The Chasm

I woke to the sound of the rain slapping against the bedroom windows. It was six in the morning, and I really had no desire to get out of bed, but my stomach began to rumble, so begrudgingly, I dragged my old carcass to a standing position. The sky and the woods around my home were misty and gray. The house’s interior looked to be cloaked in a shroud of dull light even after I had switched on the lamps. Yes, this was the kind of day that darkened one’s soul. Nothing to do, no place to go, and no one to speak with except the uncaring rain. I didn’t think this day could get more depressing, but I was wrong.

I kept hearing a muffled intermittent clank, clank, clanking sound similar to drops of water falling on a tin pie plate coming from the basement. This house was built over one-hundred-fifty years ago so I wouldn’t be surprised if an old pipe joint had sprung a leak, but I had no idea what it could be dripping on. The cellar floor is dirt, and I don’t store anything in that dark, dank hole in the ground. Trudging down those rickety stairs first thing in the morning wasn’t how I wanted to start my day, but if I didn’t check on where the sound was coming from the leak could become a deluge and I could be out some serious cash. Time to go underground.

The rusty old hinges voiced their complaint at being disturbed by emitting the kind of loud squeak heard in horror movies. Even though I knew where the squeak was coming from, it still made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight. The spooky mode was reinforced when I flicked on the light switch for the basement and the lights began to flicker. Note to self, call an electrician today. While walking down the rickety staircase I noticed the clanging was becoming louder and more frequent. This couldn’t be good.

The sound directed me to the far end of the basement where I immediately discovered the problem. My leaky pipe joint hypothesis was right on the money, but I would have never guessed what it was dripping on in a hundred years. The joint must have been leaking for some time because the water had partially uncovered a metal door that was buried under the dirt floor. My mood switched from upset over the pending repair bill to elated over what I may potentially find. I ran up the stairs two at a time and out to the garage where I gathered some tools.

Approximately half an hour later, I had reduced the leak to a trickle and used a bucket to catch that. Now it was time to concentrate on the door. It was locked in place with an antique skeleton lock, which I easily drilled out. Next, I shoveled the remaining dirt from the door. It was time for the great reveal. My heart raced as I grabbed the handle and heaved with all my strength, and nothing. The damn door didn’t budge. Frustrated, I rooted around in my tool bag and withdrew a prybar, along with a heavy hammer, and went to work. The old saying is correct: use the right tool for the job. The door begrudgingly swung open like the hatch on a submarine and revealed another staircase leading down into the blackness. Using an old 2x4 to prop the door open and disregarding my better instincts, I grabbed a flashlight and forged ahead into the chasm of darkness.

The first item my light revealed after reaching the bottom of the stairs was a Jolly Roger pirate flag hanging on the far wall. What I saw next chilled me to the bone. Sitting on what looked like a huge treasure chest were two human skeletons dressed in rotting pirate regalia. I spun around to race back up the stairs. That’s when I heard a deep, ominous voice ask, “You’re not planning on going somewhere, are you?”, followed by the crack of splintering wood and the heavy metal door slamming shut.

I have no idea how long these flashlight batteries will last, but I believe my life is directly connected to theirs.