CELLAR STEPS

CELLAR STEPS

It's been going on for some time now.
A soft thudding from beyond the wainscoting.
I say 'beyond' rather than 'behind' because it's a distance away. It
varies from what might be thought the rapping of gloved knuckles on
wood to a pile driver hammering concrete. Sometimes it's so loud I want
to rush out of the house with hands over my ears. Others, I have to
strain to hear it.
It never goes away. And I seem to be the only one hearing it.
I've mentioned it to Maybelline and she says we could be infested with
woodworm or ants or malicious mice. Because it's an old house with a
history, she says rats might be gnawing away at its foundations. She
says, although she's listened often and long she hasn't heard anything
out of the ordinary.
She thinks I cry wolf without due cause and doesn't take me
seriously.
I think it threatening and I'll try to explain why.
It's to do with its persistence. It's invasive. It's as though it's
trying to take me over. As I appear to be the only one hearing it, I
assume it's a direct threat to me. To have any future, I have to locate
it and put and end to the trouble it's causing me.
As one does with a radio station, I've learned to tune in to it. I
have it fixed. I've plotted a line to it. I can track it down.
And have.
I'm on top of the cellar steps, with an irrational fear. I suppose it
stems from childhood - stories of ghosts, ghouls, hobgoblins.
I look down the steps to what appears a closed cellar door. It's dark
down there. I've tried the light - but nothing happens. I assume the
bulb has gone.
I remember seeing the door when I was first looking round the property
with the lady realtor, Ellie Gonzalez. She didn't want to go into the
cellar and when I asked why, she side-stepped my question. I didn't
pursue it, but now I wonder if she knew something I didn't.
I go into the kitchen for a torch. Maybelline asks what I'm up to and
I tell her I'm going to explore the cellar. We haven't been in the
house more than a month and a lot of it is still strange to us. We
moved here from Ontario. Some of our things are still in boxes. We're
not as young as once and it takes time for old bones to adjust.
Although the house is new to us, it's an old property. It has two
sizeable living rooms, three bedrooms, a dining kitchen, and a cellar.
By island standards
it's almost prehistoric. I daresay that's how our new neighbours view
us. They've called and said howdy, then left us to our own devices.
It's not exactly how we like it, but we make do.
The steps creak under my weight. I'm an excessive two-eighty, so it's
hardly surprising. Maybelline says I eat too much to compensate for
being ugly.
Because the stairwell is too narrow for my girth, I'm having trouble.
Pushing is making me breathless. As well as the sound, I can hear
myself panting. It's ugly and unpleasant and I don't like it. It
suggests my life is finite.
Exertion makes me sweat. The stuff pours out of me, almost as though
someone has turned on a tap. The palms of my hands are wet. I drop the
torch. The light goes out, leaving me in darkness.
Do I panic?
Bet your life!
I tell myself to calm down. I know the cellar door is only feet away.
Two or three paces and I can reach the handle. In my mind, I try to
picture it . . .
When I get my breath back, I go for it. In my clumsy way, I slip on
the penultimate step and crash into the closed door. I lie still. I
hear Maybelline yelling, asking if I'm okay. I lie. I yell back that
I'm fine.
I hurt all over and it feels like I've cracked a rib.
I'm close to the sound now. It's like a drum beat in my ear.
After minutes, I sit up and feel for the torch. I find it, try
switching it on but nothing happens. When I persist, it comes apart in
my hands.
Assuming the cellar is wired, I ignore the torch. I manage to stand
but cry out with pain when the two ends of the broken rib grind
together. Again, Maybelline hears me. Again, I yell back. 'I'm
fine!'
I find the door handle. turn it and push it open on creaking hinges.
The sound is like rolling thunder. Inside, it beats at me.
By fumbling on either side of the door, I feel rough brick, then find
the switch. A sixty-watt bulb gives as much illumination as a candle
flame. One blessing: it doesn't flicker.
I look round.
Jumble everywhere from families who have lived here and discarded
their rubbish. Bicycles with rusty frames and missing wheels, inner
tubes and tyres, not-quite-empty pots of paint with ill-fitting lids,
wood in various lengths and finishes, two dustbins, one with a broken
lid. Overlaying everything, a film of cobwebs and fine dust.
I move into the cellar with the sound hammering away at me as though
I'm quarried rock. It isn't easy to take everything in. I see, but do
not observe. I've left my understanding somewhere behind me . . .
I'm using the sound.
As I move towards it, it gets louder.
It seems to be in a corner.
Over there, I see something tall and angular leaning against a wall.
Whatever it is, it's covered with a tarpaulin.
I cross to it and pull the covering away. A dust cloud makes me
cough.
When it clears, I see a coffin made of good wood, planed oak, with
ornate brass fixtures and fittings. Opening it, I see velvet, red and
plush.
I begin to laugh.
This joke is on Maybelline.
Her intention of Gothic horror has led me to humour. Her intention of
suspense has brought me to tears of helpless laughter.
Then I realise . . .
This joke is one me.
The sound is driving me to my knees.
I am sinking into dust.
As darkness descends and my breathing becomes erratic and weak, the
sound diminishes. Trying to listen, I hear footsteps on the cellar
steps.
They come closer.
Then, closer still.

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