THE BASEMENT DOOR by Therese

     Silently calling my name a mysterious power pulls me toward the door. A deep foreboding rises in my belly and warns me of impending doom. I must cross through the laundry room to reach the door. Leaving the relative safety of the well-lit kitchen the heavy odor of mildew and dirty clothes assail my nose.

     Balls of dryer lint are carelessly strewn about mixed into layers-clothes, towels, laundry soap boxes and dryer sheets. The bottom layers are wet from the leaking washing machine and dog urine. adding to the stench is an overflowing litter box and the remains of afterbirth from a litter of kittens born on a pile of towels. clean unfolded clothes wait in vain on  top of a large rusting freezer chest.

     There it is on the right stuck half open-the dreaded basement door. The grimy light switch is left of the door. I must tread across the filth to reach it. Flipping the switch and steeling my courage I press forward to the landing lit only  by one small incandescent bulb. It glows a sickly dim yellow above me refusing to penetrate past the darkness of the stairwell.

     Creaking the old worn steps threaten to give way under me. With my throat tightening I grasp the loose wooden handrail with trembling hands. My feet slide into the shallow hollows created by countless years of use. I feel the unnatural sensation of being watched and I shiver.

     As my eyes slowly adjust to the dark, I see the pull chain to the only light hovering in the center of the room. I take a deep breath and gingerly advance one shaky step at a time. Nervously I search the shadows created by the small amount of sunlight squeezing through the windows dripping with dust and spider webs. I am ready to bolt at the slightest motion. Avoiding shallow oily puddles from the last flooding rain I squelch across the floor and reach the chain. As another chill shakes my spine I pull and turn on the light swinging on its long dangling cord.

     Finally I see my goal-a sagging shelf lined with dusty glass jars of food. Quickly I grab several jars of peaches and green beans. Half running I race back to the stairs./ I feel a strange pulling sensation in the middle of my back, but I am too shaken to look over my shoulder afraid of what I might see. Through the half open door I bolt, the malevolent air follows along. I stumble over the accumulated waste and reach the well-lit kitchen. Sighing with relief I place the hard earned jars on the table. Then it hits me, I left the lights on!
                                                         -Therese