The Basement Caller

What lies beneath? - Michelle Liew

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Detective George Lee parked his unmarked police car outside the decrepit townhouse on Ash Avenue. Missing persons cases were like giving candy to a baby for him- he’d handled plenty of these in his fifteen years on the force.

This one, though, stood out. Marvin Song, a popular college professor, had vanished weeks earlier, leaving behind only cryptic messages on his voice machine. The endearing man was a beloved professor, but he had his fair share of detractors -students who felt cheated out of their grades. Neighbours had complained about an offensive odour coming from his apartment. George suspected the worst.

George fiddled with the tin of mints in his pocket. Mints were a die-hard habit - one that started after the acrid smell of death clung to his nose after his last big case. A smell he couldn’t shake.

“Detective Lee on-site at 50 Ash Avenue.” He radioed dispatched. “Request backup.”

The operator’s confused voice replied. “Backup’s there.”

Lee wrinkled his brows and scanned the street. “That’s odd. No one’s here.

Silence.

The front door of Number 50 was unlocked. The smell of decay was unmistakable - but this odour mixed with damp wood and something heavy, metallic. His stomach churned, and he reached for his trusty mint, almost dropping the box it came in. But he stopped. Focus.

“Professor Song?” he called, stepping tentatively into the dark hallway. His voice was a faint echo.

The tapping started, soft, purposeful. It came from the basement.

Lee thought twice before pushing the basement door open. “Professor Song, this is Detective George Lee. Are you home?”

No answer.

The stairs creaked under his weight as he made his way down. His foot kicked something. Crouching, he aimed his torchlight at it.

A blood-streaked police radio.

Lee’s heart raced. He reached for his own radio, but it came to life before he could speak into it.

“Detective Lee,” came a dissonant, raspy voice. “We finally meet.”

The beam of his flashlight quivered. “Who are you?”

The voice chuckled, mocking. “Why don’t you turn around?”

The basement light came on, showing the flight of empty stairs. George’s eye caught sight of quick movement - a track shoe peeking out from behind the curtain.

The radio echoed again, this time much louder. But the voice that spoke was calm, almost conversational.

“Why don’t you stay a while, George? I mean, a long while.”

The basement door slammed shut.