The Place of the Forgotten Things

There are some places in this world that do not follow the logic of the adult mind.1

We tell ourselves that ghosts and magic and the evil that lurks in the darkness are nothing more than conjurations of children and a time long forgotten by civilized society.2

There are places, though, where echoes of the past still reach an out with an insubstantial hand to lightly brush our hair as we pass. There are locations that push logic aside and fill those present with a sense of trepidation, even if they brush it off as illogical childhood fears resurfacing for no reason.3

Some of the dark places hide lurking dangers that stories of our youth could not prepare us for, and neither science nor reason can protect us from them.4

These places are not always hidden away in some distant land or an ancient fortress crawling with ethereal personalities, clanking their chains and moaning songs of the dead.5

All we have to do to find these places is go downstairs.6

The basement. The cellar.7

As a child, whenever my brother and I would play hide and seek, we would range all over. Outside in the garden, in the closet of the guest room, even in the tool shed filled with rusty equipment and every crawly, slimy thing known to man.8

I never hid in the basement, though.9

My brother, being the older, and therefore braver, sibling would hide down there on occasion. After all, there were hundreds of secluded, shadowed spaces, especially if he didn’t mind getting a little dusty. The basement was full of old furniture to hide behind, and sometimes in, and had three different rooms to choose from.10

I never would have gone down there to look for him, so he could have won every time.11

The thing was I never had to go down into the basement to look for him.12

Every time he worked up the courage to creep into the darkened space (he couldn’t turn the lights on, or I would know where he was), he never lasted. At some point, while I was checking the shed and the spaces beneath the beds, he would stroll up, acting far too casual, and suggest that we do something else.13

Sometimes his breathing would be strained, though he tried to hide it, and his face would be pale. I always agreed without complaint, and we would find something else to do, usually outside in the sunlight.14

Even then, surrounded by blue skies and warm breezes, my brother would glance over his shoulder now and then. He never said anything, and neither did I. Some things become more real when spoken of, and we knew that silence was our safest option.15

Eventually, though, daylight and a few healthy laughs would drive any lingering fears into the past. Light is the ultimate cure for all things dark and terrifying.16

As we grew older, trips to the basement became necessary. Boxes of old toys and clothes needed to be stored out of the way, and mother would send us downstairs with our arms loaded.17

My brother and I would step carefully down the stairs, always together, never alone. He would go first, turning on the lights as we went, and find clear places for our possessions.18

On our final trip downstairs one dreary Saturday afternoon, we decided to explore.19

My brother was 11, and I was eight at the time, and we had grown braver with the passing years, less susceptible to tingling feelings and whispers in the dark.20

The main room was illuminated by three bulbs hung in bare fixtures spread across the open rafters of the ceiling. The concrete floor was covered in a thin layer of dust and grit in the places where boxes and furniture weren’t stacked. Shadows were cast at sharp angles, extending claws and tendrils across the bare concrete walls. The only window was on the far wall, set close to the ceiling. A faint trickle of grey light attempted to cut through the grime that covered the glass, but the attempt was half-hearted at best.21

As we looked around, I was surprised that the room held nothing that frightened me. It was not a comfortable place, but the strange noises were easily dismissed as creaking pipes, and the shadows remained flat and without malice.22

Before long we had made our way through most of the boxes, collecting a few treasures and stirring up enough dust to keep us sneezing for the next few days. As our courage grew, so did our curiosity, and we pushed through a fallen stack of magazines into the first side room.23

There was only one bulb in this room, hanging from a cord in the middle of the ceiling from a rafter. The room was the size of our bedroom, and contained mostly furniture.24

In the far corner was the cradle I had slept in as an infant, that my brother had slept in before me. It was covered in dust, and looked as if some of the joints had grown loose. The stain was chipped in several places.25

Next to the cradle was an antique rocking chair. My brother told me that our grandfather had made it when he found out grandma was pregnant with their first child. Mom had used it when we were little, holding one or both of us as she told us stories or sang songs that she had learned from her mother.26

The rest of the space was taken by boxes of books and newspapers. We pulled open some of them, seeing novels in several languages with titles we had never heard of.27

The shadows of this room were not always restricted to two dimensions; at least they did not appear to do so. Pulling the chain to turn on the light had set it swaying gently, but never in a completely steady rhythm. Shadows swayed and shook, shifting slowly.28

There was a smell to the room that made me think of tears. I don’t know why. It was just slowly molding paper and dust. To my eight year old senses, it was what sorrow smelled like.29

After a few minutes of digging through books and newspapers from years past, my brother jumped back quickly, shaking his hand in front of him as if he had been burned. A spider, disturbed by his intrusion into the cool, humid home the arachnid had made for itself, had skittered across my brother’s hand.30

He laughed nervously, and suggested we go back upstairs.31

I was feeling particularly courageous by this point, though, and insisted we search through the final room.32

He would never admit to fear, especially when his little brother wasn’t afraid, so he agreed, and we turned out the light.33

We had to climb over an old couch that coughed up mildew and dust to get to the final room. This one had an old door that was skewed on the hinges and left crooked gaps on all sides. My brother reached out a hand, slower than I expected, and pushed it open with a long creaking groan.34

We stepped off the couch into the doorway, both of us groping blindly for the chain that would light the room. All other illumination from the basement seemed to stop at the doorway, refusing to follow us in. There was a different smell to this room. It was dry. Old. I honestly don’t know how to describe it.35

It took longer than it should have to find the light. My mind started to gain volume, telling me to run out, leap over the couch, and head straight back up the stairs.36

It was cold, and my hand trembled slightly as I groped in the darkness. More than once I retracted my hand, bringing it to my chest. I never felt anything, never brushed across a spider web. It simply felt like I was about to touch something. Something that, like me, was reaching blindly in the darkness.37

Finally, my brother found the light, and we blinked as the bulb blazed forth. This one was in a fixture, so the shadows remained still. It also burned brighter than the others, and pushed the darkness further back into the recesses of the room.38

This space was slightly larger than the room we had explored before, but held less. There were only a few cardboard boxes, and a large trunk against the far wall.39

I stepped toward it, scuffing across the dusty floor, leaving small treaded footsteps. I knelt down in front of the chest, pulling at the large iron clasp on the front of it. It gave way with only a little resistance, leaving powdered rust residue on my fingers.40

I looked over at the other boxes, expecting to see my brother pulling them open. He was still behind me, though, rooted to floor under the light, staring through me at the trunk. His eyes were unfocused, and his mouth hung open slightly.41

I called his name quietly.42

Nothing.43

I said his name again, louder. It was surprisingly hard to build any volume in the room. Sound seemed to sink into dust, evaporate into the rafters. Even the creaking of floorboards and the groaning of pipes above our heads seemed distant and muted.44

After saying his name a third time, his eyes focused on me. They widened, and his mouth clamped shut.45

He told me not to open the trunk.46

I asked him what was wrong.47

He repeated his warning and told me we should leave.48

I couldn’t decide if he was being a baby or if he was trying to scare me.49

I turned back to the chest.50

I put my hands on either side of the heavy lid, and slowly lifted it open.51