The Woman in the Basement

Nobody sees a monster in an angel's face that does angelic deeds and lives the life of a saint. They don't see the horror behind Heavens' eyes, the fear in the angel's tears. Nobody but the angel tastes the bitter locked inside while trying to fight the monster playing the role of an angel.

I'm insane. The thought tousled around my mind like clothes in a dryer while I changed my daughter, Sheri, though she's not wet, just following my routine to make sure all possible reasons for her late-night wailing were being taken care of. I laid her back down, made a warm bottle while she continued to cry in the room, praying my husband stays asleep and wondering why I had not yet gone to bed. Once again, I stayed up all night waiting for this moment, the moment I knew Sheri would wake up needing me to care for her. I couldn't sleep before then while knowing the too familiar pang that would jolt in my chest, alerting me like a fire alarm to her impending waking.

I picked Sheri up carefully, making sure that she couldn't see the hideous stag head mounted on the wall behind me. It doesn't fit in this room, being that the ceiling is only a few feet above our heads. My husband insisted that he couldn't just leave it lying around somewhere. I argued that it would be terrifying for a child to see in the dead of night with its black staring eyes, a frightening visage for sure to a child. He laughed at me and just said that the baby wouldn't know what it is, or couldn't see it anyway. I decided to let it go at the time, thinking we wouldn't be here long. That was nearly two years ago.

I sat on the edge of the bed with her nestled in my arms, and my legs folded precariously beneath me to help support her. I draped the blanket neatly over her legs with one hand. Sheri hates swaddling. Like me, she doesn't like to feel closed in. She grabbed her bottle expectantly and started to drink, gazing up into my eyes.

In a parenting magazine, I read that you shouldn't look at your baby in the middle of the night while they're gazing at you because it overstimulates their mind, and they'll wake up even more and have trouble getting back to sleep. I thought of mothers in times past rocking in a rocking chair, likely by the light of the moon or a small lit candle with their bonnets and swaddled baby's, mothers who never read stupid things like that and enjoyed the shining wondrous beauty of their baby's eyes. So what if it's true. I looked back down at my adoring baby.

I drifted off while feeding her, my mind somewhere between asleep and perfect awareness of Sheri in my arms. The space heater kicks on, droning in the background. Its hideous coils give off a faint red gleam from behind a protective shell. My husband, Henry, snores softly. I envy his unfettered slumber.

Sheri finishes her bottle, and I burp her, desperately desiring my pillow while feeling guilty for my reckless drifting. She's calm but not falling back to sleep. I lay her back down and gently try to tuck her in, then sneak back into bed.

The darkened room and the gentle silence of my calm baby lull my wearied mind. It envelopes me like a warm blanket. Some nights though, it feels thick and heavy. A sense of impending doom pulls me under, suffocating me. I get up again on nights like those, unable to sleep.

I thought I saw the slight movement of something from the corner of my eye. I jump, pulling the covers up to my chin. The bed squeaks. She starts crying. It's somewhere past four am.

Henry gets up and pats me reassuringly on the arm.

"Try to get some sleep," he whispers.

He rocks our baby in the rocking chair until she settles, lays her back down in the crib, and starts to get ready for work.

This is how it is almost every day. Yeah, he's the exception, not the rule. I tell him he could write a how-to book on being the coolest husband and dad.

Five fifteen a.m. I open my eyes. There's a woman with ratty black hair and a long, black dress standing over Sheri's crib. Her head turns as if to look at me. I close my eyes, terrified. She's not corporeal like me. I try to wish her away, almost praying for her to be real because I can fight a woman with a body. I slowly open my eyes. She's standing by my bed, so close if she were human, I'm sure I could smell her. My body stiffens. She's appeared before, but never this close, sometimes at the foot of my bed, sometimes in the doorway. The first time I screamed and startled my sleeping husband. The second time and every time after, I stared motionless in horror. I don't dare try to speak to her to ask what she wants. I'm afraid she might answer; I'm terrified she might harm my baby or me.

I open my eyes again. She's gone.

I get up at six with our nine-year-old son Tony making him breakfast and a sack lunch. I see him off to the bus and then crawl back into bed while Sheri sleeps, hoping to catch another hour.

I'm lucky today. I got two more hours of sleep.

We get up and go about our typical morning routine of changing the diaper, breakfast in the highchair, consisting of toddler yogurt snacks, a banana, and cream of wheat.

The apartment is two bedrooms, one full bath about five by five feet, a living room, and a kitchen. The kitchen is about seven by seven feet; the living room is about ten by twenty feet. I know that size shouldn't matter. It's the heart in the home that counts, but I feel stifled. It's a submerged basement. There's no daylight. I just covered the tiny two windows with Trompe Loeil curtains to insinuate the illusion of the outside, so I don't have to view the muck, bugs, and dirt in the window sills daily.

Tony's room has no insulation. A door goes to the outside. I locked it and covered it with a giant sheet of fabric that looks like stars and space to help insulate around the door better and provide some security, so my son doesn't see the door every night and feel scared. I put glow in the dark stars on it, the ceiling, and around the walls to make it fun at night because the basement gets very dark. We have a long rectangular desk situated in front of the door for added safety, mostly for my peace of mind. He likes his room now.

There's another door in the living room that goes upstairs to my mother-in-law's house. The living room has a couch, TV stand, TV, computer desk, and bookshelves. It's not very safe for a toddler, so we installed a toddler safety gate around the room to keep her out of danger.

This apartment has unusual cracks in the walls; the ceiling is made of asbestos panels, like the ones I remember from school and bright yellow fluorescent, rectangular ceiling lights. One of the kitchen lights flickers like the light rods in warehouse ceilings. Though I'm grateful for a warm home and a ceiling over my head, I don't have to like the aesthetics involved.

We finish our breakfast and spend most of the morning in the sectioned off baby gate living room.

The morning consists of blocks, ABC's, One, two threes, Dora the Explorer, and YoGabba Gabba. Before I know it, three hours, two Sippy cups, and one poopy diaper has gone by.

There are insects on the floor in the living room. Insects called silverfish, earwigs, centipedes and various garden spider varieties, wolf spiders, and black ground beetles creep their way across the floor daily. Winter is my only brief reprieve from most of these intrusive creatures. Tiny black speck-like nuisances called springtails accumulate in the bathtub during the late spring, summer, and early fall. They look like specks of dirt, and only when they get a little larger can I actually see them moving around. I have to clean the tub out regularly.

Naptime!

I finally sneak into the bath. It's been two days since I've bathed, and I'm desperate. There's little help offered from family or friends with everyone either living too far away or working. My husband works two jobs, so I feel guilty asking him for help when he needs to go to bed.

The ceiling in the bathrooms' made out of some kind of bubbly plastic tile. A vent that's painted white runs right along the top of the tub next to a two-foot window. Condensation builds up on the vent dripping cold water droplets on our heads while we're bathing. It makes me think of some kind of water torture device.

I hear a faint scratching noise and glance slowly around the bathroom.

"Great...mice," I whisper.

It sounds like it's coming from the door. There's a shape in the stain on the sixty-year-old knotty Alder wood. It looks like a woman to me with tousled, messy hair, a flowing distorted figure, and languid, hollow eyes. I wonder if I look like that and slowly touch my wet hand to my moist face.

She's staring at me.

A cold shiver runs down my spine as I stare back, analyzing every distorted detail. Her fingers are bent and crooked, arched in an eternal claw. Talons like ink dripping down the wood grain seem to move within the solid frame. I hear the scratching again and drop my hand back into the warm water at my side, startled. She seems to move within the door. I feel paralyzed, anxious to get out and run from this specter, knowing that the only retreat is through the very door where the source of my terror resides.

I think she's trying to claw her way out, leaving splinters on the door in her wake. Piece by piece, she's moving closer to the surface, trying to escape the layers of grotesque stain trapping her within its frame. Her head seems to move, tilting up and down and side to side. She's panicking. I can feel my chest tighten in response to her unnatural movements, unsure and distressed by her unknown intentions.

Her silhouette repeatedly distorts, flowing into chaotic streams. I try to scream. The door begins to shake, the handle rattling and thudding against the frame. Her hand breaks free, oozing across the floor. I watch helplessly as it slides up the side of the tub and down into the water. I feel her dark stain on my thigh, sliding up my torso and wrapping around my arms, my back, then clinging tight around my throat. Her long shadowy talons dig into my windpipe. I feel the breath leaving my body and panic, not wanting to die.

My eyes snap open. Tiny air bubbles pop above me at the surface of the water. I push myself up and gasp, the water cascading down my head, over my face and body. I swipe at my face and eyes with my hands, anxiously wiping the water from my face, coughing and inhaling in quick panicked gulps. I conscientiously touch my fingers to my throat and glance expectantly at the door.

But it's only a door.

I snap my eyes away, take slow, practiced breaths focusing on the dripping faucet, try not to laugh at my own stupidity, and then lay back against the cold porcelain tub. I shiver and let myself relax back into the still bubbly water.

I try to imagine tiled floors, a marble Jacuzzi, and shimmering candlelight dancing off the faucet. The sweet scent of ginger and vanilla would fill the air.

A drop of icy cold water breaks my brief reverie. Stinky diapers and the damp stale smell of the bathroom strangle my nose. I try not to look at the black mold embedded in the grout and the brown water stain twisting in unusual angles on the ceiling. They clash and collide, then break off again in chaotic swirls. I follow the chaos tracing the lines with my finger suspended in the air. It troubles my mind so. I look away, exhausted at the effort, and give up on the idea of having a relaxing bath.

I get out of the tub, reaching for my partly shredded, moth-eaten towel. An anxious cry from the bedroom tells me nap times over anyway.

I can't stop thinking about that nightmare for the rest of the day; it consumes my mind. I try to focus on other things like the carpet throughout the living room and my son's room. It's thirty years old, flat, gray industrial carpet—the kind you find in cheap business offices. Stained, torn, and in every way, disgusting. I have large blankets and quilts that I drape in Sheri's play area, so she's not sitting on it.

I think about the strange shapes of the stains in the carpet and consider some of them; one's from a cup ring, likely left by one of my husbands' brother's who lived here all those years ago—some other stains curve and stretch in bizarre grotesque angles. I feel like they're mocking me as if they know I can't clean them, and the only solution to all these problems would be to gut out the entire basement and remodel completely.

I feel closed in. A coffin would be more comfortable...and clean.

It's winter, and the basement is strangely warmer during the day. It's cold in the summer, except at night. Nighttime in the winter is almost unbearably cold. We had to put space heaters in the bedrooms.

I try to take my daughter outside as much as possible, but an eighteen-month-old baby playing in the snow and ice is just not a good long term activity.

We go to the stores and walk around. I try to take Sheri to playgroups, but that's just one day a week. I'm uncomfortable talking to and making friends with strangers. I don't trust people. Each person is a potential hazard to my children's well being.

I had to quit watching the news. It's disgusting, inhuman, and downright demonic what some people do to children and each other.

But my daughter needs to socialize. All of her cousins are boys. I feel like she needs a balance, so I encourage her to make friends with girls in her playgroup.

It's difficult to get out the door. Once I'm in the car, and we get to our destinations. It's all right, but no matter how badly I hate this apartment. I just want to stay inside and be left alone most of the time. It's grown on me a bit. I'd say at times that I even like it, so deep down in the ground hidden away from the world.

Last night while I was on my computer, I imagined for a moment that I was in an underground tomb. The walls were impenetrable, and there was no door leading to any hope of escape. I looked towards the basement door and stared at it. For a moment, I thought I saw myself standing there, reaching for the knob.

My husband says I shouldn't let my imagination run away with me. I have such an active imagination.

I know I should rest while my daughter sleeps. I knew trying to do part-time college with a newborn was ludicrous. I'd rather be writing.

Two more spiders just ran across the floor, stopped as if challenging me to catch them. They have big abdomens and long red legs. I looked them up since I'd never seen them before we moved here. They're Woodlouse hunters. They eat woodlice. They're harmless to humans. Very beautiful, but to someone scared of spiders, they just look menacing. I have to clean around the bedrooms' edges every fall and spring due to the considerable amount of tiny red crab or orb weaver spiders I discover there.

There are egg sacks under and on the dressers' backs against the walls and in the corners. I'd hate to think what would happen if I didn't clean those up twice a year.

Sheri is lucky; the other living creatures here fascinate her. I have to observe her, so she doesn't try to pick one up, play with it, or eat it.

My son gets home late in the afternoon, my husbands' home by ten. He doesn't care about the bugs and says that he likes the dark and the cold. The bugs don't bother him.

Tony likes playing with his sister. I can talk to Tony. We've been close since he was born. He was such a cuddly sweet baby and little boy.

Sheri is very independent, and I feel I haven't been able to bond with her as well as I bonded with Tony. They're both so smart.

I don't clean the house as well as I would like. I have to stop playing with Sheri and go about house chores, leaving her crying in the living room while I get the dishes done, meals cooked, laundry washed and folded. Most days, I'm so emotionally drained. I don't want to deal with it, and I'll just spend the whole day with her. We end up eating frozen dinners or take out on those days.

I'm in school right now, trying to work towards my bachelor's degree one class at a time. I have two classes right now. I don't know why I'm so masochistic that way? They're online classes to do my homework and study late at night when my families are all in bed.

I think I may have an anxiety disorder and panic attacks. Nobody thinks I'm sick. I don't feel like myself. The things that used to interest me just don't anymore. It started while I was pregnant with my daughter. It's not her fault. I didn't feel any joy the entire time I was pregnant. How can anybody feel anything other than sick when they keep throwing up everything and ending up in the hospital repeatedly for dehydration? I had to rely on anti-nausea medication just to stay alive, so my baby wouldn't die. I feel betrayed by my body.

I'm grateful for our home, but there's mold here. That's what caused our sons' asthma in our previous home. I was young and naïve. We obtained a used crib mattress that looked good and clean on the surface. I washed it, disinfected it, but we didn't know about the evil lurking within. It grew up through the mattress and into his pillow. He was just eight months old. He was crying incessantly, wouldn't eat, and then his lips started turning blue. He'd been breathing in the spores. We rushed him to an Instacare, and they swiftly took care of him, knowing exactly what was wrong.

There's mold in the carpets and the ceiling. We don't have a choice, though. We can't afford and don't qualify for a home of our own yet. Mold is a demon. It mocks me. I can't seem to get away from it. Our son still has to use an inhaler sometimes as a result.

I try everything to protect our daughter from it. We put her crib in our room because it's the cleanest and the warmest. The carpet in there is new, and the walls were freshly painted before we moved in.

I thought I saw the shadow of the woman in the tiny hallway between the bathroom and my sons' room this afternoon. I think she got out of the door. His room is next to the bathroom. I call it the moldy bathroom. Because springtails eat mold and there are so many of them in the bathroom, next to my sons' room. I pray that if there's black mold anywhere, we can't see that it won't harm him again, reaching out its black fingers to choke the breath out of him.

It's black like the shadow of the woman I saw, trying to claw her way out of the doors. I thought I heard her scratching again last night.

The neighbors' house is new, tall, and majestic. They bought the land and tore down the old shack of a house there, then built a beautiful home. It's lovely; I imagine what it must be like to cook in a kitchen filled with sunlight, to hear the rain through an open window. I am happy for the family living there. They must have worked so hard for it. I dream that someday my family will have a home to call our own, though some say home is where your heart is or home is where you hang your hat. I agree.

I thought I saw a shadow creeping up the stairs last night. The scratching stopped.

I finally got a little sleep.

I'm grateful for our home, even though it's old and moldy. The sewer keeps backing up through the drain in the laundry room down here. It almost flooded the whole floor about a half-inch deep. It stinks. I heard rain in the laundry room yesterday. I opened the door, and sure enough, it was raining in there. I think the shadow woman pulled the water line behind the refrigerator and let it leak through the ceiling. It smells like sewage and wet wood down here now. I'm sure she's trying to destroy the house so she can escape. She's stuck within the walls and doors. I've seen her shadow slithering across them throughout the day while I clean.

My daughter is talking early. She's a good talker and loves to sing and squeal all the time. She doesn't like it when I hold her. She hits me a lot and eats like a bird. I worry that she's not eating enough, but my husband says she's doing fine. My mother-in-law says kids eat when they're hungry and not to worry.

I keep up on her well-child checks at the doctor's. He says her weight is good. She's unusually tall for her age. She's in the ninetieth percentile for her height. She keeps me busy. Henry says I should take more walks with her, that the air would do me good. I'm so tired, though. Most days, I'm so tired I can't fathom taking another step, but I do for my family. I do for her.

I got to bed early last night. It felt good to lie down in bed at a reasonable hour. I think it was nine p.m. I turned on my side and stared at the stag head. Its polished marble eyes gleam in the dimly lit room. The red coils from the heater reflect a strange hue in its glossy pupils. I wonder what it saw before it fell lifeless to the frozen earth. My husband assured me that it didn't suffer, that it was quick and painless, but I still wonder...

I awoke to my husbands' loud snoring and tried to push him on his side, desperate for Sheri to stay asleep, anxious for more sleep myself. I'm determined to make sure I change my habits and get healthy...something always throws it off. He has apnea, and his loud snoring frequently wakes our baby making it useless for me to sleep. I recognize the insanity of our situation. We need a home with three bedrooms. I dream that Sheri has a room with pink walls and a Disney castle mural with glittering stars cascading over the ceiling. I think how I could sleep better if I had a bedroom again where I didn't have to tiptoe and cringe at every squeak. His snoring silences, and I slowly drift back into my dreams.

She came to me again. I could feel the moment she entered the room. I was somewhere between awake and asleep. I can only describe it as a dark feeling, suffocating, and all-consuming as though every particle of light in the room ran in fear from its presence.

She transpired at the foot of the bed between the crib and me. I felt frozen again. I couldn't breathe. I think she's curious about me and wonders why I stay here. I wonder where she goes when I can't see her.

She slowly turns and leans over the crib as if to pick up my precious Sheri. Something inside me stirs fear or anger. I'm not sure. I stress with every ounce of my will to move my muscles to rescue my child from this demon. It feels like a large weight is crushing my limbs. I manage to push my head back and open my mouth, wanting to scream and alert my husband.

My eyes flash open. I'm standing above my baby's crib. My hands are gripping the bed rail tight, my knuckles white. I look down at Sheri, amazed, wondering what I'm doing here, and slowly, carefully peel my fingers from the rail. She's still asleep and breathing peacefully.

Thank Heavens.

I turn and climb back onto the bed, praying it won't squeak, then shimmy quietly back under the covers and maneuver myself under my husbands' strong arms laying my head on his chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart. I breathe slowly and close my eyes, praying that the woman doesn't return.

My son made it into the Geography Bee. I'm so proud of him. He's so bright. He's the best reader in his class too. I have a hard time feeling close to Sheri. She looks so much like her father and doesn't seem to like me at all. She's a very social, vivacious, and active child, not like me at all. I want things to be quiet, and I love to be left alone most of the time. I'm afraid to let Henry know about these feelings. Moms should feel close to their children, but I just feel irritated when she cries. I don't feel compassion. I just feel annoyed. That sounds terrible, I know. I do love her. I think about how I fought to protect her from that woman, and I know I love her. I'm sure it's just a lack of sleep.

I just want to study and write most of the time. I want to go for long quiet walks, and I want to sleep, but I can't do anything I want to do. I am Sheri. I am my daughter. I am her life. I don't have my own life anymore.

I had to quit school while I was pregnant with her, and I lost my job because I was sick. All my goals and dreams just stopped. I think to myself, how lucky I am to have two healthy children. I need to quit being so negative and that I need to be happy for what I have... and I am, but these feelings don't go away no matter how positive I try to be. They are there unresolved, waiting for me to pick up where I left off.

I don't believe these feelings have a resolution. I can't tell anyone about them. They would think I'm a terrible mother, unfeeling, but I'm not. I care about my family. I love them more than anything, but sometimes I get so angry when she's crying and throwing fits all day, throwing her food, making huge messes. I have scary thoughts. I don't want to hurt her, but I want to leave, and that scares me. I sometimes imagine packing a bag throwing it in the back of my imaginary blue Cadillac, and hitting the road. Top-down, music blasting, the wind blowing through my hair to some destination with a spa, a beach, and a Long Island iced tea...but I don't drink, and on those days, I think it's a shame.

I'm also terrified of accidentally hurting my baby, tripping on the stairs, dropping a sharp object, tripping on her, dropping her. They're terrible, vivid images, and they make me sick to my stomach. They're irrational fears. When I'm feeling so much anxiety, I'm scared about what I could do. I feel angry with myself because I'm not who I thought I used to be. I'm not as good as I thought I was, or patient. I'm another me right now, a dark me.

I saw her standing in the bathroom doorway today, glaring at me with her fathomless black eyes. I just stood there staring back, frozen with horrified wonder. She started screaming and ripping at her hair. My heart froze in my chest. I felt stiff, like a plank. I wanted to run, grab my children, and leave, never to return.

My husband kissed me on the cheek to say goodbye. I whispered very carefully if he could see anything in the doorway. He looked worried, furrowed his brow, and looked to the bathroom. He laughed and walked towards her. She didn't move. He reached through her. I gasped, covering my hands to my mouth. He pulled a child's Halloween sticker off the door and handed it to me, asking if that's what it was. I nodded my head. He smiled.

"Try to get some sleep tonight," he advised and left.

I continued to stand there, staring at the woman until she crept back into the bathroom and vanished behind the closed door.

I had a better day today. Some days are better than others are. I got some of the house clean, and it looks and smells nice. I got the kids to bed early too. My husband is so happy. His eyes shine with an almost childlike joy, and I can see that he appreciates me. He never complains on the bad days. He's quiet and plays video games or watches football. I tried talking to him about some of my feelings today. He listened but didn't seem to know what to say. I didn't talk about some of the darker things.

I thought that maybe I should talk to my doctor about it, but they would likely just diagnose me with anxiety, depression, or something of the like and give me medications that I'm afraid will only make things worse. I need to get a hold of myself and fight to get things under control with exercise, more sleep, and vitamins, but I can't sleep. I exercise, I believe that I eat really well, though sometimes I don't want to eat at all. I feel like I have to be healthy for my children.

My husband tries to get me to come to bed early. I feel angry when he does this. I feel like he's trying to control me too. The night is my only free time, the only time I have to myself.

I don't go to bed.

I fell asleep on the couch. There was that woman again, in the kitchen banging about slamming cupboards making such a raucous. Her shadow spilled out across the floor like paint and seemed to blend with the stains on the carpet. I freeze in terror every time I hear her or see her. It's as though this house is her prison. It torments me so.

I think my husband came out of the room at one point. I told him to leave the woman alone and that she just wants to go. He never looked at me like that before. I don't care anymore.

Sheri started crying.

I walked past him into the room. He went back to bed after asking me if I was all right. The heater hummed...I glared at his half-asleep form.

Sheri fell asleep an hour later. I looked at the clock. It said, three a.m. I carefully laid her down and turned to the bed glancing at the stag head on the wall. I thought I saw it move, turning its head ever so slightly, but moving none the less. It felt like my heart stopped. A lump stuck in my throat. I turned away from the thing and felt my way into the covers glancing only slightly at the creature to be sure it wouldn't move again.

The house smells like a dead mouse. It has for a week now. I could hear them scurrying above the ceiling earlier in the spring. My husband said it was just the wood creaking. I knew it was scurrying and scratching. The scratching reminds me of the woman trapped in the door with her inky talons tearing at the wood, gripping for my throat. I told his parents. They said it was just the wood creaking. Now the house smells like dead mice. It's a rancid, rotten smell. I often wondered what the word decay was referring to. Now I know.

I took Sheri to the mall today to get away from the smell. We walked around and got a cookie and smoothies. It was a good afternoon. I don't want to go back to the apartment. It exhausts me so.

We go to my parent's house and visit with her grandma. I feel a little refreshed. Her home is so bright and clean, so full of light. I close my eyes, sitting on her couch, and feel the sun. It feels warm, and it's as if my skin is drinking it in. I sometimes wonder if I should get a job even though I'd only bring in so little, just to get out every day. The thought of strangers caring for my daughter frightens me, though. Nobody can take as good care of my kids as I can.

My husband works so hard, but I work hard too. He says he knows how hard I work and that he appreciates me. He doesn't know what I'm going through, though, living in this basement. It drains me. It's exhausting living here.

My husband said, I look better today. I stared in the mirror. The black bags under my eyes have turned blue. I suppose that's an improvement. I combed my hair.

I caught my mother in law lurking around the bathroom and staring at the carpet. I think she was looking for that woman. I asked her once if she ever experienced anything unusual in the house before. She doesn't like talking about such things, though, and just went back upstairs.

That night I sat alone in the living room. My children tucked safely in their beds. I turned off the lights and stayed completely still. There was no light where the shadows could creep. I closed my eyes and breathed slow. The earth only five feet or so behind the walls would surely smell of damp rotting stuff. I imagined if the house was gone and I was left, I would be buried within that damp soil eight feet from the surface. I reached my arms in the air and imagined clawing my way out. I could feel the earth give way, and my fingertips break free of my grave. The cold air kissed my flesh. While my arms floated suspended, the icy grasp of invisible hands clasped around my wrists. A silent scream caught in my throat. I clawed at the thing trapping me where I sat but felt only air.

My husband came home earlier than usual that night. I had awoken Tony and sent him upstairs with his cranky half-asleep sister. My mother in law looked bewildered when I brought them to her room and hastily took my leave, rushing to the shed then back to the basement. I locked the door and turned on all the lights.

The doorknob rattled, the frame shook with the ferocity of my husbands' worry and panic. But he wouldn't understand... I had to free her.

He called for me. I could hear the sirens somewhere upstairs, likely in the front yard. An ambulance couldn't help the woman now. I could hear voices as I busied myself, striving to free the wretched, tormented soul.

I responded to his calls with a simple

"Everything will be fine soon," and "Not to worry."

I started in the bathroom and worked my way to the kitchen.

Another voice, a stranger, spoke through the door, stating they were there to help.

"I don't need help, thank you. I got this," I replied and continued with my task.

I had borrowed my father in laws hatchet from his tool shed when I took the kids upstairs. I didn't want them to see this, or her when I freed the woman from her prison. Her twisted form on the door shattered into splinters with each stroke. I then hacked her shadow free from the stains in the carpet, pulling up large chunks of soiled, soggy foam. The moldy ceiling fell in sharp shards around my feet. Blood trickled from my arms and face. Insulation rained like snow on my hair. With each stroke, I felt elated...free.

With a bang, the basement door fell to the floor. I continued anxiously to finish my task. They stopped before rushing in and ambled towards me, looking around with bewildered expressions. I knew they couldn't understand. So, I walked past them and continued to pile the demolished shards of the door, walls, bathroom ceiling, and chunks of ripped up carpet into a pile in the middle of the kitchen. My husband's face was ashen with uninhibited horror. I've never seen him so upset before. My mother in law stood speechless with her hands clutched over her mouth. I couldn't imagine what the matter was until I looked where they were staring towards a chunk of the wall I had torn off. There behind the beams the face of the woman I had seen many times before, watching me with sunken, empty sockets from behind long black strands of matted hair and sallow, decomposing flesh.

The End