The Basement in the Basement, Pt 2
In which somethings just won't stay buried, and Marvin is forced to confront a horror in the secret basement.
A.N. Sorensen
Marvin and Manuel searched the entire house for a cat. The front door and all the windows had been closed, there were no AC ducts in the cabin, and all the rooms, cupboards, and cabinets were empty of felines. Eventually, Manuel left for town, and Marvin searched the house a second time. He came up with nothing.
The late afternoon sky turned from gold, to bloody, to dark bruise. Marvin paused at the bolted cellar door, but there was only silence. He slumped to the bedroom, dropping the contents of his pockets onto the nightstand. When the keys clanged on the gnarled, rustic, hickory stand, Marvin cringed as though the cellar was listening, too. He charged his phone, changed into a raggedy t-shirt and sweats, and crawled into bed. The old bed springs betrayed him with a long, slow squeal.
The wind picked up, howling its discontent and then fury in a blurred cacophony of voices, urging the trees to beat against the cabin roof and scratch against the windows. Marvin’s heart pounded, and he pulled the covers over his head.
A horrible rhythm possessed the cabin: howl, thump wump, scritch scratch. Howl, thump wump, scritch, scratch. The fury of the nightmare orchestra built until one quiet, screeching arrhythmia cut across the din. A pause. The crash of splintering wood.
Marvin grabbed his keys, threw the window open, and nearly got impaled by a low tree branch as he climbed out the window. He fell down. His ankle twisted under him as he rolled. He ran around the cabin, wincing with each step of his left foot.
When his shaky hands finally opened the car lock and he started the car, the parking lights illuminated a tall shadow standing in the cabin living room, tall as a man but covered in fur. Marvin threw the trunk into reverse and didn’t turn the headlights on until he hit the highway, nearly backing off the road, and then straightening with a squeal of tires.
Manuel knocked on the window of Marvin’s truck. Marvin was parked under a streetlamp in front of his friend's basement apartment. His bloodshot eyes were still blinking with sleep as he yawned and rolled down the window.
“You know, you could have come in,” Manuel said. “It’s not safe to sleep in your car at night.”
“Safer than my cabin,” Marvin grumbled. “You said yesterday–or Tuesday– that I couldn’t.”
“Bro it’s not like I got space or even a couch for you,” Manuel answered. “But I’m worried. Like really worried.”
“Something broke down my front door last night,” Marvin said.
“For real?”
“Yeah, I saw it in my living room as I turned on my car. Tall. Broad. Hairy.”
“You know, that’s exactly what a bear on its back legs looks like.”
“It wasn’t a bear. It had long, pointy ears.”
“Well shoot, man,” Manuel said. “It’s not a sasquatch then either. You think it’s a werewolf?”
“You’re making fun of me.” Marvin rubbed his dry eyes.
“Only a little, bro,” said Manuel. “I honestly think you should see someone.”
“No, I’m getting out of here,” Marvin shook his head. “I’m done. I’m gone. I’m just gonna drive until I can find a place to wash dishes and crash.” He patted his pocket, shot straight up, and hit his head on the car ceiling. “I’m screwed. My wallet and phone are still in the cabin.”
“Well, like all this freaky stuff, it only happens at night, right?”
“Mostly,” said Marvin. “I guess.”
“Look, you can hang out with my cuz until the end of my gas station shift. I’ll give you a ride back to the cabin, you can get your stuff, and maybe we can talk about this a little more.”
“Sure,” said Marvin, rocking a little in his chair, arms clutched around himself. “Thanks.”
“You know, we are blessed with a psychiatrist in town,” Manuel said. “Not a lot of small towns have that.”
“Dr. Kane is creepy as hell,” Marvin said.
“Yeah.” Manuel nodded. “Yeah, I guess you're right. Just knock on my door and Cuz will let you in. Don’t do anything until I get back, right?”
“Sure.”
“Pinky swear?”
“What the crap, man?”
“Okay, okay. Just don’t do anything…”
“...Crazy?”
“...hasty, man. Hasty. Don’t do anything hasty.”’
Marvin sat in edgy silence in his friend's ancient truck as it climbed the decrepit road that snaked through the hills. Manuel turned the radio to a bubblegum pop hits station that faded to static halfway through the drive.
“So…” Manuel said. “You gotta sleeping bag? I mean, there’s a spot on my floor.”
“Even if I did stay,” Marvin said. “We both know there aren’t any jobs in town.”
“You could just watch the obits or missing persons section,” Manuel said helpfully. “You know Thanadale. Someone with a job is gonna disappear sometime.”
“Really?”
“Sorry, I was just trying to be positive.”
They rolled slowly up to the cabin, next to a black Porsche. The door was closed, but they could see the busted frame around the lock.
“What kind of a bear knows how to kick down a door?” Manuel asked, staring.
“Or how to drive a Porsche,” Marvin jerked his head. “I’m running in to get my wallet and phone, and I’m coming straight out.”
Manuel nodded.
“Keep the engine running.”
Manuel nodded.
Marvin sprinted onto the porch and shoved the door open. It hit the wall and slammed shut behind him. In front of Marvin, was a large pile of poisonous, rotten potato sludge, its miasma filling the cabin. Marvin reeled, stumbled against the wall, and collapsed onto the floor.
Marvin startled awake in the dark, empty stone cavity below his basement’s uncle. His eyes adjusted to a faint orange glow reflecting off the shelves above and through the trapdoor. Manuel groaned next to him.
“You awake yet?” Called a smug, high-pitched voice from above. Otis leaned over the trapdoor, blinding them with a flashlight. “I told you, we value our privacy in the hills.”
“I don’t even know where you live!” Marvin protested as he covered his eyes. “I’m just fixing up my uncle's cabin.”
“But then you’ll sell it,” Otis wiped his sweaty forehead with an arm, and disappeared with the light. After a second, the sound of a shovel scraping the cellar floor came through the opening. In between swings of the shovel, Otis continued. “The Dobermans will rent it out, and pretty soon, we’ll have all kinds of nosy tourists going on day hikes around my property.”
“Look, I’m done here,” Marvin said. “I was just going to get my wallet and phone and leave town.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Otis called. “Wouldn’t want to forget those. It’d look suspicious.”
Manuel turned over and groaned some more. “Ow, my head.”
“What are you going to do to us?” Marvin asked.
“Well, I’m going to finish cleaning out this disgusting cellar because it’s putting me off my appetite,” Pause, the shuffle scrape, shaking and settling of a bag. “Then I’m going to eat you and pour some quick-drying cement over the cellar floor so no one will ever find your bones.
“You know, it’s a funny thing. My parents were pretty adamant about leaving your uncle alone. Said they’d take care of him. I have no clue where they got all these rotten potatoes, but they sure do make a mess.” The shovel scraped the floor above them a few more times. “My parents never said anything about you, though. Doesn’t look like you’ll be much trouble.” Marvin heard a small grunt and the stretch of a plastic garbage bag. “And… it looks like I’m just about done.” Otis squatted over the trap door. “Hang tight, I’ll be back.”
The trapdoor slammed shut, leaving them in darkness. Marvin shook Manuel, but his friend groaned. Either he followed Marvin in and was hit harder by the sewer potatoes, or Otis hit him. He didn’t seem like he was waking up soon.
Marvin crept on his hands and feet towards the ladder. He crawled up and banged on the trap door. Suddenly, the loud, booming sound shook him off the ladder. He fell to the floor, clutching his ears. The faintest, silvery glow filled the arch at the back of the room, bringing the runes to life with dancing shadows and dim metallic glitter. A small, slight shadow came through the wall, furry but round as a basketball.
Then all went dark.
“Manuel? Manuel?” Marvin called.
“Shut up, dude, stop licking my face,” Manuel replied. “I’m trying to sleep.”
Marvin rushed to his friend. Unexpectedly, his arms were filled with a warm, furry mass. The thing was round; if it had legs, they were so buried in fur that Marvin couldn’t feel them. It purred.
The trapdoor above creaked open.
“Hey,” Otis said. He peaked over the trap door, shining the flashlight under his chin like he was about to tell a campfire story. “I don’t show this to just anyone, so consider yourselves lucky.”
Otis’s face began to crack into an extended jaw. His teeth sharpened, the canines growing several inches long. His ears shot out, pointed, and stood an absurd twelve inches from his flattening forehead. His eyes shrunk to little black onyxes. But the hand holding the flashlight was the most grotesque. The fingers stretched and stretched, a webbing skin extended between them until the entire arm was an enormous bat-like wing.
For a moment, the flashlight dangled on one, long-clawed thumb, and then it crashed to the sub-basement floor. Everything was draped in darkness.
“Dinner time!” Shrieked a voice that was the deep howl of angry winds, punctuated with a high, almost in-audible series of chirps. Marvin stumbled back as a blast of wind ripped through the trap door, and large claws scraped the stone floor.
Marvin felt the fur ball leap from his arms towards the lumbering monster in the darkness. His first thought was a wild relief that a cat appetizer might afford him a precious extra minute to leave. His second thought was burning shame. Marvin ran blindly after the round feline, until an enormous wing shoved him against the stone wall. When he slid to the floor, Marvin cut his hand on something sharp. Slowly tracing around the blade with a finger, he found the handle of the ax he left in the sub basement the day before.
For a moment, the cramped stone room lit up as a small ball of cat creature threw off flashes of multi-colored static, framing the small feline puffball against a huge bat-like creature that filled the room. The bat thing lunged forward to snap at it, but the cat disappeared, leaving Marvin blind again.
But Marvin could hear the high-pitched chirp of the beast only a few feet away. He grabbed the ax handle and swung, feeling it tear through skin thick and tough as canvas. A howling roar pushed him back into the wall with the force of a hurricane wind. Again—a flash of light shone behind the bat as it towered over Marvin. The large tear in its wing was already closing. The bat raised a long, taloned foot to slash at Marvin as he stood.
Marvin swung the ax again. A furball appeared on the bat’s shoulder in a burst of multi-colored static and sank its teeth into the monster. Marvin blinked in the sudden brightness, an afterimage of Otis’s very human face behind his eyelids. His ax plunged deep into something solid.
The thud of a body hitting the floor was followed by silence: no howl, scratch of claws on stone, or high-pitched chirping. Marvin ran into the ladder and fumbled around the flashlight, flicking the on switch and hitting it a few times before its weak orange beams fell on the body of Otis, the ax buried deep between his ribs.
Marvin was humming and trimming tree branches away from the side of the cabin when the sheriff’s car pulled up. He climbed down the ladder and waved to the serious woman with auburn hair and steely roots.
“Hi Clara,” said Marvin.
The sheriff held her nose as she walked up. “Smells like death up here,” Clara coughed.
“Sorry, I just buried a year's supply of rotten potato slime,” said Marvin. “I put it several feet under, but I think there’s still a lot of drippings around the yard.”
“I have a few questions,” Clara said. “Could we move this to the porch?”
Marvin nodded and followed the officer out of the rotten smell.
“So, what did you want to know?” Marvin asked.
“It’s about your neighbor, Otis Larkin.”
“What’s he up to?” Marvin asked innocently.
“Disappearing, mostly,” the sheriff eyed Marvin. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“A few days back, he drove by and stopped for a bit.”
“What did you talk about?”
“He welcomed me to the neighborhood.”
“Did he mention a trip? Did he seem worried about anything?”
“Seemed a little on edge,” Marvin shrugged. “But nothing out of the ordinary. Mentioned a lotta strange critters come out at night. I thought he was just trying to spook me.”
“His Porsche was sold in Whispering Pines. Know anything about that?”
“Why would he be in Whispering Pines?”
“I didn’t say he was, just that someone sold his car there. The buyer didn’t meet them.” She looked hard at Marvin for a moment. Marvin just shrugged. “Oh my goodness,” the sheriff exclaimed. A smile cracked her grim face. “What breed of cat is that? It’s like a Pixar cat brought to life.”
“I dunno,” said Marvin. “It’s a stray. Seems to have adopted me.”
Sheriff Clara squatted down to pet the cat, which purred and nuzzled her hand. “Friendly one. I thought most strays were shy or mean.”
“Me too,” Marvin bobbed his head.
“So you're fixing up your uncle’s place? How’s it going?”
“Yeah, I was thinking of selling it, but I’ve got enough cash to last a while, and the place grows on you.”
“Really? You’re thinking of staying in the hills? I thought they called you Marvin the Mouse.” Clara raised an eyebrow. “The hills aren’t for the faint of heart. A lotta weird folks up here. Lotta disappearances like Otis. Sheriff and hospital in the next town over.”
“They did,” Marvin nodded. “When I first came up here, it felt like the cabin was empty, full of dark corners and holes. Like something awful was going to jump out of one at any moment.” He leaned down to pet the cat. “But now, I’ve got Fluffel here to watch out for me. I guess sometimes the holes let something good in.”