But again Mrs. Edrick appears to be very friendly. Seeing the expression in the widow’s face of something like pain, and yet yearning, she says, “Brenda — I mean Brianna — if you’d like, you can examine the crawl space yourself. You have our permission! The furnace repairman said there were at least two more boxes. He might have dragged them out if I’d asked him, but I didn’t think to ask, at the time. And neither of us” — (Mrs. Edrick is referring now to her husband, whose face Brianna has not seen) — “is especially eager to crawl into such a space.”
The widow is feeling disoriented. She recognizes the sensation — heightened excitement, apprehension — a curious mixture of fear and hope — an intensification of the way she invariably feels when she drives by the former house. And now, so suddenly, with no preparation she is standing in the former house.
What has brought her here? Has it been — him?
Certainly, she does not want to descend into the basement! Not into the crawl space! — which she remembers as grungy, filthy with cobwebs, a strong rank smell of damp earth.
Yet she hears herself say in an earnest voice: “I... I think I will, thank you. Yes. I’d like to see what’s in the boxes that my husband left for me.”
The Edricks have led her downstairs into the basement — as if she who’d lived in this house for twenty years needs anyone to show her the way. Here too, the widow feels both disoriented and comforted, for there are mismatched chairs and a plush dark-orange sofa facing an ugly TV screen that she has never seen before, yet the ceiling of loosely-fitted squares is exactly as she remembers, and the olive-green floor tile is only slightly more worn.
Jed had detested TV. Their screen had been much smaller than this screen. She’d watched TV infrequently, always with a sense of guilt.
Your mind. Your brain. Beware of rot.
Mr. Edrick has dragged over a chair, that the widow might step on it to crawl through the waist-high opening in the cement wall.
“Don’t forget these! You will need both.”
Almost gaily Mrs. Edrick presses a flashlight and a pair of shears into the widow’s hand.
The widow steps onto the chair. The Edricks steady her, as she positions a knee so that she can crawl forward into a kind of tunnel like an animal’s burrow, no more than three feet in height. A repairman might make his way into such a space on his haunches but the widow finds it easier to crawl — like an animal, or a child.
Her heart is pounding rapidly. Her nostrils pinch against the damp rank earthen odor.
The cramped tunnel is less than a few yards long. Yet, by the time she reaches the space itself, she is feeling lightheaded from having held her breath for so long.
Why are you here? You are not wanted here.
Rats are more faithful than you have been.
With difficulty the widow lowers herself into the storage space. It is the size of a small bathroom or a large closet, with a puddled floor of broken cement; the feeble light of the flashlight reveals that there is an unexpected light hanging from the low ceiling, which she turns on — this too is feeble, no more than a forty-watt bulb. There are just two squat, badly water-stained and intricately taped cardboard boxes on the floor. The smell here is very strong, oppressive. Cobwebs stick to the widow’s face, hair. If only she’d known to wear something on her head! And her open-toed summer shoes are not appropriate for this treacherous place. She hears a sound of scuttling — beetles...
She is breathing very quickly now, near-panting. It is very difficult to get enough oxygen into her lungs.
The beetles have frightened her. Or, disgusted her. But she will persevere.
Such a low ceiling! This is indeed oppressive. She isn’t able to stand upright but must crouch like a simian.
She tugs at one of the boxes, which is so heavy she can’t budge it. Books inside? Jed had owned so many books, some of them oversized, first editions of mathematical classics...
She couldn’t possibly drag either of these boxes with her back along the tunnel. If she wants to bring their contents with her she will have to open the boxes and unpack them in the crawl space.
After much struggle with the shears, which isn’t as sharp as she might have hoped, she manages to open the first box: Indeed it is just books.
Of not much interest, she thinks. Disappointing!
Why had Jed hidden away A History of Mathematics, Discrete Mathematics, A History of Zero, A History of Calculus, Infinity and Beyond... She’d hoped there might be something valuable here, and revealing; something Jed had not wanted to share with his wife, perhaps.
You don’t want to know. Why do you want to know?
Suddenly she feels panic. A constriction of the chest, a wave of fear. Must escape!
She stumbles to the tunnel. She forces herself into it, crawling on hands and knees, but what is this? — the way is blocked?
It must be a mistake, of course. She has just crawled along the tunnel and knows that the way is not blocked, though it is disconcertingly narrow at one point.
“H-Hello? Mrs. Edrick? Are you there?”
No answer. She tries to force herself past the blockage, which seems to be solid rock, but she is frightened of getting just her head and shoulders through the opening, and being then trapped in this terrible place.
“Hello? What have you done? Help me...”
No answer. She is trying not to become hysterical.
“Hello? Hello? Hello? What have you done? Mrs. Edrick? Hello...”
No answer. No sound except her panicked breathing.
The new owners so resent her haunting the house, their property. They can think of no other way to stop her. Is this possible?
Of course, this is not possible. Ridiculous!
Yet they have gone away, upstairs. They have switched off the basement lights and they have shut the basement door. They will go away and leave their trapped visitor. They have planned this for years and when they return, the widow’s cries will have grown faint.
When they return a second time, and a third time, her plaintive cries will have ceased.
Still, she calls for help. She thinks — They are warning me, maybe. It is punishment for me — a warning.
“Hello? Help? Mrs. Edrick! Mr. Edrick! I... I won’t come back — I won’t ‘haunt’ you... I promise.”
She is begging. She is desperate. But there is no answer. They have gone away, they have shut the door at the top of the basement stairs.
No one’s fault but your own. What did you think you were doing, joining me in the grave? Seven years too late.
Oxygen is fading. Her brain is fading. To occupy her mind, to occupy her panicked fingers she unpacks the first box fully — yes, these are all mathematical books, badly water-stained.
In some, Jed had made numerous annotations. What had the deluded man thought, such fussy notes, such calculations, would make a difference?
The second box is more promising. Amid crumpled and stained sheets of newspaper used as padding there is something small, desiccated — mummified? A doll?
Not a human infant, the widow is sure. But disconcertingly lifelike.
Or — is it a human infant, so mummified that it has lost its human face?
Her hands are trembling with dread, and with excitement.
Cautiously she lifts the thing from the cardboard box, shaking off the stained newspapers. All about her is a scuttling of glinting beetles of which she is scarcely aware. She stares at the badly water-stained, faded face, a miniature face, with sightless eyes, broken glass, or plastic, or something that has atrophied and is no longer recognizable as even intended to be human.