Down the Rabbit Hole

Basement Babble

Prompt: October 21 is Babbling Day this is a special day for "Blatherskites" (people who can't stop babbling) those who talk gibberish and can't stop babbling (sort of like a brook). For more information about this day see http://www.holidayinsights.com/moreholidays/October/babblingday.htm. This is your chance to babble about anything you want either in prose or poetry. Be creative and have fun.

I have a scary basement. The house is one of those 1930's colonials that sit like sentinels on busy sub-urban streets and on quiet rural roads throughout New England. As with many of the houses from that era, my basement is stone and brick walls with a poured cement floor. Previous tenants tried to patch some of the cracks and holes and the result is a mottled, uneven patchwork of clipped plaster and faded paint. The walls give the space a decrepit look. The electrical has been updated but the lighting placement isn't very good and light never penetrates into all the corners. The fixtures in the wood ceiling are naked bulbs that deliver a narrow cone of urine-colored light. There is a small room at the far end which is not used and it always cast in permanent shadow. We close the door but it never seems to stay shut. The old makeshift door hangs half open in the gloom. The furnace is an ancient green beast of a machine, nestled amid a tangle of black cast iron and copper piping that roars to life, startlingly, only to click off a few seconds later.

It is a damp and dark, wholly unpleasant place. Unfortunately for me, it is also the location of the washer and dryer.

Naturally, I try to limit my laundry chores to the daylight hours but sometime life dictates that I need to finish a load or two at night. Last night was just such a night. I had finally gotten my daughter to bed when I realized I had left wet sheets in the machine. We had company coming in and so I really needed to get them into the dryer so I could make up the guest room. Reluctantly I made my way to the basement door. I called the dog. Turk was always one to follow me around and while a tiny, timid Min Pin might not be the best protection, he was still part Doberman and I wouldn't be down there alone. Turk immediately abandoned his quest to get into the kitchen garage and sauntered over the the basement door.

"Let's go" I said, in my very best - "this is going to be so fun!"- voice.

By the time I had unbolted the door and started down the stairs, Turk had taken off. I called to him a few times, even shook a treat bag but he refused to show. Useless! I continued down the stairs, flicking the light switch at the top and pausing at the bottom waiting for the motion light by the washers to flick on. I rushed over and began to transfer the sheets from the washer to the dryer. Mid way through my hurried task, Turk suddenly began to bark somewhere up in the house. This wasn't his usual garden variety annoying everyday barking. This was full-throated, alarm barking punctuated by growling and snarling. This was fear barking. This was "come quick there is something scary up here" barking. Naturally, because I have an active imagination and read too many thrillers, I immediately think "axe murderer". I abandon the laundry and rush up the stairs, my brain well ahead of my footing. I trip, of course, going up and almost break my leg. I get to the top of the stairs, breathless with my heart pounding right out of my chest. I'm thinking "weapon, weapon..." while I'm trying to place where in hell the dog is. I grab the broom, because somehow inexplicably that seems more lethal at the time than anything in my kitchen knife block. All at once Turk stops barking and goes silent. I call him and listen for his toenails clicking on the wood floor or his body hopping down the stairs. Nothing.

I make a circuit of the downstairs. The doors and windows are all locked and in place. I start up the main stairs, still calling the dog, making my way to my bedroom where my daughter is sleeping. I cross the landing and hit the switch, flooding the bedroom with light. There, stretched out, belly up at the end of the bed, is Turk. He lifts his tiny head and yawns.

"What the hell Turk?" I practically scream at him.

I toss the broom aside feeling like an idiot. Turk blinks his dark eyes at me sleepily and rolls over.

After a few minutes, my heart rates returns to normal. I evict Turk from the end of the bed. He looks back at me as if to say "what did I do?" before thumping over and planting himself in the easy chair. I crawl into bed. Below me, I hear the furnace roar to life and I remember the laundry, it never made it into the dryer...also, I'm not 100% certain that I bolted the basement door....Crap!