I moved into the house a month ago. It’s not big, nor has it been well-maintained but at least it’s in a nice neighbourhood. The price was low too and two bedrooms plus a lounge and kitchen is more than enough for me now that the divorce has been settled. Now, my relationship status may seem unrelated, however, I bring it up because when one is alone in an empty building, a blood-curdling scream is not something you would expect to hear.
Located in a suburb just outside the centre of the town, the house was abandoned by the previous owner. At least that was what the real estate agent told me when I bought the place. It was a little strange that many of the properties nearby were up for sale too but I suppose the current economic climate isn’t something to take lightly.
The house is very old. In dire need of a new paint job and desperate for some modern fittings, it took me a while to get used to its ‘style’. At first, the creaky wooden floors creeped me out, especially at night. But that minor nuisance was quickly forgotten after being forced awake by a piercing cry for help.
It was coming from the basement but despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find the source in my half-asleep daze. Initially, I considered it to be a dream or auditory hallucination of some kind but the sound of the scream stayed in my mind for days. For better or worse, yesterday I decided a thorough investigation was due.
It took a lot of crawling around with a flashlight but eventually, I noticed that a certain section at the bottom of a wall was covered by a steel plate. I don’t know how basements are usually made so it didn’t stand out at first but after checking the edges I found a discreet latch that once slid up, allowed me to swing the steel plate open.
The gap was about the same size as an air vent, barely big enough to fit someone if they decided to crawl through. My gut instinct was to walk away but when I bent down to peek in, the bloody scratch marks lining the floor were clear.
Unfortunately, my conscience got the better of me. I got down onto my chest and began crawling through the claustrophobic space. My elbows scraped against the sides and I bumped my head more than once on the ceiling above me. Movement was limited, so it took me a while to get through. Just before I reached the end of the tunnel it dawned on me that because the space was so tight, I had no way to turn around. I would have been completely trapped if the passage had no ending. To say I was on the verge of a panic attack would be an understatement.
After about 15 minutes, I exited the other side. Collapsing onto a room that smelled like cheap cleaning liquid, I used my flashlight and scoured the room for details. I probably should have changed the batteries before beginning my journey because the light was pretty dim at this point. Even so, I immediately noticed a surgical table at the centre of the room. I moved to the walls, following them in the hope of a door. Thankfully, I stumbled on a light switch. Before I illuminated my surroundings I noticed a plaque next to it that read: AIR RAID SHELTER, MAX PERSONS 20.
Once the light was on, I was struck by the shelves upon shelves housing hospital equipment. One section was filled with syringes and vials while another featured gloves, masks and aprons. The concrete walls and floor in comparison to the modern medical furniture were a startling contrast. Centering this facility of sorts was the surgical table I mentioned earlier. Accompanying it was a mobile table, meticulously lined with knives, blades and saws.
I didn’t know what I was looking at. It was a window-less war shelter of some sort but everything within it served a different purpose. Someone had been using the place, and judging by the smell, they had been there recently. I quickly realised that the tunnel I came in was one of several, each the same size, except for one.
Amongst the openings was a tunnel double the height of the others. I still wanted to find the source of the scream and since the tunnel under my home was very tight, to say the least, I decided that I had found my exit.
In the new passage, I moved in a crouching position as I was provided with more options for movement. My flashlight died once inside but I continued forward in the hope of escaping the pitch-black labyrinth. At certain points, it felt like the walls were getting tighter but maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me. No matter what, the tunnel was the stuff of nightmares and every minute inside it was an exercise in mental and physical torture.
At the end, I was greeted by a metal plate similar to the one that I opened to start the journey. The latch was in the same place too, allowing me to quickly open it. Greeted by a basement almost identically to my own, a giant map behind a workbench was the first thing to catch my eye. It depicted the neighbourhood, with dark black lines leading from a single house to countless more. I wish I stayed longer, to unravel the mystery, but it was only five minutes before the voices of a man and woman in the building above forced me to retrace my steps in a panic.
Through the tight tunnels and passing the informal medical facility, eventually I was back home. I’ve tried convincing myself that the underground maze serves a logical purpose but my mind always shifts to darker possibilities. Considering everything, the scariest part of all was not the macabre surgical table nor was it the oppressive pathways to reach it. The thing that has me scared for my life is what I remember seeing in the corner of the map. Stamped on the paper was the logo for The Kruger Group Inc., the same real estate company that sold me the house.