I recognize one thing that I see. There’s a big freezer tucked under the stairs.
Uncle Walt had one of those too. He used to raise beef. Most of the animals, he sold. He would have one butchered and then freeze the meat in his cellar to use for the winter. Maybe Mr. Engel had a similar arrangement.
If I shut off the power, Amber might have a giant mess of rotted meat to deal with.
“Plus anything in the kitchen,” I whisper.
I’ve seen the upstairs freezer. There was little in that except for ice. It would be kind of me to clean out the fridge though.
I sigh, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
My first inclination is to march back up the stairs, call Amber, and alert her to the food situation.
That’s silly. She doesn’t need another headache on top of what she’s already dealing with. Besides, I don’t even know that there’s anything in the freezer.
Before I turn off the breakers, I should check.
(There's enough light from the bulb.)
There’s enough light from the bulb.
I don’t need the flashlight for this. I tuck it in my back pocket and lift the lid on the freezer. It’s newer than the fridge upstairs. Instead of a mechanical latch, the lid is only kept in place with a rubber seal. It pops open, breaking the seal reluctantly, and white fog rolls out from inside.The mist is dense in there. I wave my hand to clear it away so I can…
There are eyes looking up at me.
I gasp and the lid slips from my hand. It slams shut as I’m taking a quick step back. With a hand pressed against my chest, I can feel my heartbeat slamming against my ribs. My breath is coming in short bursts. I back up two more steps and nearly trip over my own feet.
Those eyes are burned into my brain.
They were wide and almond-shaped, but I didn’t see any white. The pupils were vertical slits, surrounded by deep violet, threaded with lighter purple. I have to admit that the color was probably altered by the dim light from the overhead bulb.
None of that matters though. What matters is getting up the stairs and away from the freezer. My body is so amped up on adrenaline that my legs might as well be a million miles away. They work just fine as they propel me up the stairs at lightning speed. I slam the cellar door shut and press my shoulder against it as my fingers fumble to put the hook into the eye. It’s such a feeble mechanism. The latch has already proven more than once its inability to stay locked.
I brace myself against the door as I reach for the phone.
My hand squeezes the receiver in a death grip as my trembling finger stabs into the nine hole. I get it around and wait forever as it dials back to the stop. Then I jerk out one, one.
I try to get ahold of my breathing as the phone clicks and crackles in my ear.
I swear I can feel pressure against the door.
I lean harder into it.
One of my shoes squeaks against the vinyl floor.
“9-1-1 what’s your…”
“GET OVER HERE NOW.”
There’s a pause.
“Help is on the way, sir. Can you tell me the nature of…”
“I’m back at Mr. Engel’s. You can get the address from the phone like the other day. There’s a body down in the cellar. It’s in the freezer.”
“Sir? There’s a body?”
This is not the angel from the other day. This man sounds mildly interested, but also frustrated at having to assist me. He also sounds like he’s about sixteen years old. He has that know-it-all tone of someone who hasn’t experienced a damn thing but acts like it’s all old hat.
I’m pressing so hard against the door that the wood creaks. I imagine the wood splintering from the pressure, sending me tumbling down the stairs into the darkness.
I pull out the flashlight to have it at the ready. As I repeat myself to the operator.
The line crackles.
My story is a little more detailed this time. I mention Amber and how she asked me to turn off the power. I mention checking the freezer to make sure it’s not filled with meat that will spoil. Words tumble from my mouth and into the phone like a frantic confession. I ask how long it will take for help to arrive.
That’s when I start to rethink everything.
Why didn’t I run? I could be back at Uncle Walt’s house right now, having this conversation while I mixed myself a Tom Collins at a safe distance. Instead, I have my ear pressed against the door. Something is moving down there.
I hear a dry scrape of icy flesh against the worn stair treads. Maybe that part is my imagination, or maybe it’s just the ancient refrigerator behind me as it fires up. The thump is real though. I don’t just hear that—I feel it through the floor.
Static barks down the phone line. I wonder if they still bother to maintain these things. At my uncle’s house—my house—the phone eventually plugs into the back of the cable box. Mr. Engel is the only person on this whole road who utilizes the copper phone lines. They might be barely operable.
“Sir?”
“Please come quickly,” I whisper.
“Sir, is there someone in the house with you? Are you being threatened?”
Now, I think I understand. A questionable report of a dead body might warrant a low-priority visit from a police officer. They’ll probably arrive in forty-five minutes, not even bothering to put on their lights or speed to the scene. I’m just guessing, of course. I’m no expert in emergency response. The other day, people arrived fast, but that was to save Mr. Engel’s life.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m afraid I am.”
Perhaps that will light a fire, so to speak.
“Stay on the
