Chapter 7
Basement Confessions of a Sasquatch
Olivia
By nightfall, the ridge had vanished behind a wall of clouds. The air pressed close, rain tightening the atmosphere until the ridge felt ready to break. Every few minutes, the sky flickered—a brief, silent pulse—before thunder rolled long and low across the valley.
The day had stretched thin, slow, and uneasy. I had pretended to work, my eyes fixed on my laptop while the cursor blinked against an empty page. No matter how hard I tried, my thoughts kept straying to the barn, to Vek, and to the quiet way everything felt different with him so close.
He hadn’t made a sound since morning—no movement, no hum. But I had felt him there. I had taken him food and water twice, both times leaving before courage turned into curiosity. He had eaten. That was enough, or it should have been.
Boone and June Bug had followed me all day, uneasy shadows at my heels. They felt it too—the change in the air, the slow gathering of the storm, and something else that none of us knew how to fully realize.
By nine, the first raindrops struck the windows. A line of lightning split the horizon. I turned down the news, ignoring the crawl of red across the screen: Tornado watch. Those were familiar words, but my stomach tightened at the thought.
When the wind began to rise, I stepped out onto the porch. The sky had taken on the color of bruised steel, with clouds shifting in layers that breathed. My porch light buzzed against the dark, its glow catching on the mist and the wings of moths.
Boone pressed his muzzle against my leg, whining softly. The air pulsed with pressure that set every nerve on edge.
“I know,” I whispered, resting a hand on his head. “I feel it too.”
The thunder came again—closer now, heavier. I looked toward the barn. Through the slanting rain, I could still see the faint glow of the candle I had left burning inside—a small, trembling light against the dark.
When the wind hit, it came all at once—branches thrashed, and the woods groaned. I knew that sound; I’d lived through enough Tennessee storms to recognize the shift before the sky truly turned.
“Come on,” I called, whistling to the dogs. “Basement.”
Boone obeyed, heading down without hesitation, but June Bug stayed at the door, her small body rigid, gaze fixed on the barn.
My stomach twisted.
“No,” I told myself firmly. “He lives outside. He’ll ride it out.”
A violent gust slammed into the house, rattling the windows hard enough to make me flinch.
June Bug whimpered.
“That barn is older than I am,” I whispered, “and if the roof gives… or he panics and runs still hurting…”
The words died in my throat.
I couldn’t pretend I didn’t care. Not anymore.
Before the thought finished forming, I grabbed the door and ran into the storm.
The rain struck hard and fast, soaking through my clothes in seconds.
Lightning tore the sky apart, followed by a crack that made the porch boards tremble.
The dogs barked behind me, their voices sharp against the roar of the wind, but I didn’t stop.
All I could see was mud, thunder, and the dim outline of the barn through the rain.
The door resisted when I pulled it open, the hinges wailing in protest. He was standing when I found him, framed in silver light. The quilt had slipped from his shoulders. Water clung to Vek’s hair and fur, slick and gleaming under the flashes of lightning. He must have ventured outside.
His gaze found me instantly—unblinking, steady as the eye of the storm.
“There’s a bad one coming,” I shouted, though the words barely carried over the wind. “You can’t stay here!”
He didn’t move at first; he watched me with that quiet attention of his, the kind that made talking feel optional.
I pointed toward the house. “Basement. Safe.”
Something in my tone must have broken through, because he nodded once and stepped forward.
We crossed the yard together, the rain driving sideways and the wind tugging at my coat. Every footfall of his landed heavily in the soaked earth, a rhythm that matched the thunder rolling above us.
By the time we reached the porch, the world had gone white with lightning. Boone barked from below, the sound half-lost in the storm.
“This way,” I said, pulling the door open and heading toward the basement. “You’ll have to duck.”
Hesitating at the threshold, his gaze swept the narrow stairwell that led below. The dark seemed to unsettle him, perhaps an old wariness that had learned the shape of traps.
“It’s alright,” I said, my voice softer now. “You’re safe with me.”
The words felt strange on my tongue. Clearly, after shooting him, my track record proved the opposite.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then, he ducked beneath the doorframe and followed.
The lantern light trembled as I led the way down the narrow steps. Boone and June Bug came close behind, their nails scraping against the boards.
When we reached the bottom, I set the lantern on the worktable and turned it on. He filled the space behind me. It wasn’t meant for someone so large. Water dripped from his hair, tracing down his throat before falling dark against the floor.
The storm howled above, but down here, it sounded far away—almost peaceful.
The wind outside rose into a steady roar, as if the whole mountain were breathing through its teeth. Every few seconds, thunder cracked close enough to rattle the hinges on the front door. Somewhere above, the old oak beside the porch groaned in protest, its branches clawing at the siding.
Down here, the air was stagnant. The scent of stone filled the small space. Candles lined the worktable, waiting for the power outages that occurred often enough to keep me prepared. I lit one, then another, their flames trembling in the draft that slipped down the stairwell.
The basement wasn’t large; it was only half-finished.
A futon sat against one wall, with a stack of folded blankets nearby, and shelves lined with canned goods and storm supplies.
The dogs circled once before settling down, Boone placing himself between me and the stranger who had followed me down here. I felt safe, but Vek was clearly wary.
Behind me, he stood near the bottom of the stairs, his shoulders brushing against the low beams.
“You can sit,” I said, my voice softer now. “It’s safe down here.”
He looked at the futon, then back at me, uncertain. His hair clung to his temples, deep brown and catching the candlelight in faint gold.
“Sit,” I repeated, motioning to the couch as if I were talking to a nervous animal. “Rest.”
He finally did, slowly, and the old futon creaked beneath his weight. The frame groaned but held. Boone lifted his head, one ear twitching, but didn’t growl. Even June Bug seemed to sense that there was no danger left in him.
Then the first flicker of the lights came before blinking out completely. The hum of the refrigerator upstairs stuttered and died, leaving behind only the wind and the rain. The storm had taken the power, just like always.
I sighed. “And there it goes.”
The lantern light threw everything into shadow. I could hear my own heartbeat now, too loud in the small space.
For a long, awkward moment, Vek watched me without speaking. In that soft, wavering light, his features looked sharper, almost human—strong cheekbones, eyes deep and reflective like amber glass. The bandage I had wrapped was still clean, though his shoulder was swollen from the wound.
“We need to clean your wound and change your bandage when we can go back upstairs,” I said, flinching when the wind hit the outside of the house hard enough to shake the foundation.
His gaze flicked down, then back to my face. “Better,” he said, the word rough but clear.
My breath caught. “You understood that?”
He nodded once. “Some.”
I wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or terrified by his seemingly increasing vocabulary. “You remember English,” I said slowly.
Eyebrows lifting, he tilted his head. “English.” The word came out like a question, his accent shaped by years of disuse, soft around the edges.
“That’s what we’re speaking,” I said. “You used to know it?”
A shadow crossed his expression. His eyes drifted toward the stairs, then to the lantern again, as if the flame itself might help him find the memory. “Know… before,” he murmured.
“Before what?” I asked, needing to know more about him—about his history.
He didn’t answer, just shook his head, a shadow darkening his eyes. The motion made the candlelight ripple across the scars that traced his ribs and collarbone. I wanted to ask more, but the words died on my tongue.
Silence fell heavily between us. The storm above had changed its tone—less violent now but closer, as if circling. Rain hammered the roof in an uneven rhythm, with the wind pushing hard against the walls.
Boone stirred restlessly, and I reached down to calm him. “It’s alright, boy.”
The stranger’s gaze followed the movement, lingering where my hand brushed the dog’s head. Then, slowly, his attention shifted back to me.
“You… afraid,” he said.
The way he said it—half question, half statement—made my throat tighten. “A little,” I admitted. “Storms do that to me.”
He studied me for a moment longer. “Safe,” he said finally, touching his chest. “You safe.”
The words were rough, but the meaning was clear.
I stared at him, unsure whether to thank him or cry. “I shot you,” I whispered. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
He frowned, searching for the right shape of the thought. “You… afraid. I… understand.”
Something inside me gave way then, a quiet cracking I hadn’t realized I was holding back. I sank onto the floor beside Boone, the candlelight flickering between us.
“Guess we both made mistakes,” I said softly. “But you’re still here. That’s what matters.”
He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, watching me with that same patient stillness. “I understand,” he said slowly.