The Cellar

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I forced myself to turn around, the breath whooshing out of me like I’d been punched in the stomach. Standing in front of me, just a few feet away, was the image of a boy holding a lantern. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark pants with suspenders—clothes from an earlier era. And he was transparent. To distract myself from the fact that I could see through him, I focused on his dark, shaggy hair and square jaw and estimated that he was somewhere around my own age. He was tall enough that he had to stoop under the low ceiling of the cellar. He peered intently into the space around him, his gaze passing over me several times as I pressed myself against the wall, breathing as shallowly as I could. He didn’t look like a murderous or vengeful ghost. In fact, it seemed like he couldn’t even see me. I took a deep breath and cleared my throat.

“H-hello?” I stammered. At the sound of my voice, he reared back, then winced and rubbed his head as though he’d bumped it on the ceiling. What kind of ghost bumps his head? He swung his lantern around, his face reflecting the same fear I’d felt when I first heard noises down here. I wasn’t expecting that. Just as I was working up the courage to speak again, he suddenly turned and looked up at the doors, as though something else had gotten his attention. Before I could make another sound, he hurried up the stairs and disappeared.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, sliding down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, my legs splayed in front of me. I stayed there for several minutes, waiting for my racing heart to calm down. Once I felt capable of it, I stood and headed up the stairs myself. The sudden brightness of the afternoon sunshine made me squint, and my hands shook as I closed the doors and threaded the lock back through the rings. It was time to get some answers.

I found my mother’s purse in the front hall and fished out her cell phone. Even though Susan was pleased to hear from me, I could tell she was disappointed it wasn’t my mother calling. Apparently, my mother wasn’t talking to her either, but I pushed that concern aside.

“There’s not all that much to tell you,” Susan said when I asked about the house. “It was built in 1850 by a doctor for his family and most of the existing structure is part of the original house. That’s why I snapped it up. You don’t see many of those anymore. But this one passed on through the same family through the generations, so they didn’t change much.”

“Why did they sell after all that time?”

“The last owner had some health issues and moved in with his son’s family across town. I guess none of the younger generation wanted to take the house.”

“So my mom and I are the first people who aren’t family to live here?”

“Pretty much.”

I paused for a moment to think about how to phrase my next question. “Are there any stories about the house or family? You know, any legends or anything like that?”

“Not that I’m aware of. It’s obviously got a lot of history, though. The Civil War practically happened in their back yard.”

“Oh, right.” I hadn’t thought of that. I wasn’t used to thinking much about the Civil War, but it occurred to me that this was probably the kind of place where they dressed up and acted out the battles.