The Lights in the Basement

Word Count 497

          I have been watching for days. The bright flashes of light emanating from the basement windows have been growing more frequent. At first, they would begin at dusk and end soon after. That was two weeks ago. Now, I am having many sleepless nights watching from my bedroom window as flickering luminescence lights up the driveway that separates our homes.
         The Brisbees have had my curious attention since they moved into our peaceful neighborhood six months ago. The man, Victor, has yet to utter a phrase of more than three words to anyone that I know. He has yet to mow his lawn, trim the shrubs, or any other such things one would do to keep up the property. His odd behavior has become an immense point of discussion among the more gossipy residents on Flash Lane. Then of course, there is the matter of his wife, Elizabeth, whose appearances are so sporadic that trying to describe her, besides her dependence on a wheelchair and the hooded robe that covers her entire body, would be an exercise in futility. My prying nature is forcing me to take some action. Sure, it’s not quite ethical to be spying on your neighbors, but I thought about how grand it would be to be the one with all the juice on the ‘new guy’ on the block.
         Dressed in black, I ventured across the driveway, squirming on my stomach toward the small, rectangular basement window. At first, I was fearful the flashing lights would reveal my position, but I made the trip undetected. I approached the window slowly. My first peek revealed sparks sprinkling all over the basement floor so I repositioned to see what caused the show. A man wearing a long, black overcoat leaning forward and facing away from me, worked vigorously below. As sparks were spewing out from under his left arm, I wasn’t able to see what tool was being used or what this project was.
         Suddenly, a foot appeared out from underneath the man’s robe. It kicked out furiously as the man stopped his work and stepped away exposing his task. The foot belonged to his wife, Elizabeth. Her naked body was covered with stitches, burns, and what appeared to be rotting flesh. None of the body parts seemed to match as far as size, skin color, or proportion. She was writhing in pain, but her sounds were muffled by the scarf tied around her face. She needed help.
         I raced toward the Brisbee’s front door, crashing through and followed the sounds made by Mr. Brisbee’s tools. I opened the basement door and stepped through onto the first stair. The last thing I remembered was feeling my legs come out from underneath me and my face heading straight for basement floor.

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         I awoke in pain and darkness. I heard Victor Brisbee saying, “My dear Elizabeth, these eyes look so much better than the ones we get from corpses. Wouldn’t you say?”