The Cellar

  The cellar door was open. Why was the cellar door open? Lauren wondered. The cellar door was never open; Father was very strict about it. He had always told her there were things down there, though he’d never told her what.

  Lauren stood there looking at the cellar door for some time, feeling at once very small and very much like the eight-year-old child that she was rather than the eighteen-year-old woman she liked to pretend to be. She wasn’t sure what she should do. Should she just simply walk over and close it? Or should she go looking for Father? That was it! She’d call for Father; he’d want to know the door was open. And she sure didn’t want to get blamed for it.

  “Father” she called. She stood calling for him, her voice growing louder, until her throat was beginning to get hoarse and panic was beginning to set it. Then she finally heard him. Barely. She was sure that was Father’s voice, but where on earth was it coming from. She took a tentative step on shaking knees. “Father?”

  She heard him again. She took another step. Perhaps Father had been working out here and had opened the door for some reason and somehow fallen. She ran toward the cellar door, she had to see if he needed help.

  “Father?”

  “Lauren, run.” Her father’s hoarse whisper reached her ears the same time the scaly hand reach out and grabbed her throat.