Pausing, I wait to see if I hear it again, but a boom overtakes any noise.
After the next round of explosions occurs, there’s another sound, similar to a yelp.
Then soft mewling.
Esmeralda must be hiding out inside the root cellar, but how did the lock get undone?
It was closed last time I came out. The chief said he put a padlock on it. Unless Deborah came down here for some reason . . .
I shake my head, and a resounding clamor causes me to jump.
“Get it together,” I hiss. But I recall the chief’s words about transients using it as their shelter. If someone is taking cover in the cellar again, do I really want to get stuck with a potential convict who isn’t going to care about my survival?
It’s an eerie thought, and involuntarily, I shudder.
The mewling now becomes more of a caterwaul, and I wonder if she’s about to give birth. I’ve tried to keep the cat food somewhat hidden under the bottom hem of the coat, but it’s a watery mess.
I sigh and take a deep breath. Just walk down, give Esmeralda her food, and go back. Just leave both doors open.
I give myself a quick pep talk. There’s nothing to be afraid of; the weather is just making you paranoid. You forget what you do half the time, and most likely, you got drunk and forgot to close the doors.
This won’t take long, and you can worry about trying to clean the cellar out when there’ve been a couple days of sunshine.
I remember the flashlight, and it quiets my nerves for a moment as I descend the muddy steps, the dim glow providing a thin stream of light.
My hand grips the hard plastic as I reach the landing, confident I’m walking right into a trap. A stranger will be waiting for me, an evil grin on his face as he gleefully hollers that he tricked me.
My heart thuds in my chest as I bob the light around the room. I spot the outline of my mother’s beloved cat. She’s lying in a sheath of blankets in a bin, and I’m relieved there’s no one else.
As she yelps at me, I timidly set the food down, careful not to touch her. She’s still a feral cat in my mind, so I don’t try to pet her, since it’s not like she’s had her shots. Worried she’ll think I’m trying to invade her territory, I soothingly tell her it’ll be all right.
I can grab the bowl in the morning. As I turn to go, loud slamming echoes above me. I don’t think much of it at first, assuming it’s storm related. As soon as I hit the bottom step, I realize I can’t see up into the blackened sky. Both of the doors are shut above me.
A scraping sound is followed by a click and a thud.
“It must be the damn wind,” I mutter, hurriedly making my way back to the top. Pressing my hands against the wood, I expect to push straight up without a problem. The doors are heavy, but not unreasonably so. I’ve never had trouble moving them before.
Neither door moves against my weight.
Grunting, I try again.
They are rock solid, as if held in place by something.
Recognition flickers across my mind in an aha moment, and the sudden onset of panic propels me forward. Shoving my fists against the double doors, I scream bloody murder, hollering for someone to help me, but it’s no use.
I start to hyperventilate, sinking to my knees on the wet ground, my ragged breath coming out in puffs.
After I count to fifty, I tell myself it’ll be no problem to get out, that I didn’t push hard enough a moment ago. The wind must’ve held the doors in place, like a vacuum that sucks in the air; something must’ve happened with the atmospheric pressure. I’m not sure if this is a feasible theory, but it calms me for a fleeting second.
Trying again, I casually shove the doors.
Then I lean against the wall and try kicking them.
It’s no use. The doors must be chained in place, the padlock secure.
I curse myself for not bringing my phone, then remind myself it wouldn’t have worked anyway, especially in this weather.
My mood changes in waves. I’m on the brink of hysteria and then exhaustion as I rattle and thump and pound the doors, my screams drowning out the scared cat, who must think I’m a madwoman.
Covered in mud, I sink to the floor, tears mixing with the residual water stuck to the rain jacket.
With a snot-filled nose, I wipe a hand across my mouth, trying to get a grip on my emotions. Warning bells in my head signal a panic attack is about to happen, the rapid heart rate and struggle to breathe apparent indicators.
“You can’t die from a panic attack,” I whisper.
I convince myself Deborah will get worried when I don’t return promptly. She’ll wonder why it’s taking this long to drop food off to the cat.
She’ll be concerned and come outside, even in this weather, and look for me.
But the most atrocious thought weaves its way through my thought process.
She asked me to feed the cat.
The cat wasn’t in the barn, where she said to go.
The doors to the cellar were open, and now they’re closed.
How did the doors get shut?
“But Deborah didn’t know you would go to the cellar,” I babble out loud. “She told you the barn. It’s not like she directed you over here.”
But she knew you wouldn’t give up until you found the cat.
No, she didn’t, I argue in my head.
The war continues in my brain until I must concede. The truth hits me like a ton of bricks, doubling me over in pain.
Deborah’s madness is taking
