Chapter 67
I’m soaked by the time I get out to the toolshed. My flannel is sticking to my body like a heavy cloak. Joan came in here for something.
Inside, the shed smells of must, of rotting leaves, faintly of motor oil.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.
The lawn mower sits in the middle. A large mat sits along the back wall, with a few pairs of boots on it.
The walls are covered in a ramshackle of old shovels, pitchforks, handsaws.
The ceiling is constructed of ancient-looking wood beams. I’m certain that if I were to push on them, they’d be soft.
I look around, not sure what I’m looking for. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. I walk the inside perimeter. I step onto the floor mat and almost freeze in place. It feels different here from the rest of the floor. It feels . . . hollow. I give a little jump. There’s give.
When I pull back the mat, it’s hard to see anything at first, it’s so dark in here. But then I see the faint outline, and I run my hands over the dusty boards. My fingers graze an indent. I hold my breath. There’s a door in the floor.
I jump up and look around me, for something to use to pry it up.
I find a screwdriver lying on the ground and jam it in the groove.
It lifts an inch and then the screwdriver slips and the door clatters back down.
I try again, and this time slip my hand in the crack as soon as it’s high enough.
It’s hard to do with the belly, but I manage to get a good grip.
Then, with a groan, both from me and the boards, I lift it and move it aside.
A plume of dust erupts as the door thuds on the floor.
Below is a stairway that disappears into darkness.
Holy fucking shit.
I come back, flashlight in hand, feeling wired. I shine it down the tunnel. The staircase isn’t long. Six, seven steps maybe. There’s no choice but to go in.
I haven’t gone to church since childhood, but I make the sign of the cross, an ingrained movement. Pascal’s wager.
“Okay, no big deal. Just going down some stairs,” I say out loud.
The first step creaks, and I can already feel the change in temperature. It’s much cooler down here. I take another step. Then another. Each time I pause, as though if someone were hiding down here, they’d suddenly announce themselves.
Finally, I step onto a dirt floor. Slowly, I cast my flashlight around, moving up stone walls and across another old, wooden ceiling.
I’m in a narrow tunnel. It’s short, maybe six or eight feet long.
I walk through, slowly, one hand holding the flashlight, the other dragging along the wall for support.
I almost feel as though I would topple over, with some strange sense of vertigo if I weren’t touching the wall.
The end of the hall opens into a small, square room.
Maybe six feet by six feet. It’s chilly in here.
Perhaps it’s an old root cellar? Or a secret hiding space?
But I’m less concerned with what this room is, and more concerned about where it leads. Because on the far end of the wall, opposite the staircase, is a door.
I cross the room in a few strides and press my face against the door. I look down at my hand placed on the knob. My belly nearly blocks my view.
Taking a deep breath, I turn the knob and push.
Nothing happens. Then, I pull it toward me, and it swings open with a creak.
I cast the flashlight into the darkness.
There’s something directly in front of the doorway, though I can see through it.
There’re objects on it. It looks like I’m behind a large shelving unit.
Through the flashlight beam, I can make out a series of cylinders.
Picking one up, I see that it’s a very old, rusted can of paint.
That’s when I realize it. This door leads to the basement.
This door is where I felt the draft, the cold wrapping around me, sending shivers up my spine.
I put my hands on the metal shelf and push slightly.
It’s on rickety wheels, but it moves slowly.
So that’s how Joan did it. This is how she got into the house without setting off an alarm.