Basement Jacks

I don’t like the basement. The hanging light never fills the corners, and the dark there feels like something’s in it. Our basement doesn’t have windows, either, so the air sits heavy in my chest, pulling as I breathe. And the walls speak to me. They ask me to bring them toys. Toys are fun, but they want wrong ones, sometimes. They want me to bring Toby down here, but Toby won’t come. He’s too afraid of the dark. Not brave, like me. Plus, he’s too little to come down the stairs. My Mom said so.

They don’t always talk. Sometimes, if I come down with my Mom to help with laundry, they just watch. If I’m alone, though, they whisper a lot. Stories about people lying in the dirt under the floor boards. Those people used to live here, they say. One’s even a little girl, like me. She likes flowers, so I brought some down one afternoon and left them in a pretty plastic cup filled with water. I tied a red bow on it. The next day, they were gone. I hope she liked them. Her name’s Emily, the walls told me. I told them my name is Jacqueline, Jacks for short, and that now we could be friends. They whispered to me they would like that.

Yesterday, while my Mom was taking a nap, I heard them call for me. I came down, holding the rail like I’m supposed to, and they asked me. They said they needed it, that Emily needed it. I felt bad. I wanted to ask my Mom, but she says never wake her up when she’s taking a nap, except for emergencies. This felt bad, but I didn’t break my arm or anything, so I couldn’t wake her up. So, I brought it to them. The cage was heavy, and I almost missed a step on the stairs, but I made it, and I set the cage on the floor like they said. They also said I had to leave, that I couldn’t watch. I climbed back up, turned out the light, and closed the door. I didn’t like leaving Petunia in the dark, but they promised they’d take care of her, that she wouldn’t be afraid. I sat and listened, and after a moment she squeaked and I heard her cage scrape on the floor, but that was all. Then my Mom came into the kitchen and asked me why I was sitting on the floor, and I did a bad thing. I lied.

I don’t know why I did it. My guts rumbled, and I spent the rest of the afternoon in bed. I thought my Mom would know, that she would know I told a lie, but she didn’t. The walls were right.

One of the stories they told me happened right in my house. There was a Mom and a Dad, and a little girl named Emily. I asked if that Emily was the same as the Emily there now, and they said yes. They all lived here, a long time ago. The Mom and Dad had fights, with lots of yelling. Emily would hide in the basement, back before the floor had boards on it. Just dirt, all pressed down flat. She would sit in the dark, all curled up against the brick wall, and listen to her Dad get very angry. Her Mom would start to cry and yell back, and once opened the door to come down the stairs to where Emily was. Her Dad pushed her Mom, and she tumbled all the way to the dirt, her head bloody and neck twisted funny. They said she had a leg bone poking all of the way out of her skin. I said I didn’t like this story, but they told me that I would, that it would get better. So, I listened some more.

When Emily’s Dad saw what he did, he stared at Emily a long time, his eyes empty. Emily yelled at her Dad, tears on her face, but he didn’t say anything back. He just closed the door, and Emily heard the key turn in the lock. Emily sat by her Mom. She tried petting her hair, but she got blood on her, so she stopped and just held her hand. After a little while, she smelled something sharp, and heard dripping through the upstairs floor down into the basement where she was. She’d smelled it before, but only when her Mom or Dad refilled the lamps. Some of it dripped onto her Mom and she wiped it off with her fingers. It felt like alcohol and made her eyes water, and probably stung in her Mom’s cuts. Then, a loud whoosh came from just outside the upstairs door, and smoke and crackling heat filled Emily’s eyes and lungs. She coughed, thumping on her Mom to wake her up, but she wouldn’t. She felt too still, too heavy, and try as Emily did she couldn’t pick her up.

Emily ran to the top of the stairs where the smoke was thickest and tried opening the door. The iron handle burned her hand, bits of skin sticking to it and charring. She yelped and cried for her Dad to come back, to open the door, but he didn’t. Emily heard a loud bang and a thump like something heavy hit the kitchen floor above her. Soon, Emily coughed more and more and the floor started to smoke above her. She pushed her Mom as far as she could away from the stairs, but before too long Emily fell asleep just like her Mom. Now, Emily and her Mom and Dad were all lying beneath the basement floor.

I said I still didn’t like that story, but the walls just kept talking. I said I had to go upstairs, that I had chores to do and cartoons would be on soon. They said Emily was lonely, and wanted to play, that she wanted to meet me. That the only thing between us was the new floor boards. I said I was sorry and ran up the splintery stairs to the kitchen, shutting the door behind me. They kept whispering, though. All night, so I couldn’t sleep. The walls wouldn’t stop until I promised.

Now, I’m waiting. My Mom is taking another nap, and I already ate my afternoon snack. I have to go downstairs and get Petunia. I’m supposed to bring them something else. They said they wanted Toby again, but I’m not bringing him. He’s taking a nap with my Mom. I’m brave; I’m going alone. I know I’m not supposed to take the matches from the kitchen drawer, but they told me Emily knows a game I’d like to play. I like games.