Eight-year-old Charley Spencer bounded up the broad white
steps of the porch of her curlicue-embellished Victorian
home. She pushed open the heavy front door then turned back
to the street and waved goodbye to her best friend Becca and
her mother as they drove away from the curb.
She pushed the door closed and hollered, “Mo-oo-om,
Ru-uu-bee.” The smell of fresh baked cookies made her
smile. She dropped her knapsack by the foot of the elegant,
curved wooden stairway that led to the second floor.
The tantalizing smell drew her into the kitchen with the
single-minded intensity of a dog to sizzling bacon. On the
counter beside the oven, a baking sheet sat half-full of
sagging but still rounded globs of cookie dough. On the
island, a dozen chocolate chip cookies covered the cooling
rack. She snatched one and sank her teeth in—just the way
she liked them, crunchy on the edges, gooey in the middle
and sweet enough to break a heart.
She gobbled the cookie up with 100-yard dash speed then
grabbed another one. The second one she would savor—taking
tiny bites letting the chocolate soften and ooze across her
tongue and allowing each little crunch of walnut to release
a separate burst of flavor.
She munched on the cookie as she went back into the
hallway. She spewed cookie crumbs into the air as she
shouted out again, “Mo-oo-om, Ru-uu-bee.” She wiped her
lips with the back of her hand as she climbed the stairway
to the second floor. She called out for her mother and
sister again as she entered Ruby’s bedroom. No one there.
She looked in her own bedroom. Nope not there. Then she
headed to the master bedroom suite. It used to be two
bedrooms but that was one of the things her parents had
changed in the large, old house—taking out a wall and adding
a walk-in closet and a huge master bath.
She saw no one in the bedroom. Poked her head in the
bathroom and no one was there either. She walked into the
closet and went to the back corner where a cubbyhole jutted
off with more storage. Unease creased her brow and turned
the cookie crumbs in her mouth into irritating pebbles.
Then, she heard footsteps downstairs and grinned as she
rushed down to the first floor. On the bottom landing, she
jerked to a sudden stop. The front door was hanging wide
open.
She sucked in a deep breath. I closed that door when I
came in. I know I did, she thought. She expelled air in
her lungs and headed over to the door to see if Mom and Ruby
were on the front porch looking for her to come home. She
saw nothing but the steps, the intricate white railings and
a very still green porch swing.
She stepped back in the house, pushed the door shut with
both hands, then turned around and pushed against it with
her back for good measure. That’s when she noticed the door
under the stairs was wide open, too. The door to the
basement. Charley hated the basement. She didn’t like
going into the finished area where concrete covered the
floor of the laundry room and a washer, dryer and laundry
tub stood ready for duty. Even worse was the unfinished
part of the cellar with its dirt floor and spider webs.
Just thinking about that part of the basement suffused her
senses with primordial dread.
That was why she was uncomfortable in the brightly lit
laundry room. Whenever she was there she was consumed by a
painful awareness that the dark, musty underworld of the
house laid just beyond the door. She imagined a realm ruled
by legions of rats. She’d never actually seen one but her
fantasy vision contained creatures with shiny demon eyes,
fang-like teeth, thick, long, whip-like tails and claws
capable of shredding flesh from bones in seconds flat.
She stood at the top of the open wood plank stairs and
trembled. “Mom? Ruby?” Her voice quavered. She heard a
small whimper and forced a foot down one step. “Mom? Ruby?”
formed a lump in her throat as it escaped from her mouth.
She took another step. “Mom? Ruby? Mom?”
She smelled the musty odor that reminded her of dark
dreams and forbidden places. In the bottom corner of the
stairway, she saw a brown six-legged predator dangling from
the ceiling on a silken thread. It swung in small arcs in
the draft caused by the open door. She shivered in
revulsion. Goosebumps raced up and down her arms and legs.
She heard a sloppy wet sound that made her want to turn,
run up the stairs, slam the door, hide under her bed. She
breathed in deeply and exhaled hard. The calming breath
jogged a familiar memory. The sloppy noise sounded the same
as those Ruby made when she sucked her thumb. But Ruby
hadn’t sucked her thumb since before last summer. “Mom? Ruby?”
She took another step and bent over. She peered through
the banister to the basement below. She saw Ruby sitting on
the floor—one thumb in her mouth. The fingers of her other
hand tangled in her hair twisting with quiet desperation.
“Ruby!” Charley shouted.
Ruby scooted back on her rump snuggling closer to the
lump on the floor. The lump was their mother. Charley
screamed. Ruby cringed and sucked on her thumb at a more
furious pace.
Their mother stretched out flat on the cold, hard slab.
A concrete block rested flat on her face. Her arms sprawled
at angles from her sides as if she was caught in the act of
making angels in the snow. Ruby pushed back farther into
the triangle formed between her mother’s arm and her torso.
The rats fled from Charley’s mind. The real horror
exceeded the capacity of her imagination and was right
before her eyes. She raced down the remaining stairs.