The Basement

A cold gust of air blew my bangs out of my face, sending a sinister shiver down my spine. There I was, face to face with the black abyss that lived underneath our house. My heart raced, breathing quickly I exhale a shaky cloud, disappearing as soon as it came. As if it were afraid of me too. The stench of decades worth of carcass filled my nose, sending a burning sensation down the back of my throat. I quickly raise the sleeve of my sweater to my face, easing the gut-retching odor.

 “I don’t remember it smelling this bad” I choke through my wool sweater.

Still covering my nose, I slam the basement door shut with my boot, leaving a muddy size 10 mark behind. I stuff my hands in my pockets and struggled through the snow, heading towards the porch light.

I glance back over my shoulder, at the little dark house that wasn’t mine.  

 __________________________

I was unpacking the dusty boxes that had been idling around for a week when I heard it—an echoing sound from inside the wall. Strange. But familiar.

I froze, palm hovering over the chipped moss-green paint, feeling the faintest vibration beneath my skin.

“Did you hear that?” I asked, my voice thinner than I meant it to be.

Ben sighed, not looking up from his phone. “Laurie, relax. It’s an old house—it’s just settling.”

His tone carried that quiet edge of annoyance, the kind that made me feel small. The wall pulsed once more, almost like it was agreeing with me.

And then—ding-dong.

The sound split the air clean in half. For a second, I thought it had come from inside the wall too. My heart stuttered, then sprinted.

Ben muttered something, probably “I’ll get it” but I was already moving. My legs acted on their own, carrying me to the door like I’d been waiting for this exact moment.

When I opened it, the cold rushed in first. Then them.

The neighbors stood there, framed in the porch light, smiling too politely, like they’d been practicing.

The woman’s lipstick was the exact shade of red that never smudges. Her teeth were too white, her coat too clean. Even her hair moved like it was rehearsed, every curl obeying.

The man kept his hand on her back, gentle but firm. I noticed the indentation his thumb left against her coat. I couldn’t stop looking at it.

“We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” she said, her voice wrapped in sugar. She held out a glass dish of something homemade, cookies, or bait.

I smiled because that’s what people do. My lips felt dry against my teeth.

Behind them, their porch light flickered once. My light flickered too.

“Do you see that?” I whispered.

Ben laughed. “Yeah. Must be the wiring.”

But the woman’s smile didn’t falter. Not even when the shadows between us shifted, like the house itself was listening.

woman kept talking—something about community potlucks and summer bonfires—but I barely heard her. Her voice floated in and out, like a radio slipping between stations.

Ben thanked them, promised to return the dish, and I nodded when I was supposed to.

They left with a chorus of goodbyes that lingered in the air long after the door shut.

The house felt too quiet then. The kind of quiet that hums just beneath your skin.

I carried the dish to the counter. Still warm. Still smelling like cinnamon and vanilla and something else I couldn’t place—something almost metallic.

Ben went upstairs to shower. I stood there, tracing the edge of the glass with my finger until it fogged beneath my touch.

That night, I dreamed of them. Not faces—just outlines. Laughter that echoed through the walls, light that bled under the door.

When I woke, the dish was still on the counter, glinting in the gray morning light.

By noon, I was standing on their porch, the dish cradled in both hands.

Just to say thank you.

The snow squeaked beneath my boots. I knocked twice, my breath catching in the cold.

As I waited, I practiced my smile—polite, friendly, harmless.

When the door opened, the woman’s eyes widened a little, like she’d been expecting me.

“I just wanted to thank you,” I said, holding the dish like a peace offering. “For the cookies.”

The woman’s smile didn’t fade as she took the dish from my hands. “You’ll have to come by again sometime,” she said.

“Of course,” I replied. “It’s nice to have neighbors like you.”

My voice sounded normal. Stable. The kind of tone you use when you’re trying to convince yourself.

The wind howled as she closed the door, and for a moment, her reflection flickered in the glass, two faces where there should’ve been one.

I stood there longer than I meant to, watching the curtain shift, waiting for another glimpse. Nothing. Just my breath clouding the air, vanishing as soon as it appeared.

When I finally walked home, the snow swallowed my footsteps before I could look back.

Ben was in the kitchen, his back turned, humming to a tune I didn’t recognize.

“You returned the dish?” he asked without facing me.

“Yeah,” I said. “She was expecting me.”

He didn’t respond. The hum continued, off-key, unfamiliar.

I stood in the doorway, watching his shoulders move, slow and mechanical. The same rhythm I’d seen through the neighbors’ window last night.

I smiled to myself. Maybe we were all starting to sync.

Outside, their porch light flickered. Mine followed.

I waited for it to stop. It didn’t.

The two lights blinked in rhythm, slower and slower, until it almost sounded like breathing.

Ben’s humming fell into step with it, low and droning, a sound that seemed to rise from beneath the floorboards.

I pressed my palm to the glass of the front door. It was cold, too cold for the heat still running.

The reflection wavered, and for a heartbeat I saw it again: the black mouth of the basement, yawning open in the glass, the darkness rolling inside it like smoke.

I blinked. The kitchen was gone. The snow. The lights. All gone.

Just the smell of earth and rot and something wet brushing my ankle.

I took a breath that tasted like dust.

Maybe I never left.

Maybe i’ve been down here the whole time.