The Horrible Thing That Slipped Through My Window One Night
But he went, wanting to rush right down and back up, yet knowing that if he tripped and broke a leg, he'd be in a nastier fix than the one he was in right now. He methodically used the flashlight to illuminate each step as he came down, his heart making a deep "lubdup!" noise each time his foot struck the dusty wood. The basement wasn't as dark as it might have been, though it still had at least an extra shade on the rooms upstairs. Lined around, on all sides, perhaps six feet from the cement floor, were seven small windows. Outside of the house they looked out just above the dewy ground; perfect for allowing something to get inside, and not so perfect for allowing something to get back outside.
Tom had forgotten about the small windows, but it was too late to concern himself with them now. He would get the stick, go back upstairs, and then lock the basement door; it would be like killing seven birds with one stone.
He shined the beam of the flashlight onto the far wall, casting ancient yellow light on two tables cluttered with thousands of useless objects, and what might be one useful tool.
If it's here, said the voice. If it's here.
It's here, responded Tom, and he didn't think he was bullshitting himself, either. There was a whole room full of old junk down here, (it was set into the wall adjacent to the tables), but Tom knew the stick wasn't in there. He couldn't explain exactly how he knew, and that was fine. He had a good memory during even the worst of times, and he simply supposed his mom had mentioned that she'd put it on the tables, when he'd quit playing hockey three years ago.
He approached the piles of junk, letting the light pass over it again and again. He saw a broken yellow yo-yo, a box of assorted Christmas lights, mounds of crusty magazines, a pile of broken power tools that had belonged to (don't make me come over there, boy!) his father, and even his mom's old record collection. But he couldn't see the stick.
Tom had forgotten about the small windows, but it was too late to concern himself with them now. He would get the stick, go back upstairs, and then lock the basement door; it would be like killing seven birds with one stone.
He shined the beam of the flashlight onto the far wall, casting ancient yellow light on two tables cluttered with thousands of useless objects, and what might be one useful tool.
If it's here, said the voice. If it's here.
It's here, responded Tom, and he didn't think he was bullshitting himself, either. There was a whole room full of old junk down here, (it was set into the wall adjacent to the tables), but Tom knew the stick wasn't in there. He couldn't explain exactly how he knew, and that was fine. He had a good memory during even the worst of times, and he simply supposed his mom had mentioned that she'd put it on the tables, when he'd quit playing hockey three years ago.
He approached the piles of junk, letting the light pass over it again and again. He saw a broken yellow yo-yo, a box of assorted Christmas lights, mounds of crusty magazines, a pile of broken power tools that had belonged to (don't make me come over there, boy!) his father, and even his mom's old record collection. But he couldn't see the stick.