“G-floor.”
I cocked a questioning brow.
“Rollout vinyl floor covering. I installed it in my garage last year. Normally, the stuff’s secured with adhesive and seaming strips. Here it was just spread over the dirt and a hatchway.”
“Welton rolled it and set it aside.”
“That’s his story.”
Save for the workbenches and the vinyl flooring, the room was empty.
“Opening is over here.” Gleason led me to the corner at which the exterior walls met.
A one-by-two-foot breach was evident at roughly shoulder level in the easternmost wall. Jagged edges and a marked color difference attested to the brevity of the opening’s existence. Shattered brick and plaster littered the floor below. Welton had broken through to the plumbing at that location.
Through the gap I could see labyrinthine piping. On the ground, just out from the rubble, gaped a black rectangle, partially covered by a battered hatch of wood planks.
Setting my kit to one side, I peered down into the blackness. It yielded no clue of what lay below.
“How far to the bottom?”
“Twelve, fifteen feet. Probably an old root cellar. Some of these houses still have them.”
I felt the familiar crawly sensation. The tightness in my chest.
“Why so deep?” I asked, forcing my voice calm.
Gleason shrugged. “Warm climate, no refrigeration.”
Opening my kit, I unfolded and stepped into coveralls. Then I settled on my stomach, face over the hole.
Gleason handed me his flash. The shaft danced down makeshift wooden steps whose angle of descent was precariously steep, more a ladder than a stairway.
“Stuff’s over by the east wall.”
I shot the beam in that direction. It picked out rusted metal, flecks of red, yellow. Something ghostly pale, like cadaver flesh. Then I saw it.
The skull rested on some sort of short, round pedestal, lower jaw missing, forehead strangely mottled in the small oval of light. An object was centered on top of the cranial vault.
I stared. The empty orbits stared back. The teeth grinned, as though daring me to approach.
Pushing to all fours, I sat back and brushed dirt from my chest and arms. “I’ll take a few shots, then we’ll remove the plank and I’ll go down.”
“Those treads appear to have some years on them. How about I test to see if they’re safe?”
“I’d prefer you stay topside, lower equipment as I need it.”
“You got it.”
The click of my shutter. The skitter of dirt cascading from the undersurface of the hatch cover. Each sound seemed magnified in the absolute stillness of the cellar. Irrationally, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the hush was ominous.
After gloving, I shoved my Maglite into my waistband. Then I tested the first riser. Solid enough. Turning my face toward the steps, I gripped the banister with one hand and clutched the risers with the other as I descended.
The air grew dank. The odor of death strengthened. And my nose began picking up ribbons of other things, olfactory hints more than solid smells. Impressions of urine, sour milk, decaying fabric.
Six rungs down, almost no light penetrated from above. I paused, allowing my pupils to adjust. Allowing my nerves to come to grips with their environment. The tunnel I was descending through was two feet square, damp, and smelly.
My heart was banging now. My throat felt constricted.
There you have it. Brennan, the legendary tunnel rat, was claustrophobic.
Death-gripping the side rails, I descended four more steps. My head cleared the tunnel into a larger space. As I moved to the fifth, a sliver pierced the latex sheathing my left palm. My hand jerked reflexively.
More self-coaching.
Two more rungs.
My toe touched solid ground with an odd little click. Gingerly, I explored behind me with my foot. Found nothing.
I stepped from the stairs. Closed my eyes, a reflex to stem the pounding adrenaline. Pointless. It was pitch black.
Releasing the banister, I flicked on my flash, turned, and swept the beam above and around me.
I was standing in an eight-foot cube whose walls and ceiling were reinforced by rough wooden beams. The dirt floor was covered with the same rollout vinyl that had been used overhead.
The action was off to my right. Cautiously, I edged in that direction, beam probing the shadows.
Cauldrons, one large, one small. Rusty saucepan. Plywood. Tools. Statues. Candles. Beads and antlers suspended overhead.
Gleason had called it correctly. The chamber housed some sort of ritualistic display.
The large cauldron appeared to be the focal point, with the rest of the paraphernalia fanning out from it. Stepping over a semicircle of candles, I pointed my light toward center stage.
The cauldron was iron and filled with dirt. A macabre pyramid rose from its center.
An animal cranium formed the base. Judging by shape, and by what I could see of the teeth, I guessed it came from a small ruminant, maybe a goat or sheep. Remnants of desiccated tissue lined the orbits and orifices.
Centered on the ruminant was the human skull that had so frightened the plumber. The bone was smooth and fleshless. The vault and forehead were oddly luminescent, and darkened by an irregular stain. A stain the exact red-brown of dried blood.
A small avian skull topped the human
I angled my beam to the floor.
Positioned at the cauldron’s base was what looked like a section of railroad track. On the track lay a decapitated and partially decomposed chicken.
The source of the odor.
I inched my light left to the saucepan. Three hemispheric objects took shape. I bent for a closer look.
One turtle carapace. Two halves of a coconut shell.
Straightening, I sidestepped right past the large cauldron to the smaller. It, too, was soil packed. On the soil surface lay three railroad spikes, an antler, and two strands of yellow beads. A knife had been thrust into the fill to the depth of its handle.
A chain wrapped the cauldron’s exterior, just below the rim. A machete leaned against its left side. A sheet of plywood was propped against its right.
I moved to the plywood and squatted. Symbols covered the surface, executed, I suspected, with black Magic Marker.
Next in the row was a cheap plaster statue. The woman wore a long white gown, red cape, and crown. One hand held a chalice, the other a sword. Beside her was a miniature castle or tower.
I tried to recall the Catholic icons of my youth. Some manifestation of the Virgin Mary? A saint? Though the visage was vaguely familiar, I couldn’t ID the lady.
Shoulder to shoulder with the statue stood a carved wooden effigy with two faces pointing in opposite directions. Roughly twelve inches tall, the humanoid figure had long, slender limbs, a potbelly, and a penis upright and locked.
Definitely not the Virgin, I thought.
Last in line were two dolls in layer-cake ruffled gingham dresses, one yellow, one blue. Both dolls were female
