The Basement

Midnight

The storm has been pounding the roof for hours when the power goes out. It's not unusual; in this town, blackouts are common in the summer. You fumble for the lighter on the nightstand, find it, and light the candle you always keep in the drawer. The flame flickers. You sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the hail against the window.

Then you hear it.

It's not a creak. It's not the wind. It's breathing. Slow, steady, almost rhythmic. It's coming from below. From the basement.

Your chest tightens. You've been living alone in this house for six months. You use the basement for storage: boxes, old clothes, the water heater, tools. No one should be down there. No one can be down there.

The breathing doesn't stop. Rhyth-mic. Rhyth-mic. Like someone has been waiting for the exact moment for you to hear it.

Down the Stairs

You grab the candle with one hand and, with the other, you clutch the handle of a screwdriver you took from the dresser. The basement stairs are at the end of the hallway. Each step creaks under your feet. The breathing is still there, clearer now that you're getting closer. Measured. Aware.

You reach the last step. The basement is small: four stone walls and a packed dirt floor. The water heater occupies the right corner. The boxes are stacked on the left. To the right, the switch for the emergency light, connected to the backup battery.

You don't see anything. The candle flame doesn't reach the corners. But you can hear the breathing. It's coming from somewhere among the boxes. Something, or someone, is hidden among them.

Your hand trembles. The screwdriver feels weightless. The breathing doesn't change its rhythm. It doesn't know you've come down. Or maybe it does, and it doesn't care.

What Lives in the Dark

The switch clicks. The emergency bulbs flicker three times before staying on. A pale, bluish light fills the basement.

You see it immediately.

It's in the farthest corner, behind the boxes of winter clothes. Standing. Motionless. It's a tall figure, too tall to be comfortable under the ceiling, so its neck is bent to one side at an angle that shouldn't be possible. The skin is gray. The eyes, wide open, have no irises: completely white. It's looking at you.

You've been staring at it for four seconds before you realize it's still breathing exactly the same. It hasn't moved. It hasn't sped up. Rhyth-mic. Rhyth-mic. Like your eyes change nothing for it.

Then you notice something else. It doesn't blink. It's been like this for a long time. And the fact that it hasn't moved doesn't mean it can't.

Ending · The Stairs

Your body acts before your brain decides. You turn and run for the stairs.

Three steps. Four. The first step.

Something cold and hard wraps around your ankle with a pressure that isn't human. You don't hear footsteps. You didn't hear it move. It's simply there, behind you, with its hand —if that's a hand— around your leg. You collapse onto the steps. The candle goes out as you fall.

In total darkness, the breathing is still the only thing you hear. Now inches from your face.

You don't scream. You don't have time.

Ending · Dawn

You don't think. You simply freeze, and that turns out to be the right thing to do.