MicroHorror

One of the selling points of the house was the wine cellar. I’d noticed during the realtor’s tour that there were still several rows of bottles in the back corner dating from previous decades. Part of my decision to buy rested on the idea of exploration. A house with a history, mine to uncover inch by forgotten inch. It was a seductive thought, one that I fell for completely.

I finished moving in, though there were still unopened boxes everywhere. I stood in the kitchen, at the top of the stairs, staring down into darkness. I didn’t want to wait any longer, as if the next few moments might ruin the contents in a way the past decades hadn’t been able to.

It was cold, and my flashlight barely cut through the dusty draft that collected in the cellar.

I laid my hand on an old green bottle. It was heavy, still full, though the liquid didn’t move as effortlessly inside as I’d expected. Condensed, most likely. With a heavy heart I pulled the cork and tilted. A few drops spilled out into my open palm.

Rancid. Thick and rotten, with the sharp smell of rusted metal.

I inhaled deeply one last time, trying to catch the scent of the bouquet it once held, though nothing was there. I was beginning to suspect that perhaps there had never been liquor hidden in this bottle.

Wine doesn’t often smell like iron.

What light there’d been shining down from the kitchen cut off suddenly, and I lost all sense of direction. Something was dragging itself slowly down the stairs.