It was a sunny afternoon, the sun was shining. The smell of cut grass filled the neighborhood. Kids were playing and all seemed well. I was twelve years old. I lived in the oldest house on Brown street. It had been there for over a hundred years. The houses around his were old too, but subdivisions had been creeping in and the older houses were being torn down. My house was one of the few remaining. I don’t like my house.
The house was always cold and poorly maintained so the electricity didn’t always work. The rooms seemed cavernous. The wallpaper was peeling and it was always dark. The roof leaked when it rained and I was never entirely comfortable in the house. I didn’t understand why they had to live somewhere so dank when there were so many new houses cropping up. He wanted to live in one of those houses, the houses that have dishwashers, chrome kitchens and warm lights. Houses where there was carpet and smelled warm. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t live like my friends did.
I was walking home from school and felt like he was being watched. I ignored it. I felt it so often that I didn’t pay much attention to it anymore. In my mind I thought “everyone must feel that way,” I was always nervous. I walked on. The fresh air felt good and I was beginning to relax, listening to chirping birds and watching them hop from tree to tree. The leaves rustled in the wind, some falling in anticipation of Autumn.
I got home and dropped my bag off hoping to catch some after-school cartoons. It would be an hour or so until mom got home. I made myself a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and sat on the floor in front of the television. It was one of those old boxy ones built right into a wooden cabinet. It was old. I was getting ready to go to the kitchen for another bowl of cereal when I heard the sound of the basement light click on. I froze. I was sure I heard it, and no one was supposed to be home for a while. “Maybe mom got home early?” I thought. I sat frozen and listened. Moments ticked away like hours and just as I was about to blame my imagination I heard it. Soft, intentional steps coming up the basement stairs. My heart caught in my chest and in a moment of bravery, decided to investigate. As I opened the basement door with a long-winded creak the footsteps stopped, and went back down the basement steps double-time before I caught a glimpse, but couldn’t tell what it had been. One thing was for sure, it wasn’t my imagination. Far off downstairs, a door slammed. I was too afraid to leave the house for fear of running into whatever had just left, I slammed the basement door and hid behind the couch until mom came home from work.
She worked at the truckstop outside of town. Thick lipstick, thin hair, cracked skin, and a voice you only get from years of chain smoking. She found me hiding behind the couch, I was shaking and with my eyes shut tight. She asked me, “what happened?”
“Someone was in the house, they came up through the basement,” I replied through held back tears.
“What!?”
“They tried to come up through the basement, I thought it might be you, but when I opened the door to check, they ran away.” Mom investigated and saw that the light light gleamed from beneath the cracks of the door..
“Did you see them, or hear them leave?”
“I didn’t see them, I heard them run back down the stairs and a door slam”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“No.”
“I’ll check the basement,” said Mom. She grabbed the biggest kitchen knife they had, and made her way down the stairs slowly and as quietly as possible. I listened and watched from the top of the stairs as she descended into the basement. The basement plunged into darkness and my mother screamed. I screamed too, but was relieved when she began to laugh. I heard the sound of the circuit breaker clicking back and the lights coming back on.
“It was only your father.”
“My father?” I was confused. Dad had been gone for years. He walked out on mom and me so long ago that I couldn’t even remember him.
“Come down here. It’s time you met him.” I trembled at the top of the steps worried and confused. Making my way down the steps my heart caught in my throat. “Why is my father in the basement, and why is mom so calm about it?”
I reached the bottom of the stairs. Humidity and the smell of mildew hung in the air of the unfinished basement. I turned the corner and saw his mom holding some sort of creature on a brown leather dog leash.
“Meet your father, dear.” I looked down at the creature and saw a man who had no eyes and walked on all fours. It had long hair that hung over its face and wore tattered rags. It sounded like it was crying. It wasn’t until it tried to say something that I realized his tongue had been cut out. Frozen in fear, I vomited on myself. “It’s okay. No need to be afraid. I’ve been keeping him here. For you.”
“What?” I mouthed. It came out barely audible above a breath. I couldn’t move, I wanted to run, to turn and get away, to get out of there, to get out the house and never come back, but his feet were planted like he was stuck in quicksand.
“After I got pregnant, he was going to leave us,” said my mother. “I wasn’t going to raise his son without him. It would be improper. I would not have your father not be present in your life. I come down and tell him about you every night after you go to bed. I’m usually so good at locking the door,” she looked back. I looked past mom and saw that the usually padlocked door that I had assumed was for storage. The door was ajar, the lock sitting open in front of it. I could see a small cot and even a dirty toilet, “but I took care of that.” It was only now that I saw that my fathers ankles had been slit and the blood was beginning to pool beneath them. “You’re not going to leave, are you dear? ” she asked.
“No, mom”
“I know you won’t,” That’s when mother stepped toward me, closer and closer. I couldn’t move, I wanted to run, to turn and get away, to get out of there, to get out the house and never come back, but my feet were planted like they were stuck in quicksand as she overtook me, bloody knife gleaming in her server’s apron. And I never did.