Honor the Horrors of the Internet

The Basement of Doom

I used to have the same recurring nightmare, especially during the summer months. I was back in that strange basement, wearing that same red dress and gold-beaded scarf. I no longer have that outfit; I got rid of it on advice of a shaman, which I'll tell you about much later. Well, back to my dream. I found myself in that ghastly basement again, in that mirrored hallway. The only difference was that I was behind those long narrow mirrors, slowly walking this long corridor, its plank walls greening with moss and mold, its doors and windows broken by vandals.

The boundary between indoors and outdoors no longer applied here. There was ivy sprouting from every shattered window, and the ceiling had mostly collapsed into piles of rotting lichened beams and roofing tiles that were themselves slowly being consumed by vegetation.

At first, everything was okay. In spite of all the apparent creepiness, I never felt ill at ease while picking through the ruins of this place. It was a bit like what I imagined exploring some ancient ruins would be...more like you were in a strange kind of nature park rather than a horror movie. Then, like in any horror movie, the atmosphere quickly changed. Bliss unexpectedly gave way to soul-chilling dread.

Rounding a corner (the number of doors between corners varied in a random fashion. There were no numbers on the doors or in the corridors), I was suddenly met by a cold rush of wind. It whistled and hissed through an abysmal landscape of rusty, dilapidated buildings lit by a reddish-purple sky. Cold phosphorescence gleamed from the deep snow drifts.

I gazed at the bleak scene in utter bewilderment. The air was now thick and choking with the smell of petrol fumes and burning ozone.

Movement flicked in my peripheral vision, followed shortly by the crunch of snow underfoot. Then my skin began to crawl when They finally emerged from the shadows.

I looked at Them. I pondered Them. I wondered why They kept showing up even after I left that house. Were They still wanting to be my protectors or was there a much sinister reason?

"What do you...?" was as far as I got before the whole scene faded and I was back in my room at the boardinghouse.

Ch. 2—An Explanation

After enduring this "haunting" for several months, I finally had enough. On the advice of a friend, I went to see the old shaman who dwelt at the pigeonary of the Spiral Rock.

The shaman turned out to be an old raven, and like many of his kind who inhabited the Faerie Territories, he was highly intelligent as well as versed in the magical arts. He listened silently as I briefly described the dream that kept pestering me. His sharp, piercing gaze made me a tad uncomfortable, as if he was looking right into my soul.

Finally he cleared his throat and spoke in a grating voice.

"You've been to the Lum House?"

I shuffled my feet, feeling a bit uncomfortable to answer. I had left out that part of my story partly out of fear and embarrassment.

"Yes, I did," I finally replied.

"You're not the first to have trouble," the raven told me. "Many people who have rented that house soon moved out. Some like you—within a year or two, some shorter, within a few months. At least five had never made it out. Alive anyway. Perhaps because those five were human. It hates humans, that house."

"It hates humans?"

"Yes, especially the ones from the Mortal Territories," he replied. "Its first resident was from there."

"Yes, I know," I muttered. "The house owner told me that... he never told me about all the troubles he had with it... or about the deaths."

"It has changed hands a lot," the bird told me, "ever since its first owner went missing."