Body in the Basement
Charlie hesitated at the top of the steps. The dim maw of the stairwell gaped up at him. Dust congealed in the corners, spider webs clung to the banister. He didn’t want to go down. There was a body in the basement. The musty, dead scent from below made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
“Go on, Charlie,” the boy behind him taunted. “Or are you scared?” A smirk twisted the corners of his mouth. His words echoed down the hallway, bouncing off the high ceiling and over the top of the recess ruckus. Students turned to look, some pressed close to hear.
Charlie swallowed.
“I’m not scared,” he said, feeling the weight of their stares, and stepped into the hole.
With each step down, darkness sucked in around him. Cracks in the walls gave the impression of a face, peeling posters hinted at shoulders, arms. As he passed, they seemed to reach for him, to follow him with their broken plaster eyes.
I’ve seen it, wandering in the dark.
His shoes scraped on the gritty floor as he reached the bottom. It sloped away from him, unlevel after the settling of time. On either side of the narrow corridor, doorways opened wide and black and ominous.
Charlie walked with his hands in front of him, feeling his way along. Plaster crumbled under his touch, dropping to the floor. Musty air crowded his lungs. He coughed once, twice. As he inhaled, he smelled it again, the faint thread of death seeping into the rest. Charlie sniffed, to catch it, to smell for certain.
The scent remained elusive in the mold and must.
He felt the space open up before him and felt for a switch. He turned it, and the sharp buzz of electricity rippled above his head. Blinking into the open, he waited as the caged mercury lights revealed the subterranean gym. Faded lines traced old paths over the ruined floor, washed-out color marking the court. Ambiguous shapes on the sagging balcony became clutter: old desks, broken chairs, discarded blackboards listing with abuse. Charlie took a breath, stepped into the condemned space.
I heard a kid found him dead in his office.
The old coach’s office nestled in the far corner, obscured by stubborn darkness. Charlie’s steps echoed wildly, careening off painted concrete walls to collide with each other. Goosebumps rose on his arms and he glanced, apprehensive, behind himself. Shaking off the sensation, Charlie stopped in front of the door, whose line seemed to waver before his eyes.
When the kid returned with help, he was gone. No body to be found.
With quick, rattling breath, Charlie stretched out his hand. The door swung open, creaking like doors from old horror movies. Stale air rolled over him.
Perplexed, the boy stepped to the black threshold. Peering in, he sniffed again and found nothing but age. His hand searched the wall for a light. If it was here, he would smell it, he thought.
His fingers scraped over the switch. The overhead lamp–now a bare bulb–flickered, then glowed feebly.
The office hid under a heavy layer of dust, abandoned years ago.
Vacant.
Charlie let out his breath in a whoosh. They’d been lying. All of them. There was nothing here. He felt a laugh build in his throat, and the thin, self-deprecating sound rippled off the walls.
Decay hit him so strong it made his eyes water. Charlie doubled over, coughing.
When he had his lungs under control, he straightened, coming face to face with the rotting body of the former coach. He stared at the peeling, discolored flesh, the exposed bone.
“How nice of you to visit me, Charlie,” the corpse said, pulling its lopsided features into a distorted smile that made Charlie’s blood run cold. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
