Chapter Sixteen
What do I do now? I’m sitting on the living room couch with my head in my hands trying to stay calm and collected.
At this point, I’m thinking of running into the woods and giving myself over to whatever is lurking out there.
I’ve never felt so isolated and out of control in my life.
I can’t let myself give up, though, it’s not just me.
I have to keep going–I have to find something that can help us.
Anything. The thought of Luke keeps me from continuing to sit here and wait like a lost sheep.
I look around the room, hoping something will spark an idea of what my next step should be.
My eyes stop on the basement door. I don’t want to go down there alone, but what choice do I have?
There has to be something useful hidden amongst all that junk and I’m running out of time.
I get up and walk over to the door. As I pull it open it creaks loudly, sending a shiver down my spine. I still have the flashlight with me, thank God. I need all the help I can get.
Once again, I find myself slowly and carefully walking down the steep steps.
I turn toward the dark, open space, feeling paranoid as I look at each corner.
I’m scared of what new terrifying thing I might see.
What’s worse is that I worry it won't even be real. I use the flashlight to find the string to the light bulb. It’s right where I remember it being, which feels like a first. After I pull it, the basement is still barely visible.
The shadows and dark corners stick out way more now that I’m alone.
I wander to the closest corner of the basement and start rummaging through the items.
Whoever owns this place has to be a hoarder.
There are piles of completely random things down here.
From old newspapers to boxes of old kid toys, and anything else you can imagine.
I make my way around the room, opening every box I see and sorting through every pile.
I become so lost in the task, I have no idea how much time is passing, and I don't notice myself moving further into the room. When I look up, the looming, monstrous door into the room leading to the tunnel is right in front of me. I already decided, I’m not going in there.
From what I remember, there isn’t anything in there that will be helpful to me, so there’s no point.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
The door feels menacing and it’s hard to be this near it, but I still need to search the surrounding shelves.
I’m doing my best to leave no stone unturned.
The first shelf has a lot of vintage, porcelain dolls lining it, along with a few baby dolls and tattered stuffed animals scattered throughout.
I think about the blonde doll looking up through the window, feeling goosebumps break out along my arms. What are the chances that it’s a coincidence?
I hate the idea that someone got it from down here.
I don't like dolls under normal circumstances. I never have, even as a child. They make me feel uncomfortable with their unblinking gaze. I have always been scared to make eye contact with them. It didn’t help that my grandma used to tell me that dolls are the easiest vessel to hold lost souls, keeping me convinced that any doll I saw had a ghost inside it.
Is that what’s happening here? Are there ghosts throughout this property?
Or is this me projecting my fears into this place?
My subconscious is already sensing the ripe potential here and exploiting it.
I feel unable to look away from the dolls, as I stand and study each one.
As I step closer to the shelf to get a better look, my foot hits something.
Lying on the ground is one of the porcelain dolls.
The first thing I notice is its missing arm.
I bend down and pick her up, flipping her over so she is face up.
Her bright, blue eyes pop open wide as her blonde hair falls to the side.
Not a coincidence. I decide to try and gain some favor with the ghosts and place her gently back onto her shelf, smoothing her blue dress before stepping away.
I put my unsettled feelings aside and get back to my search. When I look up to the shelf above the dolls, I see a long, wooden box lying across it. There’s no way I will be able to reach that.
Remembering where Luke had put the step stool the other day, I quickly walk over and grab it, using it to reach the box.
It isn’t huge, but it’s surprisingly heavy.
I set it down on the ground with a thud before eagerly opening it.
Inside is a big gun and an old box of bullets.
I don’t know much about guns but I did go to a shooting range once.
Not the most experience, but I’ve at least held and shot one before.
I pull the gun out, and even in the dim light, I can tell it’s old and feels dirty.
Who knows how long it’s been stored away.
I twist and turn the gun around in my hands, trying to get a sense of how it works and hoping that it does.
I wish I had paid more attention at that shooting range.
There’s a piece on the side that looks like a little arm.
I twist it and part of the gun slides open.
I assume this is where the bullets must go.
I grab the bullet box, but it falls apart in my hand and the bullets spill out.
I don’t think this gun has been used for a long time, which doesn’t inspire much confidence, but I keep going.
I pick up one of the bullets and set it into the open slot before pushing it closed and twisting the arm back to its original position.
I sit for a moment, thinking I have no way to know if that's right. It’s a good thing Luke is here, I’ll have him look it over later and show me how to do it.
Still kneeling, I set the gun back into the wooden box, getting ready to take it upstairs to show him when I hear a soft knock above me.
I look up, confused and not quite sure I actually heard it much less where it came from.
Another knock, louder this time and right next to me.
I bolt upright, clinging to the gun box.
Having it close makes me feel safer somehow.
“Hello?” A voice comes from behind the door. I quickly glance up to the giant lock and confirm it's in place, before stepping forward so the door is only inches in front of me.
“Hello?” I ask back, so quietly that I don’t know if I said it aloud.
“Let me in. It’s dark and I’m cold. Will you help me?” It’s a woman’s voice, soft and lilting. I remind myself to be smart. ‘They’re tricky.’
“Who are you?” Nothing but silence answers me.
I wait a moment before placing both my hands on the door and leaning in close.
I press my ear to it and listen. It’s so quiet I start to wonder if she left, when something bangs on the door so hard that it bounces against my ear.
I jump back; my whole body starts shaking as anticipation thrums through it.
“Hanna? Why won’t you let me in?” Luke’s voice comes from the other side of the door, “It’s cold out here.
I’m sick. Help me. Let me in.” I cover my mouth, holding back my intense urge to cry out in horror.
Luke is upstairs. I’ve been down here the entire time.
There’s absolutely no way he could’ve gotten down here and past me.
“Hanna! Let me in, Hanna!” It starts screaming my name over and over, getting louder until I can’t take it anymore.
I run back to the door and bang my hands against it.
“Leave me alone!” I’m sobbing, then screaming back at whatever is out there.
Something slams against the door with such force that I’m scared it’s going to fly off the wall.
Terrified, I look around, not knowing what to do.
It’s still screeching my name, not just in Luke’s voice but in several voices, all mashed together in a horrible cacophony.
I run to one of the bookshelves across the room and drag it to the door.
It’s heavy which makes it hard to move but that's the point. I’m hoping it will keep it from getting inside.
I drag as many different pieces of furniture over as I can along with boxes, books and anything else I can find, barricading the door.
I take a few steps back, my adrenaline wearing off enough that I can hear the door has gone quiet.
No screaming or banging. The silence is almost worse, but I don’t think anything can get in now, at least not without making a lot of noise.
I quickly grab the wooden box and run upstairs, slamming the basement door behind me before grabbing a chair and wedging it under the handle.
I need to check on Luke. The thought jolts into my mind so abruptly, like I wasn’t the one who thought it.
I’m being told to do it. I drop the box onto the table as I run through the dining room, wasting no time in getting upstairs.
As I walk down the hallway toward the bedroom, I see that the door to the empty room is open, a sliver of light shining out into the dark, gloomy hall. I hear banging. It doesn’t stop.
The thought of needing to check on Luke is repeating in my mind like a mantra.
I walk to the door, my hand outstretched, ready to grab the handle.
I push it open and there he is. He’s standing in the room facing the far wall, slamming his head into it, over and over again.
I’m frozen in shock for a moment before I fly through the door and grab him, yanking him away.
Blood is trickling down his face, the gash on his forehead having been broken open.
I look to where his blood is dripping down, staining the wall behind it.
I stare at it, not knowing how to react when I feel Luke go slack in my arms. I hold onto him tighter and do my best to help him get back into the bedroom.
It’s slow and frustrating as his legs can barely hold him.
I have to use my body weight and momentum to practically throw him onto the bed.
He is so out of it I don’t even bother questioning him, instead I go to the bathroom and grab a washcloth.
As I’m soaking it in hot, soapy water, I look at myself in the mirror and don’t recognize who I see.
I look like a shell of myself. My eyes are dark, bloodshot and swollen from crying.
My hair is wild, barely still in my ponytail, my baby hairs stuck to my sweaty forehead.
Tears and snot are streaming down my blood-covered face, which looks gaunt, pale and lifeless.
I use the cloth to wipe my own face clean before rinsing it to take to Luke.
When I return to the room, he hasn’t moved.
I get scared for a second, running over to him and putting my hands on his chest. When I feel it moving up and down, relief washes over me.
I carefully clean the blood from his face, trying to be extra gentle around the wound even though he doesn’t seem to notice.
He doesn’t even flinch. I change his shirt, which now has blood down the front of it.
The first thing I notice after pulling it off is that it’s soaked through with sweat, then I see his bandage.
I can't tell if the blood from his shirt has gotten on it or if the wound itself has soaked through, but I decide to change it either way. When I get the dressing off, I stop as I see how bad the scratches have gotten. The skin around them is swollen and dark red. The cuts themselves are green, infection oozing out of them. When I feel his forehead, he is burning even hotter than before. I stand up fast, my hands in fists at my sides, as my mind is racing, thinking through every scenario and every choice. This is bad and I only have one option left. I need to go get help and I’m going to have to go alone.