgun shell. The notebook contains hand written notes and drawings of some hobby man. You don't see anything worth interest or deciphering but you pocket the shell. Underneath the desk you find an ax, propped against a gas canister. Without hesitation you pick the canister and put it onto the workbench. It's full of gas. Finally. You decide to bring the ax as well. It's a regular old wood ax but it's sharp enough.

Your feet are getting too cold from standing in the brown pool and you head back up the stairs. You're in an empty wooden shed. There's nothing but the trapdoor leading below and a large red candle on the window you lit when you entered. From a distance you can hear a reverb of a generator running, but the lightbulb over your head is broken and occasionally spits and angry spark. It's raining heavily. Sounds of crushing waves spill over the roof.

Opening the door, you stick your head out. Tall cornfield surrounds the shed and the rain landing onto the crops plays a deafening orchestra of percussion. You start making your way through the field, towards a farmhouse where your car is parked. You're not sure about the direction because you can't see very far but eventually you reach the doorstep of the farmhouse. The lights inside are lit and she's sitting in her grease covered white shirt on the porch, head in her palms, dripping blood. You drop the ax and the canister and run up to her. It's not her blood. She dodges your questions and asks if you found the gas. You kiss her on the lips. Metallic taste. Let's get out of here, she says.

Usually you check the van and run some repairs but you want to get far away from the farmhouse as quickly as possible, without really knowing why. You put in the gas and sit behind the wheel. Turn the key. The car starts choking. Turn it again. It's still dead. You're getting nervous. She kisses you on the cheek and turns the key with you. The van starts. You let out a sigh of relief and notice a bloody lip stain on your cheek in the back mirror. You ask her again what happened in the house. She starts talking as you speed away on a muddy dirt road, disappearing into the night.