Chapter 10
I remembered where the cellar door was. It was hidden beneath an old, heavy rug near the back wall. I threw the rug aside, revealing a square wooden trapdoor with an iron ring. I grabbed the ring and pulled with all my might.
It wouldn’t budge. The wood had swollen from the dampness.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The creature was right outside the door.
“My sweet little Hope. My precious River. Grandma is so lonely. Don’t you want to keep Grandma company?”
“Help me pull!” I screamed at River in a hushed, desperate whisper.
River grabbed the iron ring with his small hands. We both pulled backward with everything we had.
With a loud crack, the trapdoor flew open, sending us both tumbling backward onto the dusty floor. A dark, narrow set of stone steps led down into the pitch-black cellar.
At that exact moment, the main door to the west room slowly creaked open.
A long, gray, filthy hand reached around the door frame, its blackened nails digging into the wood.
“Go, go!”
I shoved River toward the stairs. He scrambled down into the darkness. I jumped in right behind him, reaching up to slam the trapdoor shut.
Just as the door was closing, I saw it.
The creature’s face peered around the door frame. The black, void-like eyes locked onto mine. Its jaw unhinged, revealing rows of jagged, broken teeth. It lunged across the room with terrifying speed.
I slammed the trapdoor shut and threw the heavy iron bolt into place just as something massive slammed into the wood from above.
Bam!
The heavy wood splintered slightly, but the bolt held.
“Open the door. Hope, Grandma has candy for you. Grandma saved you the biggest piece of pork.”
The creature’s voice shifted, perfectly mimicking Grandma’s warm, loving tone. It was a sick psychological torture.
River was crying softly in the dark at the bottom of the stairs.
“Hope, is it Grandma?”
“No, River, it’s not. Block your ears,” I said, my voice shaking as I backed down the stairs.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
The creature began to relentlessly pound against the trapdoor, its long nails furiously scratching at the wood like a rabid animal trying to dig up a grave.
The cellar was dark, smelling of rotting potatoes and damp earth.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and turned on the flashlight. The battery was at 12%.
“The drainage tunnel,” I muttered, sweeping the beam of light across the damp stone walls. “The Kitchen God said there was a drainage tunnel.”
The cellar was small and cluttered with old wooden crates and broken farming tools. I moved toward the back wall, frantically pulling crates aside.
Behind a stack of moldy burlap sacks, I found it.
A small arched opening at the base of the stone wall, no larger than a dog door. It was covered by a rusted iron grate.