SFSD-X Short Story Smackdown

6.1 Win a Few, Lose a Few

Aunt Jordi told me not to open the door to the basement. Under no circumstances. "Don't open the goddamm door or I'll slap you silly and kick you out on your butt. You understand?" she asked. "As though the fate of mankind depends on it. Got it, Mikey?"

"Got it," I said. I was late for work at the warehouse. A bagel popped out of the toaster and I stuffed it in my mouth.

"That's mine!" she shouted.

I blew her a kiss.

By 'the door' I assumed she meant the door from the kitchen to the basement and not the outside one with the stairwell full of branches, leaves and probably hundreds of rodents. I told her I'd clean it up one of these days soon. Just as soon as I had a day off and no migraine.

That night, I asked her why I shouldn't open the door. We were eating Orange stew, orange because of the color from the curry and tomato paste (her words) and not made of oranges. Besides curry and tomato paste, I had no idea what was in it. Grey chunks of something fishy, but it tasted all right and I was starving.

"Because I said," she replied,

"Aunt Jordi, I'm not five anymore," I said. "Are the stairs broken? Do you need me to fix something?" I had duct tape, nails and a hammer and I wasn't afraid to use them. My college degree notwithstanding. History apparently didn't pay, but being able to fix odds and ends and driving a fork lift was slowly taking care of my loans.

"Mike, do not open the goddamm door. No matter what."

"Do you want me to put a padlock on it? It doesn't lock otherwise."

"No. Would I put a padlock on the outside of your door? Just don't open it. Do you understand?" she asked. She threatened me with her spoon, pointing it towards my eyes.

"I understand and will obey. This is your house," I said. She was sweet enough to let me live there rent free for an undetermined amount of time when my own parents didn't want me around. Which meant I had to put up with her oddities no one else had time or patience for anymore.

We kind of suited each other.

I had migraines that gave me visions of saints and cyborg goats and needed silence for hours on end during my rare days off, and she collected road signs and random one night stands with bikers and gas station clerks.

In fact, 'the door' sported a new sign in white with black lettering: 314. Although it might not have been a road sign; I didn't recognize the shape or numbers from being from around here. 314. What was 314?

The kitchen had several other signs on the cabinets – 35 miles per hour, curve ahead (that one made her laugh since she kept the cookies in that cabinet. Her curves were coming on strong.), and a stop sign (rat poison and cleaning detergents cabinet). The fridge had a rocks falling warning on the door. It fell off every once in a while which made midnight trips for milk rather exciting.

It was during one of those jaunts for snacks that I first heard the shuffling from the basement. I was standing in the blinding fridge light, slurping on the milk from the bottle and rummaging for leftover pizza, when the faint scraping noises started. Leaving the fridge open, I set the milk down and walked around the kitchen. Rats in the walls? It had happened before. For a minute there was silence.

Then it came again, definitely from the basement. Light glinted off the white sign, burning the black lettering in my retina – 314.

I wasn't supposed to open the door. I wasn't supposed to open it. Logically, there could be all sorts of legitimate reasons not to; Aunt Jordi was a grown woman in her own house and she deserved some privacy. Maybe she had some risqué after hours activities she didn't want her nephew prying into.

Things could be so awkward afterwards. Imagine Christmas: "Could you pass the pie, Aunt Jordi?" And all you can see is her in strappy leather undies and a bull-dog collar whipping a fifty year old balding dude who works at the gas station.

Don't open the door, Mike. Some sights can't be unseen afterwards.