The Lady in the Basement

'''THE LADY IN THE BASEMENT '''

It's midnight. Or somewhere close to it, anyway. The only source of light in the empty living room is from the TV, which appears to be on silent. The weather's on, which is odd, because the news never comes on at this time of night. They predict heavy storms all over the country. They even have that special weather radar thing that only shows when there's really bad weather.

Odd.

I'm sitting on the couch, my eyes glued to the screen. It seems crucial that I take this information in. I get up. The vague colored light of the TV is stretching onto the floor behind me and approach the darkened hallway. There's the door to the stairs that lead down to the basement. I don't usually like going down there, I've never been particularly fond of dark concrete places, but I know I don't have a choice.

I open the door. The stairs lead straight down. I walked down the stairs but ended up going purple. Even though I can't make out her actual form, only somehow able to see the brief shape of her silhouette in the darkness. I know she's a lady. She sits with her back to me. Not a word she utters but I know that she knows that I must.

I know I must deliver.

Heavy storms.

Might turn up.

She is satisfied.

Or so I think.

Suddenly there's no lady at the bottom of the stairs. Suddenly I'm standing there halfway down the stairs that lead to the dark concrete basement. Alone, my fear kicks in, and this time it isn't just a natural pointless fear. This time I'm sure there's something that doesn't want me to leave. Without thinking, I bolt up the stairs and grasp the handle of a door that has suddenly closed. I pull, HARD, but a door doesn't budge. There is a strange sensation almost like a cold wind at the back of my neck and I panic. I grasp the handle with both hands and give the door another pull more panicked than the last. The wind is still there, only now it seems to have transformed into something more solid, but not entirely physical, like fingers made of smoke. This time I'm tugging at the door frantically, pushing it in, pulling it out, pushing it in, pulling it out in a fast repetitive manner that I hope have missed all the fears and panic will loosen up the door. No such success.

The fingers seemed to be reaching, but there's another odd sensation, not quite tightening but just pulling. At the same time I defined this sensation. I also realized that there's more than one hand and more than just more cold smoke at the bottom of the stairs. I am in trouble.

Suddenly I am falling, but not backwards, and there is no longer a closed door in front of me. By some miracle it's open and even during the initial relief one thought continues to scream in my mind. But at the top of the stairs she is waiting for me.

(This was roughly translated from MichaelLeroi's reading of this pasta, as the original has been deleted and there are no copies of the story that I know of)