Kelly_Sprout
09-01-2006, 03:13 PM
I am pleased that I received one vote and at least one other consideration. This is a very personal story for me as it delves into my psyche and contains a certain amount of symbolism. I'd be interested in hearing others' thoughts on it.
The Cellar
©2006
Bruce Younggreen
The stairs descended into murky darkness. George stopped just before the fourth step as an unfamiliar draft chilled his feet. He was curious where this heretofore unknown passage led, but an unreasonable fear, cold as the air around his ankles, wrapped itself around his heart. He had lived in this house for forty years and had never before seen the old door. He didn't even think the old house had a basement until now, standing above the fourth step, peering into the darkness.
Forty years! Where had that door been all that time? George had found it while cleaning out the utility room, and yes, there had been a ton of junk there that he had to drag out, from boxes of old newspapers, some yellowed and some so old the yellow had faded to grey, to moth-eaten tie-died bell bottoms, paisley wide ties, and Neru shirts. Back behind all of that there were forgotten art projects and behind those were stacks of lumber, a window frame, and even a couple of unhinged doors leaning against the wall, left over from construction of the house, he guessed. Behind those, George had found a real door, a door in the wall, set in a door frame and hung on hinges. A door he never knew was there.
The paint had mostly peeled off over the years, with just streaks of color remaining, highlighting the grain of the wood. The iron latch and white glass knob felt locked, but it was only stiff from disuse and yielded when George rattled it. There was no light switch, not even a bare bulb and a string. Gingerly, George had taken that first step, then another, and another. The darkness gathered around him as if the light in the doorframe couldn't penetrate a darkness that had had forty years to gather its strength. When George took another step, he felt his legs submerge up to his knees into the cold.
He stood now on that fourth step, hesitating, wanting to turn back, afraid to find out what was ahead, but compelled by curiosity to go forward. An irrational image of the door closing behind him made him look back at it, just to reassure himself that it hadn't moved. With his heart thudding palpably against his ribs, George stepped further down into that thick, physical darkness. He wished that there was a handrail, and reached out, touching the walls on either side as he descended. The walls were cold and rough, and he realized in surprise that they were made of stone instead of wood and plaster. He could feel the cold air creeping up his legs, over his knees, to his waist. He could smell it now, and it was dank, earthy, moist and heavy.
Here, waist deep in the cold cellar air, the stairs turned to the left. As George stepped off the landing in the new direction and the lighted doorframe above him fell out of sight, both the cold and the darkness quickly enveloped him. He felt his way the rest of the way down, feet probing for the next step, hands staying in contact with the walls. He waved an arm in front of him, feeling for obstructions that he wouldn't want to walk into, and he could see the movement only because his arm was darker than the darkness though which it waved. At last, edging a toe forward, George was relieved to feel flat footing instead of another step.
Two steps away from the stairs, he stopped. As his eyes began to adjust, he could see that he was standing in a short passage. The end of the passage was maybe six to eight feet away. There was an opening there into some kind of room. Crouching in the opening, guarding it, making this room more locked than a locked door ever could have, was some kind of creature. The beast-monster was capable of standing upright on two legs and was as large as a man, as George himself, though at the moment, it was squatting on its haunches, forelimbs held loosely a little wider than its stance, hands or paws or whatever they were just grazing the ground, as if at the ready to grasp and grapple with any intruder.
Beyond the beast, in the dark corner at the far end of the room, George saw a movement, black against black, a shifting shadow. Despite his nearly choking fear, he leaned forward the tiniest little bit; trying to make out what was in the room. The beast made no movement, save for faintly dull ember-red eyes that watched George intently. A low, mostly inaudible, growl rumbled in its throat as a warning. George sensed that the beast wasn't predacious as much as protective. It almost seemed to George as if it couldn't attack, as though it were restrained somehow. He edged cautiously closer, staying out of reach, but trying to peer into the room beyond, to make out whatever he thought he had seen a moment ago. He hardly dared breathe and studiously avoided making eye contact with the beast who continued to growl in a low, menacing rumble.
George could just barely make out something huddled in the far corner. With a start of consternation and horror, he realized it was a little boy. His first thought was that this child was being held captive by the beast. The beast moved for the first time, backing away from George by a couple of inches. As he did so, George heard the chain rattle. Looking directly at the beast, George saw the chain for the first time. It ran from the beast's neck to the floor and across the floor toward the little boy, into the blackness. With that, George realized that the beast wasn't keeping the little boy here. The little boy was keeping the beast.
The boy stared at him from the corner of the room. George wanted to speak to him, ask him who he was and how he had gotten into his house, but as the words formed in his throat and the muscles of his face moved to form the first syllables, the boy shrank back further into the corner, huddled, fearful, communicating very clearly that he was unwilling and unable to communicate. The words died in George's throat and he uttered no sound.
Although George felt a little sorry for the frightened lad, he felt no sympathy, no empathy for him. Instead, he felt resentment. What was this forlorn child doing down here? How long had he been a stowaway, a castaway in George's house? Why did he choose to live in this cold, damp, dark place with his beast for protection, instead of coming out and living in the bright world above like everyone else? What right did he have to be hiding here in this place George hadn't even known existed?
As these questions tumbled through George's mind, an answer slowly dawned on him. He recoiled with a shudder as he realized the truth. George was looking at himself. He back away, one step at a time, up the stairs again until he had rounded the corner and could once again see the doorway above him. He was shaken and unnerved as he realized that he was a stranger to himself. He had no memory of that boy in the cellar; no idea why he had gone down there those many years ago, never to come out again. He sat down on the top step, buried his head in his arms, and cried.
The Cellar
©2006
Bruce Younggreen
The stairs descended into murky darkness. George stopped just before the fourth step as an unfamiliar draft chilled his feet. He was curious where this heretofore unknown passage led, but an unreasonable fear, cold as the air around his ankles, wrapped itself around his heart. He had lived in this house for forty years and had never before seen the old door. He didn't even think the old house had a basement until now, standing above the fourth step, peering into the darkness.
Forty years! Where had that door been all that time? George had found it while cleaning out the utility room, and yes, there had been a ton of junk there that he had to drag out, from boxes of old newspapers, some yellowed and some so old the yellow had faded to grey, to moth-eaten tie-died bell bottoms, paisley wide ties, and Neru shirts. Back behind all of that there were forgotten art projects and behind those were stacks of lumber, a window frame, and even a couple of unhinged doors leaning against the wall, left over from construction of the house, he guessed. Behind those, George had found a real door, a door in the wall, set in a door frame and hung on hinges. A door he never knew was there.
The paint had mostly peeled off over the years, with just streaks of color remaining, highlighting the grain of the wood. The iron latch and white glass knob felt locked, but it was only stiff from disuse and yielded when George rattled it. There was no light switch, not even a bare bulb and a string. Gingerly, George had taken that first step, then another, and another. The darkness gathered around him as if the light in the doorframe couldn't penetrate a darkness that had had forty years to gather its strength. When George took another step, he felt his legs submerge up to his knees into the cold.
He stood now on that fourth step, hesitating, wanting to turn back, afraid to find out what was ahead, but compelled by curiosity to go forward. An irrational image of the door closing behind him made him look back at it, just to reassure himself that it hadn't moved. With his heart thudding palpably against his ribs, George stepped further down into that thick, physical darkness. He wished that there was a handrail, and reached out, touching the walls on either side as he descended. The walls were cold and rough, and he realized in surprise that they were made of stone instead of wood and plaster. He could feel the cold air creeping up his legs, over his knees, to his waist. He could smell it now, and it was dank, earthy, moist and heavy.
Here, waist deep in the cold cellar air, the stairs turned to the left. As George stepped off the landing in the new direction and the lighted doorframe above him fell out of sight, both the cold and the darkness quickly enveloped him. He felt his way the rest of the way down, feet probing for the next step, hands staying in contact with the walls. He waved an arm in front of him, feeling for obstructions that he wouldn't want to walk into, and he could see the movement only because his arm was darker than the darkness though which it waved. At last, edging a toe forward, George was relieved to feel flat footing instead of another step.
Two steps away from the stairs, he stopped. As his eyes began to adjust, he could see that he was standing in a short passage. The end of the passage was maybe six to eight feet away. There was an opening there into some kind of room. Crouching in the opening, guarding it, making this room more locked than a locked door ever could have, was some kind of creature. The beast-monster was capable of standing upright on two legs and was as large as a man, as George himself, though at the moment, it was squatting on its haunches, forelimbs held loosely a little wider than its stance, hands or paws or whatever they were just grazing the ground, as if at the ready to grasp and grapple with any intruder.
Beyond the beast, in the dark corner at the far end of the room, George saw a movement, black against black, a shifting shadow. Despite his nearly choking fear, he leaned forward the tiniest little bit; trying to make out what was in the room. The beast made no movement, save for faintly dull ember-red eyes that watched George intently. A low, mostly inaudible, growl rumbled in its throat as a warning. George sensed that the beast wasn't predacious as much as protective. It almost seemed to George as if it couldn't attack, as though it were restrained somehow. He edged cautiously closer, staying out of reach, but trying to peer into the room beyond, to make out whatever he thought he had seen a moment ago. He hardly dared breathe and studiously avoided making eye contact with the beast who continued to growl in a low, menacing rumble.
George could just barely make out something huddled in the far corner. With a start of consternation and horror, he realized it was a little boy. His first thought was that this child was being held captive by the beast. The beast moved for the first time, backing away from George by a couple of inches. As he did so, George heard the chain rattle. Looking directly at the beast, George saw the chain for the first time. It ran from the beast's neck to the floor and across the floor toward the little boy, into the blackness. With that, George realized that the beast wasn't keeping the little boy here. The little boy was keeping the beast.
The boy stared at him from the corner of the room. George wanted to speak to him, ask him who he was and how he had gotten into his house, but as the words formed in his throat and the muscles of his face moved to form the first syllables, the boy shrank back further into the corner, huddled, fearful, communicating very clearly that he was unwilling and unable to communicate. The words died in George's throat and he uttered no sound.
Although George felt a little sorry for the frightened lad, he felt no sympathy, no empathy for him. Instead, he felt resentment. What was this forlorn child doing down here? How long had he been a stowaway, a castaway in George's house? Why did he choose to live in this cold, damp, dark place with his beast for protection, instead of coming out and living in the bright world above like everyone else? What right did he have to be hiding here in this place George hadn't even known existed?
As these questions tumbled through George's mind, an answer slowly dawned on him. He recoiled with a shudder as he realized the truth. George was looking at himself. He back away, one step at a time, up the stairs again until he had rounded the corner and could once again see the doorway above him. He was shaken and unnerved as he realized that he was a stranger to himself. He had no memory of that boy in the cellar; no idea why he had gone down there those many years ago, never to come out again. He sat down on the top step, buried his head in his arms, and cried.