Cellar Dwellers

Screech! Swoosh! Crash!

"Did you hear that? What was that sound?’ Mom’s eyes darted around the room. 

“It’s just basement noises,” Dad turned the page of the evening Post Dispatch. 

“I think someone’s in the house.”

He would eventually get up to check the disturbance. The noises always seemed to come from the basement. 

“It was nothing.” That was always his response.“A shovel fell over. Nothing to worry about.”

“How could a shovel just, fall over? Mom said.

"Could be one of the turtles or maybe a cellar spirit,” he said jokingly.

“That’s not funny.”

Dad peered over his glasses. “Cellar dwellers are harmless unless . . . well, never mind.”

“What do you mean never mind? I don’t like never mind. Don’t tell me never mind.”

Dad wouldn’t answer. He would laugh, a hearty laugh. I knew he was joking, but I had a twinge of doubt and wondered if spirits really do live in the cellar.

Not long after that my pet chicken moved into the basement. My uncle, Clarence, took me to a carnival and won a prize throwing balls at milk jugs. The carnival worker told him he won a crisp dollar bill or a baby chick. Clarence told me to pick the prize for myself. I chose the chick, like any kid, a purple one. Peep Peep, that’s what I named him. Only purple until his feathers grew out and became a rooster. He wasn’t an attack chicken, obvious by his name. So, he wouldn’t help if the basement spirits got out of hand. He’d probably be more like the canary in a coal mine, but that’s still protective in a way.

We continued to hear unexplained sounds, and there were also foul smells. Dad would just write off the odor, as basement smells or blamed it on the chicken. “After all the chicken is a fowl,” he said, laughing loudly. 

That wasn’t the right answer as far as Mom was concerned. Having a chicken living in the basement probably contributed to the smell. They weren’t the cleanest pets. In truth they weren’t typical pets, farm animals really.

The basement noises continued most nights. Dad tried to explain to Mom that the coal furnace produces sounds when the red-hot cinders shift, rattling of the pipes, clicking or banging. Mom understood, but that didn’t mean she liked them. The basement is where all the equipment is located that makes a house function, but it’s noisy.

In an attempt to make the basement a more welcoming place, my Dad, an amateur artist painted colorful cartoons on the basement walls featuring gigantic Disney characters.

Mickey, Goofy, and Donald Duck were always there to greet anyone who ventured downstairs . . . or lived there. Mom loved the cartooned additions on the basement wall, but I’m not sure she felt they would chase away the cellar spirits. Mom would not linger in the basement. She spent just enough time to finish the laundry and only during daylight hours.  

Things went well after that. Mom did her best to ignore the banging, clanging and crashing, until one stormy night she heard . . . 

* * * 

Mom decided the time had come to teach Dad a lesson. This was 1955. I was seven years old. She went to the king of the practical jokers, my uncle Clarence. He was the master. She convinced him to come over to the house and hide in the basement. Her only instructions were to make strange noises then scare Dad when he went downstairs to investigate. 

Clarence decided to add some flair by cutting an old dirty sheet up and dress like a mummy. He left some bandages lying on the floor by the cellar door. It was like baiting a fish. He also brought some old rusty chains and hung them in the cellar so they would bang on the door. Everything was ready; all he needed was his mark. 

* * * 

. . . until one stormy night, she heard . . . a horrendous crash.

The storm had caused the electric to go out. Unexpected, but welcomed.

It added to the mystique.

Mom told me to get a candle. It wasn’t our first time without electricity, so we were prepared.

The noise shocked Dad and he told Mom. “I better go check it out. That sounded bad.”

”Yes, please honey. The noise was deafening." She nudged him toward the basement stairs. "Here's a flashlight." An award-winning performance by Mom.

 I tried to match her acting skill. “Hurry Dad. I’m scared.” Although less convincing than Mom, my effort was still worthwhile.

            Dad went down the stairs to the basement. A few minutes later we heard a lot of noise and a scream then silence. 

Mom and I were giggling because we knew my uncle had gotten Dad. We listened patiently for Dad to respond. Too scared to go down after him, we waited and waited and waited some more. 

 A few moments later Mom took the candle, walked to the stairs and called down to him, “Is everything all right, Hon?”

There was no answer, dead silence. Spine-tingling silence. She yelled again, but her voice trembled this time. "Hello! Please answer. Don't play any games. I'm scared." 

Still, there was no answer. The house was pitch black, except for the glow from the candle.

Then . . . there was a knock on the front door. Both Mom and I jumped. She slowly walked to the door, candle in hand. I followed as though I was glued to her. As she held the candle up to the window in the door, my uncle stood waving at us. Mom looked both puzzled and shocked but opened the door. Clarence apologized for being late and wanted to know if Dad had gotten home yet. 

            “What are you talking about? You can’t be here. If you’re not downstairs, who is?” She brought her hand to her mouth.

            Clarence tried to explain, “I’m so sorry, I got stuck at work. I’ll go downstairs and check.”

            Mom and I turned around and came face to face with mummy Dad. He had draped himself with gauze-like bandages from head to toe. I saw her body go limp and watched her eyes flutter, right before Dad held the flashlight up to his face then uttered that one frightening word. 

"Boo!"