The Basement of Doom: Difference between revisions

I used to have the same recurring nightmare, especially during the summer months. I was back in that strange basement, wearing that same red dress and gold-beaded scarf. I no longer have that outfit; I got rid of it on advice of a shaman, which I’llI'll tell you about much later. Well, back to my dream. I found myself in that ghastly basement again, in that mirrored hallway. The only difference was that I was behind those long narrow mirrors, slowly walking this long corridor, its plank walls greening with moss and mold, its doors and windows broken by vandals.

"You’veYou've been to the Lum House?"

"You’reYou're not the first to have trouble," the raven told me. "Many people who have rented that house soon moved out. Some like you—within a year or two, some shorter, within a few months. At least five had never made it out. Alive anyway. Perhaps because those five were human. It hates humans, that house."

Yes, you heard me right—plague pits... in the Faerie Territories. To be more specific, resulting from the plague bacillus Yersinia pestis, also known as "The Black Death" or the "Bubonic Plague." Anyone familiar with this disease knows that in just in five years it killed off one-third of Europe's population, approximately 25 million people. And even after this epidemic had claimed millions, smaller outbreaks of the plague continued on for centuries. It wasn’twasn't until the 1600s that the Bubonic Plague began to disappear, and even then, there was a constant fear that "The Black Death" might return.

And get this, it even jumped to humanoid species. Even though the Faire Folk cities didn’tdidn't have such poor hygiene and sanitation as the rest of medieval Europe, they still were vulnerable due to a lack of immunity to human diseases (most likely due to living in small populations and a decline of protective magic).

As the result of these cataclysms, a lot of anti-human acts were enacted, leading to the enforced expulsion of all human foreigners and the ban on travel to and from the Human Territories. Faire Folk living abroad were sternly told to stay put; those who came home, even just on a merry lark, were usually (if they didn’tdidn't have enough money for a bribe) carted off to a dismal quarantine island. These harsh laws would remain in effect until the 1850s when a much more progressive government took over. Still, despite all this imposed peace and tolerance, ancient hatred bubbled up from time to time, occasionally exploding into bloody vendettas or- as in the case of the Lum House—ghostly revenge.

My name is Kes Allyntahl. I’mI'm a Gerdin though I’mI'm often mistaken for an elf, a common confusion that I deeply resent. I live alone; my only companion is a cat named Miss Tabitha. I used to also have some ducks which I had rescued when our last residence got buried under tons of volcanic ash.

You might have read about it. We were part of the Saffrasia Island population forced to flee when Mt. Garibaldi suddenly woke up. Since the island was a Merlian Overseas Territory, the native people were granted full residency tights in the Re-United Kingdom, allowing them to migrate if they chose. I wasn’twasn't too thrilled about the drab, dreary capital of Dimoil-Nu or the close-packed apartment where we were placed, so I opted for the later. After a lengthy wait in customs and quarantine, I and animals included finally got ferried across the rough Chunderheim Channel. However, two years after I arrived in Harnam, I soon got arrested for squatting in a vacant mansion and using the backyard as a garden/kitchen. Fortunately, I didn’tdidn't have to face jail time although I still had to pay a fine and do some community service, plus all my ducks were confiscated and taken to an animal shelter.

Although my first job involved working as a salesclerk at a co-op store, I didn’tdidn't mind. The store had a sort of counter culture character, selling organic vegetables and grains, large amounts of dried and smoke-cured fish. Being an employee meant that I could get food for free if it was past the expiration date. My cat was happy about the free fish and any stray mice she found. However, I still needed a roof over my head, preferably something inexpensive and within short bicycling distance to work. I soon found accommodations in the Harnam area were often hard to come by, especially with the hordes of tourists and college students, and were also rather pricey.

The owner turned out to be a melancholy man in his early 50s with an unsightly birthmark. He was also co-owner of the inn—The Stork’sStork's Rest-where we were meeting. The man, whose name was Mr. Weiss, explained how he shared ownership and caretaker duties with two other brothers. None of them ever stayed at the property; "too dark and woody for their taste" was their explanation. When I asked if the place was for rent, he said yes, but it hadn’thadn't been put on the market yet due to it needing various repairs. Still, he offered to show it to me and we went there.

The Lum House, as it was called, was approximately six miles out of town, and it was a very scenic drive. As we turned onto Kjer Road I noticed the area around us was rich with Neolithic and Celto-Liguria relics. Funny how there wasn’twasn't any traffic. I would have expected to see coaches and omni-buses stopped along this curvy road with tourists milling about, snapping pictures. We seemed to be the only people around for miles. Occasionally, I would see signs of civilization—gravel or dirt pathways leading off into shadowy tunnels of trees. I strained to catch a glimpse of the picturesque farm buildings through them. As we came around a bend, the road abruptly gave way to a large clearing surrounded by tangled, wind-twisted trees. I soon noticed a long, gravel drive between the remains of a brick and granite wall, and then I noticed the house.

The interior was in better condition although clearly in need of a thorough cleaning. Much of the floor was covered with fairly new oak floor panels while the walls were newly plastered and painted either an orange beige or bright blue. There was a mixture of modern furnishings and very expensive elvish antiques. As I followed Mr. Weiss through the narrow kitchen, I thought I saw someone with frizzy hair sitting in the corner nearest to the basement door. Yet when I blinked in that direction, I just saw an upholstered dining chair. Just a shadow, I thought as we went back into the living room. How I wish I’dI'd been a little more observant, a little less dismissive of odd little events.

As we walked the property, Mr. Weiss explained that the house was once a caretaker’scaretaker's cottage and had been once part of an enormous estate. Originally, there used to be a mansion on this property as well. Both these structures were built in the 1920s for Chantelle Lum, an immigrant from the Mortal Territories, who became an actress-turned-prominent socialite.

A few months passed and the two managed to meet in secret at an out-of-the-way nightclub. Wanting more time alone, they then snuck off to the caretaker’scaretaker's cottage. However, someone had already spotted the couple and began to spread rumors about town. Eventually, they reached the ears of the witch mother. Naturally, she was furious, but bided her time as she held secret consultation with her mob/coven and her dark god.

When I inquired as to what had happened to the mansion, Mr. Weiss replied that it mysteriously burned two weeks after the woman’swoman's disappearance. Her family eventually sold the property and it had changed hands ever since. Eventually the property, now considerably smaller, passed to the Weiss family where it remained to this very day.

I was both relieved and excited at the rent being only $120 a month that I wasn’twasn't at all suspicious when I signed the lease for a year. Sure, the rental had a dodgy past due to it being a secret tryst place for a wealthy human socialite and a gangster witch’switch's son. But all that happened a long time ago, and the mansion where the woman supposedly met her doom had been completely destroyed. So why should any supernatural stuff happen to me? Back on Saffrasia, I once lived in the former capital of Calpurnia, where nearly all the population was wiped out by the Scarlet Plague, and I never once had a clairvoyant experience. Of course, I was much too busy with day-to-day survival to pay any attention to psychic matters.

One—to leave all the antiques in the house. Two—I could use the shed in back to store any of my extra stuff or whatever furniture I didn’tdidn't want to use. Three—that, under any circumstance, I should never open the basement door. I was a bit startled by this third request and I asked him why.

Well, I wasn’twasn't fussy, but I was not about to mess around with someone else’selse's junk pile and pick up some nasty bug. The very thought of it made me cringe a little. But I was still determined to stay and get the place livable again.

I eventually moved in three days later, and in the three months that followed, I had no inkling of anything amiss. Unlike the typical haunted house story, odd things didn’tdidn't happen while I was fixing up the place. No objects moved on their own accord, no doors would creak open and slam mysteriously shut, no whispery voices or loud footsteps would be heard through out the night. In fact, the house seemed to have a sort of welcoming glow. I may not be psychic, but I could always sense the character of a certain house. This one reminded me of a friendly, tongue-flapping dog with its tail-wagging enthusiasm. Every part of the house gave off a warm and cozy feeling, every part except one—the basement door in the Northeast corner of the kitchen.

I went over and had a long hard look in the corner, but there wasn’twasn't anything there; no noticeable cracks or clammy-cold air currents. Yet I had the feeling that something was wrong. For one thing, it was eerily quiet. Even though I had the kitchen windows open and the forest outside was swarming with birds, it was a vacuum of space where I was.

Now friends, I know what you’reyou're all thinking. DON’TDON'T EVER GO INTO A CREEPY BASEMENT! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! DON’TDON'T YOU REMEMBER ONE OF THE BASIC RULES IN SCARY MOVIES? NEVER, EVER GO INTO THE BASEMENT OF A HAUNTED HOUSE, ESPECIALLY AFTER THE LANDLORD WARNED YOU ABOUT IT!

Yet I wasn’twasn't the least bit rational at the time. In fact, I was quite peeved, peeved by the beastly whispering, telling me I should open the door, while at the same time the Permanent Occupants of Lum Hum (whatever they were) were trying to browbeat me into submission. So I just went for it. As far as I knew, if there was really something waiting on the other side, I would show it who was really the boss around here.

The first thing I noticed about it was its tidiness. Aside from the grimy walls, there wasn’twasn't a junk pile to be seen anywhere. All the gardening tools were hanging neatly on pegs along the brick wall. Judging from the thick layer of dust and almost brand new condition, they looked as if they hadn't been used in years. As I steeped forward, I noticed an opening set in the narrow wall at the bottom of the stairs.

Suddenly Miss Tabitha’sTabitha's hissing startled me. Turning, I noticed a house centipede nearly the size of my hand. Now I don't scare too easily. Being originally from a semi-tropical island nation, I had seen and killed my share of roaches, poisonous spiders and other various nuisance bugs scampering about, but this huge, hairy, creepy-wiggly thing scared the heck out of me. I had heard they were beneficial in that they hunted silverfish and other pests — but they would inflict a bite, from what I understand, that was similar to that of a bee sting. I didn't plan on finding out whether this was true or not. In my life I had been stung by a hornet and a yellow jacket — and that was enough, thank you.

I stared at it, wondering if this weird beastie was somehow responsible for the supernatural stuff that had been going on. It wouldn’twouldn't be the first time I got chased out of my previous residence by giant intelligent bugs. However, the house centipede, despite all its over-sized creepiness, pretty much acted like any typical skittish bug.

I jumped, all my senses on alert. Then I realized what I was hearing was the house centipede (or maybe a completely different one) skittering around. The beast soon scuttled up the nearby wall and hid behind some stuff on a shelf. Apparently it was photophobic, or else it just didn’tdidn't like me.

It was all really creepy. All those damn wall drawings seemed to evoke a deep sense of foreboding menace and dread. I really didn’tdidn't want to go into that ruddy gap, but my curiosity soon got the better of me. As I proceeded down that hallway, the graffiti grew more elaborate with flower patterns and abstract spirals within spirals. Then I came to a door blocked by heavy iron bars and thick chains secured with an immense padlock.

I studied them in perplexity—it didn’tdidn't seem like something a bunch of bored teenagers would do on a Saturday night. No, it was far too sophisticated, more complex and enigmatic, like something you would see in a modern art museum or on the wall of some wizard’swizard's or alchemist’salchemist's workshop. On a closer look, I noted that some of the patterns looked awfully similar to the protective hex signs often used by the Nye-Am people of the region.

By now I wasn’twasn't too surprised at finding another door. Like other places in Faerie and sometimes the Mortal Territories, places like Harnam were built over previous cities. So it wasn’twasn't unusual for someone to stumble across a Roman temple while digging around in their vegetable patch...or like me, discovering that the cellar originally belonged to a much bigger house. Judging from the stone and brickwork, I guessed it once supported either a large manor house or quite possibly a fortress.

After walking a hundred yards I again paused in bewilderment. A set of double doors chained shut just like the first. There were some stained-glass windows, but I couldn’tcouldn't see through them on account of the layer of dried paint. Wondering, I cautiously approached the next set of doors—all chained and padlocked like the previous two.

Suddenly, the hall widened, giving up its cramped, claustrophobic quarters as it opened into a much larger cavern. The ceiling stretched as high as a cathedral’scathedral's and was inky black with soot. There were holes carved into the granite walls, obviously meant for windows and doors. Once again my curiosity was thwarted by the huge barriers erected right in front of these portals—massive, rusty anchors and bundled-up chains and stacked piles of rubble. It seemed that this section was of a much older time period than the hallway of doors.

I knew for a fact that this extreme form of quarantine was a common occurrence during the Plague Years. Sometimes they walled off whole sections of the city, leaving the infected to fend for themselves. What if what I stumbled upon was a town that got buried by the people in the surrounding communities? Maybe it was in a small valley, and in a desperate effort to keep the disease at bay, the neighbors first set fire to the place and then filled up the valley with tons of rock and earth till not a trace of the town remained. The story was known only to the locals, that was why I hadn’thadn't heard anything about it. Maybe it was a taboo subject; if you shared this story with a foreigner, you might bring about angry and dangerous spirits.

Somewhat relieved, I began to head down a long passage towards a round metal door with a spiral at its center. Again, I felt shivers of cold run down my spine. Doors like this certainly didn’tdidn't exist during the medieval period. I recalled the story of Blue Beard and what the new bride found inside that closet on the ground floor. I figured if there was a murder room on the other side then I was going to turn right around and get the heck out of here. No way was I coming back unless accompanied by the police and shamans burning incense.

We Gerdin could see in pitch darkness without the benefit of a torch or candle. Also... unlike the humans, we hadn’thadn't ruined our eyes with constant television and computer viewing.

While others sounded more like recipes in an alchemist’salchemist's cookbook:

And flows like dragon’sdragon's blood."

Even though I’dI'd been down in the subbasement just a couple hours, I was already feeling knackered. This corridor alone was big enough to keep a team of explorers occupied for days. There were many smaller rooms dotting around the corridor, often separated by rusty iron gates and great doors with huge, wheel-like handles—the sort you find on bank safes and compartment doors of a ship. Some of these led to wine cellars or empty pantries, while others led on to further passageways. I kept on the main route. The last thing I wanted was to become disoriented and lost in one of those branching chambers.

What if all those inscriptions weren’tweren't meant for wandering people like me, but were really meant for Something Else? Something that was so steeped in evil, so shrouded in doom, that it was never mentioned in any of the local legends, for to even to mention such a thing would give it power.

I stared hard at the walls, and a worried frown curled my lips. Maybe this was the very same dark force from that witch’switch's curse laid upon Chantelle Lum decades before. Maybe some local magician tried to break the curse, and banish this entity, but without much success. So this exorcist confined it to this underground place, and then placed the various magical protections. Apparently, this thing was limited in power like a ghost or a vampire- it could not enter a barred entrance nor pass through a wall painted with protective signs. However, all these binding safeguards were far from perfect or permanent, and cracks could form.

Yet when I looked back, there wasn’twasn't anything behind me. Still I heard that sound again. A slow shuffling of feet. A rat? No, it sounded much bigger, more like a person. Whatever it was, it sounded much closer now.

Voices again—now I could hear them quite clearly. It sounded to me like more than two people. What were they talking about that was taking so bloody long? The tension was overwhelming. Why don’tdon't they just get it over with and leave so I could be on my way? Still I listened to the whispery conversation.

"He’sHe's at it again," a harsh voice grated. It sounded like a raven talking.

"It’sIt's the Summer Solstice," a silky-sounding voice replied. "What do you expect?"

"It’sIt's the curse," the silky voice said. "Only humans seem to be affected by it. The Witch Moll affixed it to this property. Unfortunately, the Rose Prince made no distinction between the local and foreign-born humans. All humans are servile vermin in the eyes of the Rose Prince to be sucked dry and discarded."

"Only once, and he said a blessing wouldn’twouldn't help. He said this Rose Prince’sPrince's not any mere ghost or shadow demon to be deterred by simple exorcisms. He’sHe's a Lich God, one of the monstrous Death-Walkers that the Witch Moll raised up from the Depths to devour any human intruders to this property."

"Can’tCan't the curse be reversed?"

"It can’tcan't. Not even the High Ones can violate the terms of the Witch Moll’sMoll's curse. The spell was forged in anger and revenge, and once it had been set loose, it could neither be reversed nor moderated. Only contained," the silky voice muttered, "but for how long? Defenses keep wearing down. Not many young people want to be sentries."

"I heard she’sshe's an orphan," the harsh voice continued, "and an exile too. Sounds to me like good recruitment material to me."

"Volunteers?" There was a raucous raven chuckle. "No sane person would want this job. The reason we’rewe're here at all is because we either inherited the position, or in the case of Jean-Louise here, a resurrected suicide."

"Imbecile!" the silky voice rasped. "How many times do I have to tell you? I’mI'm not a suicide! I just had an accidental slip-up with a straight razor, that’sthat's all."

Meanwhile, I crouched down in my hiding place, praying that these people would just go away. They didn’tdidn't. The speakers continued on their weird conference. All I knew was that there was some otherworldly evil bloke locked up somewhere and this group of possible maniacs was acting as prison guards. And they knew I lived upstairs and what my name was, although they were quite wrong about me being an orphan, because both my parents were alive and well and living in Oise on the coast.

Suddenly I began to get really worried. What if one of these creeps caught me eavesdropping? Then what? Since I couldn’tcouldn't go out the front entrance without being seen, I decided to try to find another exit out of here.

The room was a treasure chamber. Adorning the walls were various ornaments. Serpentine arm bands hung beside large watch faces of gold and silver filigree, polished crystal mirrors, iron gilded swords with jeweled hilts, and runic amulets that bore the staring eyes of the old warrior gods. Walking cautiously forward, I saw still more inscriptions that threatened dire consequences for anyone who disturbed the treasure trove. Some of them were rather ridiculous: rats, scorpions and snakes falling on your head or sinking like a stone beneath the sea. I haven’thaven't even seen any animal life since venturing into these lower levels, and where the heck was all the sea water going to come from anyway? An ingenious tunnel system that would ship gallons of sea water to flood the room with? Still I walked nervously amidst this wealth on the alert for potential booby traps and lurking guardians. Eventually, I found an exit, a gaping hole in a far corner surrounded by a litter of fallen rock. Peering cautiously in, I saw a dark staircase spiraling downward. After some hesitation, I stepped into the hole and started down the stone steps. Clutching at the rough clammy walls for support, I crept slowly along. As I descended, the air grew noticeably warmer and less dank. Nevertheless, my sense of unease started to rise along with my hackles. Was this rising warmth an indication of an opened door and promising sunlight, or the flaming exhales of a sleeping dragon?

Just in time I ducked my head out of sight again. Sweating, I held my breath while the ominous figure’sfigure's red-orange eyes searched the hallway. For one harrowing minute, I thought I was going to see those fiery coals a few inches from my face. But then I heard the swishing of leather dwindling away in the distance, and I poked my head out, my teeth chattering away like maracas.

''Wow,'' I thought, ''it’sit's like a fun house mirror, only it makes things much more attractive rather than hideous.''

There had to be some rational means for the presence of all these handprints. I briefly considered the possibility of dark-dwelling, semi-intelligent hands, running arachnidly on four fingers and a thumb. I decided that such ideas were silly; it was probably due to a group of children who made the handprints. It could be worse. What if they were nose prints, large-sized, economy noses to more mini porcine and pudgy snouts? Much creepier, I thought. But then I realized I was just being silly again Of course they were handprints! They had four fingers and a thumb, and a lot of them were nearly the exact size of my hand. Had they been made by noses, wouldn’twouldn't the digits be the same size, like in a star-nosed mole or a star-snouted shrew?

Suddenly my nose twitched to a familiar and flowery scent—roses. Well, at least he wasn’twasn't completely drenched in the stuff like those unwashed romantics back in Waldachia’sWaldachia's Classical Age. My heart then plummeted to the pit of my stomach when I finally guessed who was standing right before me.

"Crud... Crud... Crud..." I took a step backwards and then halted when my hand, acting on its own accord, reached out and grasped the Rose Prince’sPrince's hand. It was warm, not what you expect from a ghost or a lich.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he purred as he lightly brushed my hand with his cupid lips. "I am Prince Francis Escoffer, first son and right hand to the great King Grimian, the Gray Lord of the Crossroad and In-Between Places. Might I have the pleasure of knowing this beautiful fleur whose radiant glow and warmth I’mI'm basking in at this very moment?"

Had I been a giddy school girl, I might have giggled and blushed profusely. Instead I just fixed him in a blank gaze and said, "I am Miss Felidae Katz (no way in hell was I giving my real name). It’sIt's such a great honor and pleasure, sir, to meet a man of your great stature."

Prince Francis looked shocked. "Harnam! Mon Dieu! City of Dregs and degenerates, that’sthat's what it is! Non, non, dancing with peasants and carnival freaks is simply unacceptable! A lovely lady such as yourself should be attending a magnificent ball instead."

I gave him a puzzled look. "There’sThere's a ball down here?"

"I’mI'm sorry, sir, but I’mI'm going to have to refuse your offer... You see, I’mI'm expected in Harnam—a really important meeting... so I really can’tcan't be late."

Prince Francis’sFrancis's yellow eyes widened in surprise then narrowed in suspicion. "And just who are you expecting on meeting during this particular rendezvous, mademoiselle?"

"You wouldn’twouldn't happen to have a boyfriend, would you?"

For one horrified instant I thought, ''He knows I’mI'm lying! I’mI'm going to get my soul sucked out through my nose!''

In cold silence the plague doctor raised his cane and leveled it at us. All at once, the tip of the cane began to move. Writhing and squirming like an eel, it seemed to turn itself inside-out, revealing a veiny purplish form resembling that of a jellyfish. With a long wheezing hiss, glistening pink erupted from the form, absorbing the rest of the cane’scane's surface. Then I heard crackling like branches breaking as the tentacles swelled large and then surged around me.

Puzzled, I studied the Rose Prince as he wrathfully drew his gilded sword and challenged the costumed and dyed-haired trio to a duel. I focused hard. Then like paper charring, Prince Francis’sFrancis's face suddenly changed, revealing a gray, withered horror, blotched with dust and mold and eroded with decay. Only the eyes were alive, gleaming with hatred and malice from deep sockets. The golden hair was suddenly not hair at all, but a writhing, weed-like mass. Now I knew why this guy was called a lich god.

I turned to look at my rescuer. Even though I couldn’tcouldn't read his expression under his peculiar avian garb, I could sense he was smiling.

Living in a notorious haunted house had some advantages; one—you don’tdon't have to stock up on candy for the hordes of ragamuffins hammering on your door, even though it was the middle of the night and Halloween wasn’twasn't until three weeks away. Two—you don’tdon't have to worry about these ragamuffins coming back to TP, cow pie and egg the entire property; three—I could enjoy a moonlit evening in peace without having to socialize with some drunken greasepainted party-goers.

As I curled up in my bed, I began to mull over the things I was planning on doing during the Halloween celebrations. Perhaps I would go try out that new corn maze on the outskirts of town. Maybe I would take in some of the musical acts just as long as they weren’tweren't karaoke or rap. Soon I was falling fast asleep, lulled by Miss Tabitha’sTabitha's purring and the faint breeze outside my window.

And yet, as I drifted deeper into sleep, a thought came over me. Wait, that breeze sounded more like breathing. No, no, that couldn’tcouldn't be breathing... could it?

Steps drew near. I tried to move, but couldn’tcouldn't. My limbs were frozen stiff, still wrapped in the heavy web of sleep.

"Sod this!" I cried. "I’mI'm through! I’mI'm totally through!"

Would have gone on with my life until you guys showed up with that picture. That picture you snapped that was supposed to show a burnt-out ruin. He’sHe's still there, apparently waiting for someone to come along and let him out. Someone like you, maybe.

You probably came along after my former landlord refused an interview. Well, I told my bit, but I’mI'm not going to help you poke around those old stones looking for a basement door. No way in hell am I going near that damned place again.

You’llYou'll probably end up like all those previous tenants, dead or worse. Maybe even like those three guys—sentinels at the gate of Hell or some world worse than Hell. I don’tdon't know where I was I went to in those dreams, but they stopped shortly after I hung that dress and scarf in that large old oak tree in Emerson Grove.

Don’tDon't bother asking that old shaman about it. The ravens keep their secrets well and aren’taren't willing to share them with nosey outsiders. And if there is a secret door I don’tdon't think I’llI'll be able to open it... for shortly after I left that place, I lost that rusty old key.