Chapter 50
The next morning, I give myself an assignment.
I have to go in the basement. I procrastinate on it, nursing my mug, eating a second bowl of oatmeal.
There’re many things I don’t like about the basement, even excluding the incident from a few nights ago.
The dirt floor, the cold stone walls, the smell of must.
Finally, I stand at the top of the stairs for a good five minutes, Hugo whining beside me, before slowly creeping my way down the creaking stairs.
Now that I’m standing down here, I realize another reason why I don’t like the basement.
Time feels elusive down here. The stones that were brought down here have not seen the light of day in two hundred fifty years.
It could be morning, noon, or night, and it would all look the same. I might as well be in a cave.
But even though my heart is thudding, and my palms feel wet, it’s important that I’m down here. Someone or something was down here. The light glowed through the floorboards and went out as soon as I slid open the lock. Topher didn’t find anything, but he doesn’t know what he’s looking for.
Not that I know what I’m looking for. But I’ll know it when I see it.
I slowly walk through the room, willing myself to stare straight into the shadowy corners, almost daring some malevolent force to come for me.
But nothing is here, aside from a mountain of our storage boxes, and a few rickety shelves piled high with old cans of paint.
I notice one can is on the floor, so I go to pick it up.
A deep crimson red has dripped down the peeling label.
It’s still wet and I look at my red-stained fingers in fascination.
It reminds me so much of the birch tree in my dream.
Of the blood pouring out of the trunk, the pieces of bark falling away like ribbon.
Suddenly, the temperature around me drops, like a cloud of cold, heavy air has settled in the basement.
It seems to move around me, lacing itself around my neck, around my wrists and wherever bare skin is exposed.
I feel my breath beginning to quicken, becoming shallow.
The light flickers above me. I feel light-headed, and squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself that the ghost means me no harm.
I want to run upstairs but can’t bring myself to move.
After what feels like an eternity, the flickering stops, and the chill seems to release.
It’s like the room has thawed and I’m no longer frozen in place.
I shove the can back on the shelf, my hands trembling.
Then I run back up the stairs to the familiar space of the parlor.
Without thinking I march to the mudroom and grab the hammer off the shelf.
I pound down the nail, which I know has risen without needing to see it.
And then I pound all the nails I see. It gives me something to do.
And it gives me a stupid sense of protection, even though I don’t think the woman means me harm and even though I know a hammer can’t hurt a ghost. The thoughts together are so absurd I start to laugh.
And soon I am laughing and crying and hammering.