I should have known something was wrong when I saw the headless figure on the lamp post.
“Let me show you the basement, I spend all my time down there.”
I follow the white haired, cardiganed woman through the living room to the kitchen. Portraits of stern faced people watch me, judge me in my Chucks and leather.
I tell myself that I’m imagining things.
She stops by the door, points out the window. “We’re filling in the pool before we leave. Too much buried under the leaves to clean it up.”
What’s buried under the leaves? I want to ask but stop when I see the broken concrete, the pool full halfway up with debris. Is that a bone?
Following her down the basement stairs, the damp smell calms me. At least that’s normal. And doesn’t smell like death.
“Oh, that smell! I’m sorry, dear. Let me spray the air freshener. Everything needs a little freshening now and then.”
My eyes water. “That’s not what I was expecting.”
“It’s one of my favorites. I think they call it Cigarette Cemetery. Isn’t that a hoot?”
I nod, step further into the room, try to hold my breath. But it’s a lost cause as my heart speeds up, my hairs on my neck stand up.
Full shelves of clutter and rust and jars and plates and glasses and, is that a set of manacles?
“You can keep anything you want down here. I’ve packed up most of what we want to take with us. You should look at the art over there in the corner. I think it’d go great in the bedroom.”
It’s a corner of terror. Desolate landscapes, angry oceans capsizing boats with bodies in the water, a hand holding a knife with blood dripping on a table.
“I’ve never seen anything like those.”
She smiles, proud. “This is the best part, come on.”
Past the shelves, shadows getting darker the further we go. I’m numb to the skittering sounds I hear near the walls.
She opens another door, motions me in, “I do all my work here!”
Bare metal tables bolted into the walls. Scissors, knitting needles, saws, tools of all kinds organized all the way to the ceiling. Bookcases full of leather bound books, no titles on their spines. Sheets covering something large, square, and surrounded by bars. An ancient computer with a rocking chair in front of it. Of course it’s rocking on its own.
“You have everything you need down here, don’t you?” I rub my throat, hoping she doesn’t know body language.
Her shoulders go back, she looks to grow a few inches, as she turns around to face me, “I made my first million at that computer and rocking chair.”
“I’m dying to hear about it,” I say as I turn the microphone closer to her.
“It started with a local contest…”
