Ronald Malfi - Floating Staircase

I didn’t realize just how excited I was until I reached out to pull the door open farther and saw how badly my hand was shaking. In the back of my throat, a weak little laugh escaped.

I opened the door.

CHAPTER TEN

By the time Jodie and I moved into the house on Waterview Court, I had already authored four novels in the supernatural or horror genre, dealing with spooks and specters and villainous entities with villainous designs. As I stood before the open doorway in the basement wall, it occurred to me that I had written countless scenes like this one. In my writing, I have always attributed an indistinct merging of trepidation and fear to my characters as they stood on the cusp of uncertain discovery.

But I was not afraid, as so many of my characters had been in the past; instead, I felt a cool, almost menthol satisfaction wash through me, as if I’d just figured out the final clue in an unusually taxing crossword puzzle.

Therefore, my first thought upon opening the door was, Fuck, I’ve been doing it all wrong.

It was a cramped little room with no windows. Dark humping shapes loomed in a suggestion of pattern, although I couldn’t figure out just what I was seeing. I opened the door wider to allow for more light, but the single bulb in the center of the basement ceiling wasn’t cutting it. On a whim, I reached into the room and fumbled along the inside wall and, to my astonishment, located a light switch. I flipped it on and waited several seconds for my mind to catch up with what I was seeing.

It was a child’s bedroom . . . or at least the suggestion of one: a tiny bed was squeezed into one corner, its mattress overloaded with piles of small, colorful clothes. Against one wall was a little writing desk on which sat a lamp with a cowboys and Indians lamp shade, and a bookshelf burdened with countless toys and children’s books climbed another wall. There were a plastic chair in the shape of a giant cupped hand by the desk and a toy chest overflowing with stuffed animals at the foot of the bed. Glow-in-the-dark stars and crescent moons stuck to the ceiling and against the back wall, which was bare, unpainted cinder block. Several cardboard boxes were stacked in the center of the room, no different than the boxes we’d used in our move; they had been the looming dark shapes I’d first seen.

It looked like a museum display, a re-creation of a child’s bedroom circa 1958, something you might see behind glass in Epcot with a brass plate reading Replica Bedroom of American Boy.

I entered the room, bracing myself for violating some sacred space, but I felt only a faint light-headedness. Except for a filthy throw rug tucked halfway beneath the bed, the floor wasn’t carpeted, and my footfalls on the concrete echoed in the tiny chamber. I examined the shelves of toys and the stacks of folded clothes on the bed. With the toe of my sneaker, I lifted the lid of the toy chest the rest of the way and looked into a well of drowning stuffed bears, pigs, monkeys, and other less definable creatures.

Then I walked two complete circles around the stacks of boxes at the center of the room. The cardboard appeared old, covered in places in a black slick of mildew. I opened the top box: more colorful and small clothes, just like the ones piled on the bed. I took out a striped polo shirt that looked practically new, then dropped it back into the box. I set this box on the floor so I could access the one beneath it. This one contained more clothes. A third was burdened with toys: a stuffed bear, a baseball hat, a worn baseball with frayed stitching. Sneakers here, too, their laces tied together, their soles caked with petrified mud. An electric pencil sharpener. What looked like the axle off a toy car with a plastic black wheel still attached to each end. A children’s illustrated edition of Treasure Island.

I went through all the boxes in this fashion—with a mix of utter disbelief and mounting light-headedness—until I reached the one at the bottom of the stack. Yet it wasn’t a box at all but a bright blue plastic container with a red rope handle. I felt a twinge of something crucially significant lock into place, like a dead bolt sliding home, but I wasn’t sure what it was at first.

I crouched down before the blue container, which was no bigger than a can of paint, and popped off the lid without the slightest difficulty. They say olfactory sense is the one linked most directly to memory, and I had no doubt this was true. The scents that struck me were of cedar chips and the bedding of hamster cages, of cured wood, and, just faintly, of polyurethane. Inhaling that intermingling aroma ushered me back to an early childhood, much earlier than those horrible days following my brother’s death.

Inside the blue container were wooden building blocks of varying colors, shapes, and sizes, a replica of the set I’d had as a child myself. By the time my mother had sold my blocks at a yard sale, they were riddled with gouges and nicks, and most of the colored paint had peeled away. These blocks, however, looked brand-new and practically unused. I picked one up, brought it to my nose, smelled it. The bittersweet scent of childhood.

I recalled Adam’s story about Elijah Dentman, and I knew that I was standing in Elijah’s bedroom. This was all Elijah’s stuff. As horrible as this little dungeon was, he’d slept here, played here, said his bedtime prayers here.

A cold sweat broke out along my neck. My mouth went dry. What kind of parent keeps their kid in a hidden bedroom behind the basement wall? A bedroom with no windows, no natural light?

Without warning, I recalled the Christmas party at Adam’s house and my conversation at the buffet table with Ira Stein. Clear as day, I could hear Ira saying, The Dentmans were a peculiar family, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Not to speak ill of those poor people and what happened to them, of course.

“You’ve got to come downstairs and see this,” I said when Jodie got home. It was five thirty, the sky had grown prematurely dark, and I’d spent the entire day going through Elijah Dentman’s stuff.

Looking exhausted, Jodie set her books and purse down on the kitchen table. She eyeballed me as if I’d just approached her in a dark alley as she went to the refrigerator and took out a beer. “Don’t tell me you found more handprints on the walls.” There was a none-too-subtle condemnation in her voice.

“Better,” I said.

“Did you even shower today? You look brutal.”

“Come on,” I said, already heading down the hallway toward the basement. “Come see.”

She followed me.

“There was a little boy who lived in the house before us,” I said at the foot of the stairs as Jodie plodded tiredly down the risers. “Elijah came here with his mother and uncle when the grandfather got sick.” I deliberately left out the fact that the kid had drowned in the lake behind our house. When she reached the bottom step, I took her wrist and rushed her over to the opening in the basement wall. “You’re not going to believe this, but I think I just found the kid’s bedroom.”

Together we stood shoulder to shoulder, like a couple waiting to get on the subway, in the doorway to Elijah Dentman’s bedroom. I laughed, still amazed by my archeological find, and stepped into the room while negotiating around the boxes I’d placed randomly on the floor after going through them.

Jodie remained in the doorway. There was a look of perfect incomprehension on her face. No, not just incomprehension— apprehension. Fleetingly, I conceded that maybe I wrote those scenes in my books right after all.

“Look at this place,” I said. “They kept the poor kid down here like a prisoner.”

Slowly, Jodie brought a hand to her mouth. Her face had gone the color of soured milk.