The Things I Heard.

During the majority of my childhood, my mother told me not to worry about the noises from downstairs. And I listened because I was really scared of the things I would hear at night. Some nights I would be running, crying into my mother's bedroom. Sometimes, I felt like she knew what was really going on because she never would tell me. She would just... freeze.

I was born in Scotland and lived for only 3 years until my father disappeared from my mother and me. She never told me exactly why, but at that moment when he left, we moved to England. Maybe she thought he was there. I don't know why. She always does things for no reason, or at least I think for no reason. So now we live in a two-story house, away from the city. 

I was always homeschooled, so I never had a lot of friends. The only friends I ever had was my mother and my stuffed bear. I went outside a lot because we lived practically in the middle of nowhere. My mother, of course, didn't explain why we lived where we did. But don't think she wasn't a lively person. She had a great sense of humor and a beautiful singing voice. I always went to sleep with a kiss on my forehead and a lullaby. She would ruffle my bright red hair and tuck me in tight. I would hold on to my teddy and fall asleep thinking of the best moments in my life, which there weren't a lot of. Some nights, I would wake up to what seems like a crying coming from downstairs, or the basement, as we didn't use the downstairs. The top floor was level to the ground so you always came in from there. But the downstairs was never touched by my mother. I wasn't allowed anywhere near the stairs that led into the downstairs. I never tried to go down there anyways. Like I said before, I would hear crying. It sounded like a man, someone with a deep, familiar voice. The voice was hoarse and a little quiet. Always the same volume, never getting louder. I had no clue to who it belongs to, as my mother was really the only person I knew. I hated the sounds that came from below, but the crying always made me feel sort of sympathetic. Other times I heard talking, mumbling, scratching, and even clear words. The words I remember the most are "2, they're here, with me, what do I do?" 

Every time I tried to get my mother to tell me what the noises were she would either tell me not to worry, or she would freeze, and say nothing at all. 

Sometimes, when passing as closest as I could get to the stairs, which was pretty far, I thought I could see blood and possibly a hand. A pale, mangled hand with barely any skin left on it. Long nails and long fingers. Then when I went away and came back, no blood, no hand was left by the gate that led down into the dark basement.

I was scared to make any noises during the night. Once I cried, that was the time I ran so fast into my mother's room. That night I slept with her. For some reason, that night nothing else happened. No noise. No crying.

There was no way to tell what was downstairs from outside the house. No windows even gave a glimpse. I would play with a ball or a can outside on the barren road. Rarely did I see cars pass by.

We didn't have a Tele. No electronics existed here. I am only 10. Alone with my mother 24/7.

One day, my mother approached me. She bent down to my level, and said with a low voice, "Mommy is going outside for a... break. Stay away from the stairs, okay Alan?"

I responded in a calm, happy voice, "Okay, mother. I promise." My curiosity sparked to the highest it ever had that day. The downstairs. I must see it. As soon as my mother left the house, I crept towards the stairs. Very slowly. Steadily. Why wasn't I scared? What was going on? Suddenly, I stopped dead. I was right in front of the stairway. I tried to turn back, realizing I shouldn't have gone near the stairs. I couldn't walk. It felt like the walking from before was out of my control, like I was being pulled towards the stairs. I stared into the dark abyss. At first nothing. Then came the noises. Faintly I heard walking, the tapping of feet on a concrete floor. Then, growling. Gargling that was progressively getting louder. I wanted so bad to move, but I couldn't. My eyes started to water, it got worse and worse. A face appeared. I stared, wide-eyed. Suddenly, my eyes went dry. The face was almost familiar, like a person who was once dear to me. My mind was blank, I was frozen with so much fear. My knees were locked, and at that moment I fainted and fell forward down the stairs. 

I must've hit my head or something because I started to feel throbbing and pain coming from my head. I couldn't see anything. It was pitch black. I felt cold, as I could also feel the cold, hard concrete floor. I also felt damp. Cold sweat puddled me as I tried to stand. I managed to get on my feet. But slowly, the room started to get brighter and brighter, and eventually, I could see where I was. In front of me was the same thing I had seen before. That same, disfigured face.

Again, I couldn't move. I just exchanged looks with the thing. But something was happening in my mind. The more I looked into its eyes the more familiar the thing became. So many things were crossing my mind. Will it attack me? Will it run away? Will I die? Who is that? 

The thing began to move closer to me, it was on its fours, crawling slowly nearer and nearer. 

Then it put a hand on my shoulder and in the worst voice I could ever possibly imagined, the worst noise any human could hear, it said "Help." 

I could hear the front door close and walking from upstairs. The thing hissed at the ceiling of the basement and ran into a corner. My mother called me, "Alan! Honey?" I ran so fast, as fast as that one night. I bolted up the stairs and ran into my mother's arms. She pulled me by the arm and took me to her bedroom. She closed and locked the door behind her and twisted straight around and looked at me. 

With so much fear in her eyes, she said: "Alan, are you okay my son?" She was sobbing. All I could do was hug her and cry too. 

Later that day we got in the car and she started to drive down an unfamiliar road. 

"Son, I told you not to go down there. Now it's time to tell you the truth. The man you saw... is your father."

We stopped in front of a lake. We got out of the car and she motioned me towards the lake's coast. 

She said nothing more than "I love you," to me. 

I won't ever be able to forget this moment, no matter how hard I try. I've tried to seek mental help but that day won't go away from my memories. Why was my father in my basement? How did my mother know?

And why was he afraid to go upstairs?