The Basement

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Adelaide knew this rule.

The basement is off limits to everyone. Except Father.

Father would unlock the heavily fortified door once a day, and spend hours down there, away from Adelaide and her six older siblings.

No-one else in the house thought it was strange. Adelaide’s brother, Connor, always told her, “Dads are just like that. They lock themselves away and hide. It’s annoying, but it’s normal.”

Adelaide didn’t believe him, and tried to investigate by herself. She was too small to reach the locks on the door, so she dragged one of the dining chairs across the wooden floor, so she could stand up and reach the handle.

Of course, it was locked. Father kept his keys in his bedroom, away from all the kids.

Adelaide was too curious for her own good. One night, she snuck into their bedroom and fished them from the nightstand.

It took her a while to figure out the locks, but she was so excited when the door clicked open that she almost fell off the chair.

Down the stairs, all she could make out were strange shapes around the dark room. Some tall, some small. Some looked like they were moving in the shadows.

The light switch was too far away. Her heart was racing.

On her rush back upstairs, she knocked over a large box she couldn’t see, and heard lots of small things rustle and fall out all over the floor.

Adelaide hid in her room and promised she’d never open that door again.

The next morning, Father found the door open. He sighed, and set to work clearing up the mess.

Standing on Lego hurt like a bitch.