Secrets of the Birchfield Cellar

Only one rule existed: do not open the door. Mother had often shut down my pleas for answers whenever the knocks grew louder. That section of the house was off-limits, and mother reminded me that the only way I could survive on this planet was by not coming anywhere close to the lower premises of the Birchfield Building.

It had been there for as long as I could remember, steadily getting more deafening and lower in tone as I matured, from my quarters to the pool room and even to the barns. It troubled me to high heavens until mother reassured me that she could hear it as well. The caretakers would not tell me what it was, but the look in their eyes would suggest they too were tormented by the sounds.

The time was coming where I must vacate the premises; however, the very idea that some infernal noise was subjecting the rest of the family and all other guests present annoyed me. Almost grown up, an ideal male, it was my duty to keep the lands of my family from chaos.

From the sports shed I retrieved a cricket bat and dashed towards the building called Birchfield. The hall presented a number of options: grand stairs leading to the bedrooms, a straight way to the entrance hall, and a door to the left, which opened to a spiral staircase descending downwards.

As I went down the stairs, the knocking on the door become so intensely unbearable that I picked up my speed. The voice was now distinctly audible.

“HELP ME!” It exclaimed.

I opened the door to the cellar and rushed in to save the individual calling for help only to be confronted by an empty room with no furniture at all. Upon further inspection, I discovered the door had closed behind me. I had not even registered that the voice inside my head had disappeared.

Frantically I struck the door with the bat and sobbed in an incomprehensible manner to be let free.

“HELP ME!” I screamed.