bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter twenty-two. 💛

The crawlspace had been quiet for a few days. No rustling or gnawing behind the walls. No feral screeches that sometimes made Case feel less lonely. Gary the Rat must've gone into hibernation. Wait, no . . . what month was it? October, November? Somewhere near the end of autumn. The leaves would be shifting from emerald into brilliant shades of scarlet and gold. The sun would be lost amongst the graying clouds. There'd be a chill in the air, but the days would somehow feel warmer, cozier. With knit sweaters, hot lattes, and cuddles by crackling fires . . . Case figured the rodent was still sleeping in his nest, enjoying his own creature comforts, and didn't put any further thought into his missing companion. 

At least, until he noticed the smell. The faint stink of rotting cabbage. At first, he couldn't figure out where it was coming from. The plumbing, maybe? Perhaps a sewage pipe had burst? But the water ran clear when he tested the faucets, the smell seeming to roam the basement like a spirit unsure where it wanted to haunt.

By the time Sir arrived for his visit, the stench had gone from subtle to pungent. The unmistakable perfume of decay.

"I think something died," Case said, covering his face with the neck of his sweatshirt.

Sir groaned, audibly inconvenienced, then stomped back up the stairs. Moments later, there was a thump and shuff-shuff-shuffle above the basement. The ceiling bowed and creaked under Sir's weight, as he rummaged to find the source of the smell. Case tracked Sir's movement, following him into the middle of the basement. Sir grunted, the noise muffled through the plaster. More thumps, more shuffling . . . Sir's weight shifted through the ceiling . . .

A crack split through the plaster.

Specks of paint and dirt tickled Case's face as he stared up at the split seam, awestruck. A crack. A glimpse into the world beyond the basement. A sliver of light and shadow, as Sir shined his flashlight inside the crawlspace. No, not a flashlight . . .

Sunlight.

A thrill of emotion gripped Case. A flashfire spark of excitement, quickly doused with panic. Did Sir realize he'd broken the ceiling—or could this be a secret? What if Sir did discover the crack, after Case had lied to him? Was the risk worth the reward? Was there a reward?

Sir will be furious if you don't tell him, warned the voice. He'll hurt you for lying. Hurt you bad.

Reasonably, Case agreed with the voice. But at the same time, the thought of telling Sir turned his mouth dry. He didn't know why, but something in his body—intuition, maybe—begged him not to tell; he didn't know why, but he couldn't risk Sir repairing the crack.

Sir shuffled out from the crawlspace, but didn't immediately return to the basement. Case sat on the bed, waiting, his knees bunched to his chest. The sliver of light looming above him, its presence filling him with dread. When Sir did come back, climbing on top of him with cold, sanitized hands, Case kept quiet. He ragdolled, his focus locked over Sir's shoulder. Locked on the tiny crack that had gone dark with the night.

After that first night, Case didn't do anything about the crack. He was anxiously aware of its presence, but not sure what he wants to do about it. Case paced the basement, fixated on the ceiling, on the light bleeding through the crack, like a creature skulking for prey.

He wondered exactly how large the crawlspace was. Apparently large enough for Sir to squeeze through, but what else was up there? Were there utility pipes and ventilation ducts? Was it a dumping ground for Sir's other victims? Or, the optimist in him wondered, was there something for Case to grab onto so he could climb out and escape?

He stood on his tippy-toes, reached up and stretched his fingers. Not that it was any use. He was far too short, and the ceiling (even if he could climb through to escape) was far too high.