The Birchfield Building Cellar

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. No matter how loud the knocking became, mother said to never give in to my curiosity. That part of the estate was restricted and mother warned that my existence on earth depended on keeping a great distance away from the Birchfield Building cellar.

The noise had been with me since I could remember, growing louder and deeper as I increased in age, following me from my chambers to the billiards room to the stables. It worried me greatly until mother assured me that she could hear it too. The groundskeepers would not speak of it, but the dread in their eyes signaled that their ears also resounded with anguish.

The hour was fast approaching wherein I must leave this place; however, I disliked the idea of everyone else playing unwitting captive to an infernal cacophony. As a man nearly grown, it was my responsibility to rid my family’s lands of disorder.

I grabbed my cricket bat from the athletics shed and sped off to the Birchfield Building. The foyer granted a series of choices: a grand staircase to the bedrooms, straight ahead into the entryway hall, and a door to the left that, when opened, revealed a downward winding stairway.

As I descended, the rapping on the door turned unbearable, causing my pace to quicken. The voice could now be heard clearly.

“HELP ME!” It shouted.

I heroically swung the cellar door open and sprang inside to rescue the person in need, only to find a room empty from floor to ceiling. Upon my examination, the door slammed shut behind me. I hadn’t even noticed that the noise in my head had ceased.

Desperately, I struck the door with my bat, begging to be released.

“HELP ME!” I shouted.