Thursday, August 7, 2008
SOMETHING'S IN THE BASEMENT
Denny Harris had been chucking left-over carcass bits through his basement door for seemingly an eternity now. He didn't know what was scurrying around, living down there... what he did know was that it ate up every last bit of parts and leftovers he'd tossed down there. If Denny'd hunted and killed a deer, the legs, guts, nuts, and bits and pieces all got lobbed down the steps to the unnatural, guttural, hungry sounds of whatever was occupying the basement.
Denny's basement was what one could affectionately refer to as a, "Michigan Basement", meaning it had massive rock walls -otherwise known as the home's foundation- and a full dirt floor. Most five-and-a-half foot tall folks were very uncomfortable standing upright down there, so Denny's six-six lanky-ass frame was almost at a full bend, hence his disdain and therefore un-desire to even go down there. In fact, it was all of fifteen years ago when Denny first heard the gravelly clawing coming up from the cavernous basement. At first he just passed it off as the sump making its typical eerie and growly sounds, but when the thing lapsed into mewling and gargley whining, Denny was sure it wasn't the pump. At one point he'd opened the door to make his way down fully armed with a metal claw rake and a Mag-style flashlight, and was scared to the point of crying out to himself as he limped hurriedly back up the stairs. It wasn't anything he'd seen -he'd never seen anything- it was all in what he'd heard; he was almost certain the 'something' coughed out the word, 'hungry'. No, he couldn't swear by it, but regardless, he began to feed it. Happily, if you please. Anything to keep from hearing that belched, pasty, phlegmy word again.
But lately, you see, something in Denny's basement was wanting, well, more. It was no longer just satisfied with scraps and unwanted animal parts. No, recently, for some reason, it sounded hungrier and less satiated by what Denny was willing to offer it. So Denny decided he's have to move up the food chain just a bit; Denny was going to have to try something a little more human.
Every day Denny passed a man who did nothing for society but panhandle and survive off the crumbs of regular people. Denny was sure no one would particularly miss him. So, for the past week, Denny had taken to giving the hobo a bottle of juice every day; he'd gotten to know the bum's routine and kept up his regimen until Saturday. So, when Monday rolled around again, Denny had his juice in hand ready to make his new homeless friend happy, except this time it was laden with six thousand-milligram Vicoden, enough to nearly kill someone if not just drop them on their ass for a good long time. Denny went to work, left at three, and found the urchin barely breathing and semi-conscious behind the hedge where he slept. Denny, no slouch in the strength department thanks to his years on the college basketball team, snatched up the smelly, wet, and all-over sticky body, and lugged him to his house where he promptly set to work hacking him to bits.
Denny served the thing in the basement with a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow, and nothing had ever made him grin more satisfyingly than the ecstatic moaning of his subterranean house guest. And even as he threw down arms, legs, and bits of broken human torso, Denny knew, somewhere inside, that he's have to, eventually, do this all over again. Soon. Too soon.