Grandma’s basement was OFF LIMITS. I shouldn’t have gone down there. But I did. And I’ve regretted it ever since. I was nine-years-old when it happened. My father was forced to work night overtime, so he dropped me off at Grandma’s for the night. I cried and cried, pleading not to be left alone with her. After much fuss, Dad promised he’d try and pick me up later, but only if he finished work early. His eyes were doubtful, and didn’t sooth me one bit.
Grandma had the Devil’s temper. Mean as a junkyard dog, she was, and twice as ugly. Her crinkly skin clung tightly to brittle bones, but her eyes never wavered. They’d cut you down to size in an instant. That and her voice, which sounded like an ashtray.
“Go fetch my walker!” she ordered from her spot on the couch, the moment I arrived. “And a cold root beer from the fridge while yer at it!”
I did.
When I returned, she was snoring; drops of drool decorated her furrowed face. I didn’t want to disturb her – I wouldn’t dare – so I left the walker leaning against the couch, and placed the soda on the coffee table, next to the remote control.
Her home was stuffy, and dungeon-dark, with boxes of junk lining the flowery walls, like ivory towers. I didn’t have a cell phone or iPad, and her computer was ancient. There was one TV, and it was so loud my ears were bleeding. My grandmother had no pets, nor friends to speak of. Ugh. Even her food sucked. I didn’t know what to do, so I changed the channel.
BIG mistake.
“How dare you?” she snapped like a crocodile. “I was watching CNN.”
She wasn’t. But I wasn’t about to mention this. Soon Grandma was snoring again, but I didn’t dare change the channel. I went about searching for stuff to play with, but my search was in vain. I checked the time. A half hour had passed. Ugh. I had to do something. Anything. There was only one place I could think of. One place left unexplored: The Basement. But I’d been warned: Never. Go. Down. There. PERIOD.
But what choice did I have? Besides, I was young and naive. Being carved up and killed was way beyond my comprehension. Nine-year-olds don’t get murdered by their grandmothers. Even in horror movies, they don’t.
The door creaked open, seemingly on its own. I tip-toed towards the edge of the stairs and peered down. I couldn’t see the bottom, but something was down. Somehow, I knew this. I imagined the worst: Snakes and spiders and rats and things. My tummy tightened. There was no way I was going down there. No way. Not happening. I told myself this, but I didn’t listen.
I wish I had.
Slowly, I descended the rickety stairs, near-certain something would jump out. Something did: a rat. The creepy critter crawled across my foot, before scurrying into the darkness. I stifled a scream, then frantically found a light switch, which was coated in cobwebs.
The light was pale and narrow. Strange shadows danced along the drab and dreary walls, like marionettes. Suddenly, I was scared. Terrified, in fact. No wonder. I could barely see my own hand in front of my face. Still, I crept onward, gripping the handrail like my life depended on it.
Something snapped. The sound was explosive. I froze. My mind went into overdrive. I feared the worst: that Grandma was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling with bad intentions. I turned to check. She wasn’t. Phew. With each passing step, the smell grew worse, like moldy mushrooms. I gagged. Who could stand such a smell?
The feeling of being watched grew stronger with each step, until finally, I reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Go back upstairs,” a tiny voice warned me. “NOW.”
The voice was correct. My nine-year-old self had had enough. I turned, ready to charge upstairs, when the door slammed shut. I gulped. For a moment, time stood still. The air was moist and thick. A bad taste was forming in my mouth. The idea that I was trapped in the basement was gnawing at me, but still I soldered on. It’s just a basement, I told myself. How bad can it be?
I went searching for a light switch, when I came upon a stack of dilapidated boxes. After peeling away a dusty layer of cobwebs, I tore open the boxes, eager to see what awaited. Sigh. Nothing but appliances, TV Guides and old 45’s. With my hopes of finding long lost treasure obliterated, I decided to get my butt back upstairs, before Grandma noticed I was missing.
I was edging towards the stairs, when something caught my eye. A treasure chest! It was big and battered, with black clasps and faded red trimming running along its sides. In its center was a large golden lock, begging to be opened.
As I got closer, the stench intensified. Clearly, this was where the smell was coming from. With my mouth under my shirt, I wrapped my hands around the large lock and gave it a tug. It wouldn’t budge. Not to be deterred, I kicked the lock with the heel of my foot.
It worked! The chest popped open. As the dust settled, horror stole my heart. My mind bent in all the wrong places. This made no sense. No sense at all. Must be fake. But there it was, staring me in the face:
Fingers.
Wormy and shriveled and gross. Some had nails attached; others were bloodied stumps. I rubbed my eyes, praying this was a hoax.
It wasn’t.
Worse, the fingers were stuffed inside human skulls, nesting upon a bed of brittle bones. I counted twenty skull caps, maybe more. One skull in particular stole my attention. The skull was well-preserved, and filled with fresh human fingers, one of which wore a wedding ring.
Unadulterated horror descended upon me. Then came sadness. You see, my mother disappeared the previous summer. She’d been delivering winter supplies to Grandma, when she vanished. POOF. Just like that. Apparently, she never made it to Grandma’s. It was believed she simply packed up and left.
I stared at the freshest skull cap, the one with the wedding ring, and winced. Was that my mother? My heart fell to the floor. My eyes swelled with tears. Then the unthinkable happened:
“Johnny? Come quick!”
Grandma!
My heart leapt inside my throat. I nearly choked. Then without thinking, I darted upstairs. The door wouldn’t budge. I kicked and clawed, pulled and prodded with all my might.
“Johnny?” Grandma’s voice quivered, “Come quick. I’m hungry!”
I took a deep breath, then tried again.
Nothing.
Without warning, the one-and-only light flicked off, and a deep darkness fell upon me. Then a terrible thought arrived: I hadn’t closed the chest. She’ll know!
“Johnny!”
Too late now. I cranked the door handle with everything I had.
CLICK.
It opened!
When I returned to the living room, Grandma was yielding a razor-sharp knife. Her eyes were oceans of murder.
“You shouldn’t have gone down there, Johnny.”
“I-I” I tried to say something, anything, but failed.
“What in God’s green earth am I to do with you?”
Using the switchblade knife, she patted the seat next to her on the chesterfield. I couldn’t resist. Her eyes were tractor beams, pulling me closer. The moment I sat down, her icy fingers roped around my wrist. The knife kissed my throat.
“Don’t move.”
With alarming speed, she produced a roll of duct tape from the closet.
“This will only hurt for a minute.”
I regarded the steely knife, and gulped. I was terrified. My heart was pounding through my tee-shirt. I didn’t want to die a gruesome death. No way. But I didn’t dare budge. Grandma rolled up her sleeves, then cut a long piece of tape. The knife cut effortlessly. She sat next to me, clutching both knife and tape.
“It should never have come to this, Johnny. But…”
Just then, headlights splashed across the drapes, and a car pulled into the driveway.
“Daddy!”
My grandmother winced, but the knife never wavered.
I leapt from the couch and rushed outside, greeting my dad with open arms. He poked his head inside and said goodbye. Grandma smiled politely, but her eyes were ablaze. The knife and tape disappeared. On the way home, I asked my father about Mom. He talked about the day they’d met; a story I’ll never get sick of hearing. His voice quivered as he spoke. I wanted to bring up Grandma – her box of fingers and skulls, her knife and tape – but I didn’t. Something in her eyes warned me not to.
…
Grandma died later that year. Father cleared the house, before selling it. No one was allowed to help. No funeral was held, and Father never spoke of Grandma again. Ever. In time, life went back to normal, whatever that means, and Grandma’s basement became a distant memory. Except of course, in my dreams, where her basement still haunts me, even as an adult.
Last month, my father died. Cancer finally got the best of him. When I cleared out his home, I stumbled upon something peculiar: Mother’s wedding dress. Wrapped inside were some items of interest: a skull cap, fingers, and a wedding ring.
He knew.