3. Hide-and-Seek
Flashlights in hand, Thomas and Eve descended the basement stairs. He led the way, Eve in tow, while the rest of his family waited above. At first, Paige had proposed they all search for Jenny as a group. But Thomas vetoed this: “The more dramatic our response,” he said, “the longer she stays hidden.”
As they navigated down the creaky steps, Eve steadied herself on the brick wall, its texture coarse against her palm, like sandpaper. At the bottom, they entered a narrow hallway that branched off in two directions. They scanned their flashlights around. There was an unusual heaviness to the dark down here, as if it were soaking up the light, hoarding it away for some unknown purpose.
And the air was dense. Humid. Every breath filled with a stagnant must you could actually taste. Metallic, like a mouthful of pennies. Sour, like bark mulch after a rainstorm. The dampness had sunk into the beams above, lending them a slick, glistening sheen. Something that would lead to structural integrity issues, if it hadn’t already. All the more reason to tear this place down.
Thomas looked both ways. He studied the shadows with apprehension, almost like there might be something dangerous out there. Something only he could see. Shaking this off, he strode up to a nearby support beam. He rapped his knuckles against it, using that classic “call and response” secret knock pattern:
Duh—duh-duh-duh—duh…
He left out the last two knocks, awaiting an answer. But there was only silence. Empty and dull. He looked around more, his eyes landing in a murky corner. There sat the dumbwaiter, veiled in darkness, its door cracked ajar, the cart empty.
Thomas frowned. “We should be quiet, split up. This is all like a game to Jenny. If she hears you, she’ll run or double down.” His voice was strained with the exhaustion of having done this one too many times.
“The basement’s bigger than you’d think,” he said. “Goes beyond the edge of the upstairs footprint. Lots of nooks, crannies, places to hunker down.” He sighed. “If you see Jenny on the move, just run after her, grab her. Seriously. We’ll be here all night otherwise.”
Eve blinked, unsure if she’d heard him right. “Just, grab her?”
“I know, I know.” His tired face acknowledged the absurdity. “It’s all part of her game. You could call me over, but by the time I get there—she’s fast, good at hiding.”
“Okay…”
Thomas looked past Eve. “You go that way.” He glanced back. “I’ll go this way.”
Before she could respond, he disappeared around the leftward corner. Alone, Eve lingered there, ruminating. This was supposed to be a relaxing Friday night. Now, she was standing in a dingy basement hunting down a kid she didn’t even know. And of course, Charlie’s absence echoed in the depths of her mind. As soon as Eve got back upstairs, she’d give her a call.
Resigned, she pushed rightward down the narrow corridor. Rounding a corner, she entered a room the size of a two-car garage. It smelled like a garage too—a watery mix of cardboard and mystery chemicals. Lovely. Rickety shelves lined the space, four rows in all. They were crammed with boxes, each one filled with rusty knickknacks. She plodded forward, her footsteps creaking on plywood. Someone had just slapped the boards on top of the hard-packed dirt and called it a day. Huh. As she wound her way through the aisles, her light cast distorted shadows through the shelves. Sweeping and shifting. She checked each corner, every possible hiding spot. No Jenny in sight. She was just about ready to move on when, behind her—
Something clattered to the ground, a shrill, snapping sound that made her whip-turn toward it. About ten feet away, a tin can rolled in a lazy half circle. Around it was a scattered mess of nails and screws, some still spinning in place. Great, thought Eve, now this kid’s gonna step on a nail, get tetanus, and we’re gonna get sued.
In a huff, she crossed over and crouched. She put down the flashlight and swept the nails back into the can, careful not to get pricked. Then, an unpleasant question finally arose:
How did the can fall over?
There was no kid in sight, so it couldn’t have been that… Mo, the paranoid monkey on her shoulder, was about to take the wheel, when: plywood.
Of course. Her weight must have shifted the boards, unbalanced the shelf, and caused the can to fall. Occam’s razor. That was a term Charlie had taught her: the simplest explanation was usually correct. Eve smiled, feeling proud in an embarrassed sort of way.
As she finished cleaning up the nails, her flashlight slowly rolled away. Uneven floors, great. She kicked out her foot, blocked its path, and… something in the circle of light caught her eyes. One row over, tracing along the floor, was a thin trail of tiny black dots. She grabbed the flashlight and skulked over. More ants.
They were spilling out from a crack in the plywood. All going the same direction, they marched down the aisle and slipped out of sight. Is this normal ant behavior? Eve wondered. Vague memories of a nature documentary played in her mind—David Attenborough pontificating on what normal ant behavior ought to be. Curious, she padded forward into yet another narrow hallway. This one had green doors on either side, ran for about twenty feet, then forked left and right. Way too many hiding places down here.
On the verge of another anxiety spell, she stopped herself, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled. She took in her surroundings. Details she could see, feel, hear, smell, and taste. The low hum of a nearby air vent, its cold draft against her left shoulder. Stay present, she reminded herself. The concrete walls, dull and gray. This was another technique she’d picked up from that counselor: grounding.
In times of stress, take mental notes of your environment, your senses. Stay focused on the present moment.
She noted the smell of must, the lingering taste of a peppermint tea she’d drunk earlier that evening.
A little calmer, she shone her light down. The trail of ants moved like an oil slick across the dusty floor, curving around the far corner. Eve could almost hear their tiny feet tapping against the plywood. She felt a compulsive need to know where they were going, why they were all moving in the same direction.
Pressing onward, she veered around the corner and came upon a door, bone white. The ants slipped under it, filing into a thin line of dark. She turned the knob, stepped inside. This room fit the house’s theme of having no unifying theme. Here, the brick walls were painted a fleshy pink, and the floors were a familiar black and white tile. The ants moved in a straight line to the far left corner and disappeared beneath an old wardrobe that was painted sky blue, cracked and peeling. It had shuttered doors and slats through which a sneaky child could peer. The perfect hiding spot.
Right on cue, her light caught the glint of blinking eyes, gazing out from the shutters. Bingo. Jenny was cornered now. Forgetting the ants, Eve tiptoed over, wrapped her hand around the knob, swung it open, and—
Empty.
No kid in sight. There was just a painting, leaning up against the back panel, facing away. A three-by-two-foot frame, coated with flaking silver. That explained the glint of eyes.
But weren’t those eyes blinking?Mo proffered.
Must’ve been an illusion, created when she moved the light. Occam’s razor. She tilted the frame back. The painting was obscured by a thick layer of dust. She crouched down and used her sleeve to wipe it clean.
It was an oil painting—a tree line lit by dreary sunlight. The colors were cold, pale greens, light grays, and bluish-browns. In the foreground, a chocolate Lab faced the woods. Its tail was straight, ears pricked up, sensing some unseen threat. On the ground to its left was a red gas lantern casting an orange glow into the woods, revealing nothing but branches, trees, and shadows.
Whatever the creator’s intent, the image certainly evoked a sense of dread. It wasn’t the sort of thing Eve would hang up anytime soon, but the artist, whoever they were, undoubtedly had skill. If this was the work of Thomas’s mother, he was selling her short. It was the kind of painting that almost made Eve want to go back to art school. Almost. Careful, reverent, she set it back and closed the door.
She aimed her light down at the ant trail. The last of them were receding beneath the wardrobe. On her knees, she put her head to the ground and peered under. They led straight to the corner, amassing over a crack between the tiles. Now, they moved with delirious urgency, writhing and crawling over one another as they forced their way through.
Uneasy, she returned to standing and looked back toward the exit. Next to the door was a wooden pegboard. The outlines of tools were faded into its brown veneer—a drill, a handsaw, a hammer. Not thinking much of it, she strode out of the room, stepped around the corner, and halted in her tracks.
Someone was standing down the narrow hall. Back turned. Looming. It was Thomas. His posture was pin-straight, his arms hanging limp. His flashlight, white-knuckle-gripped in his left hand, was pointed straight down at the floor, casting a tight circle of harsh light half over his shoe, half over the concrete.
“Thomas?”
No response. He just stood there, unmoving. Somehow, he looked stiller than the hallway itself… was he even breathing?
“T-Thomas?”
Nothing.
Tense, Eve glanced over her shoulder. He was blocking the only way out. She cleared her throat and tried one more. “Thomas…?” Still no response. He just kept standing there like a storefront mannequin, frozen in time. If he was trying to scare her, it was working. Should she bolt past him?
She took another step closer. Another. She was less than an arm’s length away when he suddenly spun around. “Jesus.” He set a hand to his chest, startled. “You snuck up on me there.” He paused, clocking her wary expression. “You okay? You look… spooked.”
“I, uh.” Eve was lost for words. “I tried calling your name like three times.”
He smiled apologetically. “Yeah, my hearing isn’t what it used to be. You’re sure you’re okay, though?”
“I…” Eve fell silent and considered prodding further, but: “I— I’m just not a fan of basements.”
“You and me both.”
Eve rubbed her arms, fidgety. “Any luck?” she asked.
His mouth pressed into a straight line. “Sort of.”
Thomas led Eve to the opposite side of the basement. He crouched in a corner and aimed his light down a gap so narrow even a child would’ve had to turn sideways just to fit. The glow shone through beams, insulation, and pipes, landing in a small open space. It was likely a remnant of the original layout, a vestigial organ created by the many additions over the years.
“She’s hiding in there,” Thomas sighed. “Just out of view.”
“Well,” Eve said, “shouldn’t we call her out?”
He tilted his head, pretending to consider the suggestion. “I’ve seen this pattern before,” he said. “Jenny finds a spot, sets up camp, and she won’t surrender unless we give her space.”
“Okay, but— I’m just, I’m not sure it’s safe back there…” Again, visions of potential lawsuits swirled.
“It’s safe,” Thomas said. “My sister and I used to hide out there all the time; it’s just a concrete nook, no bigger than a walk-in closet.”
“I— I could go in and get her?” It would be an extremely tight fit, but she could do it. Maybe.
“I appreciate that, but it’s not a good idea. Even if you managed to squeeze through—good luck getting her out without some kicking and screaming. Jenny’s a biter.”
She studied him. Didn’t he say to grab her earlier? Also, the kid didn’t strike Eve as the type to kick and scream, but… she wasn’t about to argue with a parent on their own child’s behavior.
Thomas crossed his arms and tapped his foot, thinking. After a few seconds of this, he leaned in close. “Like I said, right now, our best course of action is to go back upstairs, give her space, wait until she’s ready to come out.” He checked the time on his watch. “When she gives up on that spot, she’ll come right up. Always does.”
Eve thought about this for a moment. “What’s to stop her from just finding another hiding spot?”
Thomas gave a polite but terse smile. “She won’t. When Jenny gives up here, she’ll come straight upstairs.” He said this as if it were an immutable law of the universe, on par with gravity. Turning back to the narrow passage, he threw his voice into the inky dark. “Jenny, we’re going back up.”
There was a damp dullness in the silence, as if the shadows had swallowed his words before they even made it halfway. “Jenny?” Thomas repeated, suppressing the slightest hint of worry.
Still no response.
A tendon in his neck twitched. He tugged at his collar, nervous. Then he clucked his tongue as if to say, “Right.” Slowly, he raised his arm. And with a flick of his wrist, he knocked that pattern onto a nearby pipe:
Duh—duh-duh-duh—duh…
A long stretch of silence crept by, and then, from somewhere beyond the end of the passage, two faint knocks echoed in response. Knuckles against concrete.
“There she is,” said Thomas, rising to his feet. “Let’s head back up.” He walked off, but Eve lingered behind, staring into the claustrophobic opening, the unwelcoming void. Shouldn’t he be a little more concerned?
“Eve?”
She turned to meet his gaze.
He was standing a few yards away, flashlight raised. “You coming?”
“Yeah…” She took one last glance into the dark passage, then trudged after him.
As they wound their way out of the cellar, she couldn’t shake how off everything felt. Sure, she was no parenting expert, but didn’t this type of behavior warrant a firmer response? At the very least, some kind of ultimatum: “If you don’t come out in the next three minutes, we’re going to take away your Pokémon cards”—or whatever it was the kids played with these days.
Tepidly, Eve brought up her concerns, but again, Thomas insisted that giving Jenny space was now the only route to go. Eve relented. Honestly, she was just glad to get out of the basement.
They rounded onto the rickety stairs. And as they ascended, for the first time in a while, Eve didn’t feel the juvenile sensation that something was following her, didn’t feel the urge to run. Though, as they stepped out of the basement and into the living room, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder, down the narrow staircase, only to confirm what she already knew—nothing was there.