The Basement

THE BASEMENT

I remember reading, as a little boy, how Conan the Barbarian would breathe open-mouthed, silent, while stalking his prey: man or beast. As soon as I read the passage I tried it myself, and marveled that it really did work.

And here I was, years later, breathing open-mouthed again. Unlike when I was curled up in that Lay-Zee-Boy with the throwaway Robert Jordan novel - dude could never stack up to R. E. Howard - I shivered, still breathing with my mouth frozen wide open.

I crept forward into the smothering darkness of the ancient cellar. Barely a light existed. I think the flickering amber glow I saw was somehow from one of those night-lights that would turn on when you switched off the main lights in the room. My wide eyes clung to it like a buoy in the stormy, ebony sea.

As I inched around the chamber, more of the floor came into view. It was highly-polished, like an oil slick, but I knew it was just wooden planks older than the chapel, now so many floors above me.

That's when I noticed the smell.

Jesus, where the fuck was I?