The Basement

Amber unlocked the side door to the kitchen and pushed in the screen door. Dust danced in the sunlight peeking through the little window above the sink. Her shoes felt foreign against the aged linoleum tiles.

She set her purse and belongings on the wooden kitchen table and took in a breath. Holding back tears, she turned to look at the wall behind her. Her grandmother's spoon collection still hung where she remembered. She reached out and touched a spoon that read "Hawaii"; the last spoon collected. The one Amber picked out in the gift shop on Maui when she was 7.

The auditors would be there on Tuesday. Amber had the weekend to gather meaningful items from her grandmother's house before the property was sold.

The process felt so empty. Everything was to be priced at today's market value. Who could put a price on memories?

She made her way to the living room and peered around at the furniture. It was like a time capsule. An old cord rug. Hardwood floors. A TV set from the 80's on a small metal rack with VHS tapes sitting upright like books. The couch that sat in the same spot for many years still held its ground against the wall adjacent to the kitchen. Behind the two overstuffed chairs sat the only piece of furniture out of place. Her grandmother's bed.

Almost like a memorial to her last days, her grandma's bed sat where her "busy table" once occupied. A table where she would spend most of her time piecing together photo albums. Where she would work on bills or write letters to various friends and family. Much of her life was at that table. Now, in its place, a symbol of lifelessness.

No longer able to climb the stairs to her room at the end of the hall, her grandma's bed was brought downstairs. How cruel of life to bring down such a strong woman.

Amber had made a long drive to the house. No rest stops along the way. She walked back into the kitchen and turned into a laundry room that led to the basement. She let out a shiver, though the door remained closed, and went into the bathroom.

She finished up and stopped at the coats that still hung next to the basement. She swept her hand through the different coats and stopped at one she knew her grandmother wore frequently. Especially towards the end. She gripped it, pressed her cheek on it, and allowed a tear to fall into the fabric. It was as if her grandmother's scent had been spun into the coat itself.

She wiped away tears that seemed to unapologetically cascade down her face as she let the coat rest once more on its hook. That's when she saw it. A brown paper box at the basement door.

She didn't remember seeing it when she walked in. She didn't like looking towards the basement, to begin with. Her grandmother always kept it closed claiming it caused a draft that plagued the house.

Amber smirked at this. Grandma's words, not hers.

Amber turned to pick up the box when her cellphone rang. With her heart in her throat, she answered.

"Hello?"

"Ambie! did you make it to the house?"

It was her mother.

"Yes, mom. Thanks for calling. I felt like I was stuck in a dream."

"I understand. I'm sorry for not making it up there with you. There's so much legal stuff with me and your aunties. Papers. Signatures. I can meet you tomorrow for lunch! Will you be okay in the house alone tonight?"

"I think so. I'll probably go to the shopping center up the road and pick up a pizza," Amber's gaze drifted to the spoons, "can I take grandma's spoon collection?"

"Of course, dear. I know your grandmother would have wanted you to have it," her mother said lovingly.

"Thanks. I miss her. I'm excited to see you tomorrow... Have a good night," Amber added as she noticed the sun had begun to set, inviting more shadows into the kitchen. She flipped a switch and turned the lights on.

She hung up with her mother and glanced over at the box again.

It was odd as nothing had been packed up to be sold or moved out of the house. She picked it up and it was lighter than a book, almost empty. Except something moved in the box as she tilted it with further examination. She looked at her hand and noticed dust had gathered on the top.

The house felt quiet as if it were listening to what Amber would do next.

She sat at the kitchen table and shooed away at the memories of her grandmother sitting across from her, reading the paper, and having her morning coffee.

The box lid slid off like a keepsake gift. Inside sat a key. She picked up the key and examined it. The key seemed regular. Like any ordinary key. Silver with little teeth and a hole to put on a keychain. She looked in the box again to where the key had sat.

There were words etched on the bottom of the box itself. As she read the words she heard a noise from above. A loose floorboard. She sat the key on the table and went upstairs.

Each step held a memory for Amber. The stairs, to her, were unique. Three steps up to the front door where neighbors would drop of Christmas baskets. Three more steps up to what she called the "second living room" that was used as a sitting room. A place where she would admire her grandmother's collection of cuckoo clocks and dolls.

The final three steps led to the hallway with the bedrooms. 4 bedrooms to be exact. Well, 3 bedrooms and an office. Amber peeked into each bedroom and didn't find anyone lurking about. These old houses were always making noises. Amber remembered her mother would tell her stories of a ghost who would walk the hallway and stop at the top of the stairs. Almost like a guardian, keeping watch over the bedrooms. Amber never heard those footsteps when she spent the night and would always shake her head at the stories.

The first bedroom on the left was Amber's favorite. A tiny table was the home of an ancient typewriter. One with the sliding part that made a "ding". She pushed down on a key and listened to the satisfying "CLACK" as it hit the paper.

The walls of the room were lined with bookcases. Though, there were not filled with books. Every space was filled with photo albums. Travels, family trips, holidays, and more. Each album held a doorway into the past.

On another small table sat an open album with photos around it. No doubt one of her grandmother's last projects before she moved downstairs.

She picked up a photo with her grandmother next to a 10-year-old Amber. They were at the Grand Canyon. Her grandmother's smile pierced through the photo making Amber smile back. It's no wonder her name was Joy. Setting the photo back down she picked up the album. A note fell heavy onto the floor. Amber picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It felt new. Unlike the rest of the papers in the room.

Amber unfolded the note and read it.

They're moving me downstairs and I'm afraid. The door continues to unlock each morning. I know they're down there but they don't believe me. Just an old woman's crazy mind. They checked for me but only in the sunlight. During the day. They dare not come about during the day. I hear them talking at night. Shuffling through my belongings. The footsteps to the door. The doorknob rattling. They know my time is almost up. But I have a few more months in me.

As she read the note, Amber suddenly felt cold. The house seemed darker, even with the lights on. She heard the floorboard creak again, only this time she knew it was not from upstairs, it was from below.

With her heart now threatening to strangle her, Amber stepped out into the hallway. She felt lightheaded and afraid. Again, a creaking piece of wood echoed through the house. She followed the sound down the steps and checked outside the front door only to be greeted by the wind.

She closed the door and locked it. Another groan of old wooden steps giving in. Amber turned her head and looked down into the kitchen. The basement. She took a step and slid down the bottom three stairs landing on her hip.

Startled, she pulled herself as another step made its way closer to the basement door. Amber winced at the pain in her side as she moved toward the basement.

Before she rounded the corner to check the door, Amber remembered the key. Her heart raced as another step creaked behind the door. She reached for the key and the cuckoo clocks upstairs began to chirp loudly.

She took long strides toward the basement door hoping to make it before the steps made it to the top of the stairs.

Amber's hand grasped at the doorknob and she felt something twist against her grip. She pushed the key into the lock and turned almost breaking the key. The lock clicked. The steps receded.