Chapter Three: Phantom in the Basement

CHAPTER THREE

Phantom in the Basement

Brad was upstairs in his bedroom, unpacking clothes and putting them away, when he heard voices. Soft and indistinct. He couldn’t make out any actual words, but he definitely heard them murmuring.

After placing a couple of sweaters on the top shelf of the cedar wardrobe, he walked over to the bay window looking out on the front of the house. He settled on the cushioned window seat and pulled aside the curtain, where he saw a group gathered in the square. This was the third ghost tour he’d noticed since it got dark, and it was not even nine o’clock in the evening. He supposed this was something he would have to get used to. Then again, maybe once the house was occupied for a while, its reputation as an evil place would fade and the tours would lose interest and find other venues on which to focus their attention. He could hope.

An older gentleman, dressed in a white suit complete with wide-brimmed hat, hosted this tour. The man probably thought he was giving off a Mark Twain vibe, but it felt more like Colonel Sanders to Brad. None of the tours had been hosted by Bias . . . not that Brad had been looking for him or anything.

Brad returned to the wardrobe and hung his shirts on the metal rod. One thing about these old houses, they didn’t have closets. He supposed he could have had the contractors build some during the restoration, but he balked at the idea of making too many cosmetic changes to the house. It would be like an already beautiful woman getting a nose job or face lift; it invariably wrecked her beauty in some indefinable but fundamental way. Besides, the little boy inside Brad, who had reread all the Narnia books at least three times, liked the idea of these wardrobes in the bedrooms. Who knew what magical worlds they might contain?

Laughing at himself, Brad decided it was time for a break. Dinner had consisted of only chips and a candy bar so he could use a snack. He stepped out onto the landing and around to the stairs, hand trailing lightly along the polished banister. The downstairs hallway was lit only by a single lamp, creating a tiny island of light in a vast ocean of shadows.

Tiny island of light in a vast ocean of shadows, that’s good. You should use it in the new book.

At the bottom of the stairs, he headed into the dining room, and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, flipping on the fluorescent lights. He opened the fridge and stared in at the sparse contents, and then glanced over and spotted the bowl of citrus on the counter.

Snagging one of the nectarines and a saucer, Brad quickly peeled and sliced the fruit, dropping the peelings in the trash, before making for the den. He turned on the chandelier, a smaller version of the grander one in the foyer, which hung from an ornate wood-carved ceiling medallion. He had been told it was original to the house’s construction in 1868. Each room had a similar medallion and matching wall moldings.

He looked over at the large flat-screen television mounted to the wall, next to the mantel, but it would provide no escapism for him tonight. The satellite hadn’t been installed yet, so the portal into those fictional worlds was closed for the time being.

Luckily, television wasn’t the only portal, and certainly not the best. On the end table next to the sofa he’d left the book he was currently reading, the newest one in Robert McCammon’s historical mystery series. A bookmark stuck out about a third of the way through.

He stretched out on the sofa with his back to the arm, opening the book on his lap and sitting the saucer of nectarine slices within easy reach on the coffee table. He read four paragraphs and ate two slices. He put the book aside and got to his feet. Wandering back out into the hallway, he paused, staring up at the high ceiling then back down at the glistening tile.

It’s really mine, he thought. Not for the first time, but he still found the knowledge hard to grasp. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling this was all a long and detailed dream, and at any moment he may wake up and be back in that crappy studio apartment in South Carolina.

He’d been told by some other successful writers he met at a conference the feeling would fade in time, but six years after the publication of his first novel, he still had a hard time believing his reality. The money, the notoriety, the public interest in his work. It all came with more pressure than he’d ever imagined, and he had to admit there were times he missed the simple life.

He brushed his fingers down the wall, as if to reassure himself of its solidity. His imagination was working on the goofy side tonight. He headed back into the den to finish the nectarine slices when he heard a muffled thump, like something dropped onto the floor.

The sound seemed to come from the back of the house, so he started wandering that way. He had taken only a couple of steps when he heard the noise again. It came from beneath him. In the basement. The thump was followed by a faint hissing and a scuffling.

He pushed open the door to the back stairs, which led down into the basement, wondering how to proceed. From the sound, he would guess an animal had gotten in somehow. A squirrel or possum or possibly a rat. Brad hesitated, wondering if it was too late to call a pest control company. He didn’t do well with rodents, even found squirrels distasteful. Just fancy rats, as far as he was concerned.

Stop being such a pussy and go check it out!

Brad knew he was being ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he were in one of his books where every creaking floorboard held malicious intent and around every corner lurked a demonic presence. Whatever animal had gotten caught in the basement wasn’t likely to be Cujo or one of the flesh-eating rats from James Herbert’s novels. That was the stuff of fiction, and while it was also the stuff that had paid for this house and its renovations, it wasn’t reality.

Still, he didn’t want to be completely unprepared. Backtracking down the hall, he opened the door to the storage closet under the main stairs, rummaging around until he found the straw broom. Thus armed, he returned to the basement door. He flicked the light switch, and flooded the bottom floor with light. Brad heard a frantic scrambling, the illumination apparently startling the uninvited visitor. After a couple of deep breaths, he gripped the broom handle and started down.

The basement had originally been two separate rooms, but he’d had the contractors tear down the dividing wall to make one large, open space. He’d been told the owners of some of the older homes in the area had their basements converted into wine cellars, but Brad wasn’t much of a drinker, so he had decided to transform his basement into a library, a monument to his personal addiction. Against the walls were tall bookshelves that stretched almost to the ceiling. Along the top of each wall was a runner with a rolling ladder attached to it, giving access to the upper shelves of each bookcase. The only breaks were for two windows in the northern wall, a door and three windows in the west wall, and two tall windows that looked more like patio doors in the east wall with a fireplace between them. Just in front of the mantel were two crimson wingback chairs, between them a mahogany table with a chess board set up on it. Brad didn’t play, but the decorator had thought it would be a nice touch. The interior of the room was also full of bookshelves, waist-high with glass fronts, creating a virtual labyrinth. The walls were exposed brick, weathered and original to the house.

The first thing Brad noticed as he reached the bottom of the stairs was that some books had been knocked off the lower shelves. Scanning the rest of the room, he saw that a few of the chess pieces had been toppled, the white queen and two black pawns on the floor.

Winding his way around the bookshelves, he scanned the floor, looking for whatever animal was loose, or at least some sign of it. Feeling a faint breeze, he glanced back toward the fireplace and noticed one of the windows raised. He remembered opening it when he was down here earlier to let in some fresh air. He’d probably forgotten to close it again. There were bars on the window, but it was definitely possible that a squirrel or possum could have gotten inside.

Or a stray dog, he thought and instantly froze, considering rushing back to the stairs, his thoughts wandering toward rabid canines again. He reasoned with himself that anything that could fit between the bars couldn’t be large. Still, a rabid poodle was as dangerous as a rabid Rottweiler.

He backed slowly the way he’d come, but a scrambling sound startled him. He whirled around just in time to see a dark shape streak between two shelves. Whatever it was had appeared as a furry blur, so he couldn’t be sure of what exactly he’d seen or even how big it was.

Immobilized with indecision, Brad considered his options. To keep heading toward the stairs could mean running into an unknown and frightened animal. He considered easing over to the door to his right and exiting that way, going back around to the front of the house . . . except the front door was locked and he didn’t have his keys with him. The stairs were really his only option.

He started inching forward again, feeling like a cartoon woman standing on top of a table afraid of a little mouse. He had gone only four steps when something leapt onto the bookcase to his right, causing him to scream and lash out with the broom. Brad’s feet tangled together and sent him sprawling onto his backside, causing the swing to go wide, and the cat easily jumped out of the way.

The cat.

Even in the midst of the graceless fall, Brad registered the intruding animal was indeed a small cat, probably barely out of kittenhood.

Laughing at himself, Brad got to his feet and leaned the broom against the bookcase the cat had leapt onto a moment before.

“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty,” he said in a falsetto, making his way through the room slowly, not wanting to startle the poor animal any more than he already had.

He found the cat crouched in the corner at the back of the house. It was completely black except for one spot of white on the nose and four white paws. “So you’re my little phantom, huh?” Brad said softly. The thing started trembling and looked ready to bolt. Brad paused, remembering something he’d read online about a guy who’d tried to pet a stray cat and had ended up with scratches all over his arms and face.

He considered trying to shoo the animal back out the window with the broom but quickly dismissed the idea. That would only make the cat feel more cornered and possibly cause it to go all Tasmanian devil. So what choices did that leave Brad?

Still careful not to make any sudden moves, he made his way back to the stairs. In the kitchen he poured milk into a bowl and tore a few slices of bologna into strips and placed them on a saucer. He then returned to the library and placed the bowl and saucer just under the opened window. Retreating to the stairs, he took a seat on a step halfway up and watched the cat move tentatively over, past the fireplace, where it lapped at the milk before turning to the bologna.

With a smile, Brad retreated upstairs and closed the door. Hopefully, the animal would have its fill then head back out the window. Of course, he realized feeding the cat wouldn’t exactly encourage it to move on, but he couldn’t stand to leave it down there all night with an empty tummy.

Besides, having a cat around might be good. It would keep rodents away.