She didn’t open the door for me, but she says that she’s alright. The way things stand, I don’t suppose I have any choice but to believe her. Believe her or break down the damn door and be done with it. But I think I’m finished with heroics for the time being. I have to wait until she’s ready to open the door and come out on her own.
Anyway, yeah, I showed Constance where the flashlights were, and I pretended not to hear the cellar door creaking open. I sat there on the sofa, pretending to read A Treasury of New England Folklore. I stared at the pages, reading the same paragraphs over and over again; something about a sea serpent flap in Gloucester Harbor, back about 1817 or so. An assortment of “tall tales”—ghost ships and the ghosts of drowned sailors, Ocean-Born Mary and Caldera Dick and crazy, bloodthirsty Cotton Mathers.Wonders of the Invisible World.But, in truth, I know now that I was sitting there listening,waiting, though I probably could not have said for what. For some sound or sign from below, and when I heard it, I would know. Still, I tried to reassure myself, because I knew there really wasn’t anything beneath Blanchard’s old farmhouse but all the refuse that had accumulated down there over the years — over the centuries, no doubt. Constance would dig about in the mess until she grew bored, and then she’d come back upstairs, and I could say I’d told her so. I could bask in smug vindication, and she’d skulk away to her garret again in a cloud of turpentine fumes. All would be as right with the world as I could reasonably expect.
Only, that’s not the way it went, not at all.
About an hour and a half passed, me sitting there trying to read, and the day seeming to grow hotter, my T-shirt sticking to me. We were out of beer, but I wasn’t about to drive into town to get more, not with spelunker Constance prowling around in the cellar. I was just about to give up on the book and look for something else to read when I heard what I’d been listening for.
It was the smallest sound. Any smaller, and I’m sure I wouldn’t have heard it.
It might have been my name. It might have been something else, the particular words, I mean. It hardly matters, these specifics, because it was plainly a cry for help. It was alarm, and it was dismay, and it was fear. I called out to her, once or twice, fairly certain that there would be no answer, and there wasn’t. I waited until the sound came again, and it wasn’t a long wait. I went to the kitchen, to get the second flashlight from the drawer to the right of the sink. I switched it on and off, checking to be sure the batteries hadn’t gone dead. The casing is blue plastic; the one that Constance took with her is green. She’d left the cellar door standing open, as I’ve said, and I lingered a moment before that low entryway, shining my flashlight across the ten wooden steps leading to the hard-packed dirt below. They seemed steeper than I recalled, the stairs, and the air rising up from that pit was cool and smelled much too stale, too sour, to ever describe as simply “musty.”
Constance’s paint-stained rag was lying on the topmost step, and I picked it up. I shouted for her again, and, again, there was no answer. It occurred to me that a draft might cause the door to swing shut, and I took the time to wad the rag and wedge it firmly into the space between the bottom edge of the door and the floorboards. Also, I went back for my cell phone, which I’d left on top of the television after Dorry called that morning. I’m not very fond of cell phones, and I’ve often threatened to get rid of mine. But suddenly I saw it as a lifeline — a second source of light, a clock, and a means of reaching the outside world (assuming I could get reception down there). I slipped it into my front jeans pocket and went back to the cellar door; that’s when I heard Constance yelling again, and, this time, it was clearly my name.
And I said something then like, “If it turns out you’re just fucking with me, if it turns out this is a joke, you’re a dead woman, Constance Hopkins.” I said it loudly enough that she should have heard me, but there was no response. The old stairs complained softly beneath my feet, and I went down them quickly. In only a few more seconds, I was looking up,at the dingy yellow-white rectangle leading back into the hallway and the house and the sweltering summer world above. That’s when I almost lost my nerve, and thought maybe it would be best if I called Blanchard and let him deal with this, whatever this was. But what the hell would I tell him? That his attic lodger was lost in the basement, and I was too chickenshit to go looking for her? An absurdity compounded with an absurdity. And if you put it like that,pride wins out. The fear of lasting embarrassment trumps the fear of things that go bump in the cellar, so I turned away from the stairs, playing the flashlight slowly over all those sagging shelves and cardboard boxes, the broken furniture, the rotting bundles of newspapers dating back to god knows when.
There was no sign of Constance anywhere, and my mind went to the fieldstone-and-mortar archway waiting somewhere up ahead, and the slate threshold and the odd marks or glyphs carved deeply into it. I thought about how far away her voice had seemed to be. Now, the basement around me was, as they say, silent as a tomb.
“Constance!” I screamed into the darkness. The darkness made no reply whatsoever. “I’m coming!” I screamed. “Just stay where you are and wait for me to find you!”
Moving quickly as I dared along one of the crooked aisles between the shelves, it didn’t take me too long to reach the arch marking the northern edge of the house. And there was the upside-down horseshoe, just like I remembered, all its luck spilled out long ago. There was the threshold, scarred with occult gibberish, and I shone the flashlight into the gloom packed in ahead of me. I spotted the shelf weighted down with its load of elderly Mason jars and spoiled bread-and-butter pickles. Then I saw the cast-off chifforobe where I’d found Harvey’s manuscript more than a month earlier (only it feels like it’s been three times that long, at least). I took a deep breath, a very deep breath, and stepped across the threshold, passing beneath the inverted horseshoe, and into air so cold and damp and heavy I might well have slipped beneath the surface of some unclean winter-bound pond.
The muddy ground sucked at the soles of my tennis shoes, but I pushed on, leaving the drawerless chifforobe and the jars of pickles behind me, calling out for Constance and still getting no answer. This far in, the junk and litter abruptly ended, and now there was only a broad, more or less flat expanse of muck and rock, broken by an occasional shallow puddle. The ground here had begun to slope gradually downwards, an incline of only a few degrees, at the most, just enough that I was aware of it. There was no sign of a wall anywhere, in front of me or to either side, and the thought crossed my mind that, maybe, when John Potter excavated for the original foundation, more than three hundred years before I’d ever had the misfortune to set eyes on the house off Barbs Hill Road, maybe he’d stumbled across some sort of cavern. And having thought that,there was really no way not to let my mind wander back to Joseph Olney’s mad visions or the tales of the Parker Woodland cairns. I know enough geology to know that solutional caves can form in granite and gneiss bedrock, as well as in limestone, so it certainly wasn’t impossible. But if that were the case, there was no knowing how far or in what directions this underground space might lead. Besides, if the house was built atop a cave system, wouldn’t Blanchard have at least fucking mentioned it? Wouldn’t he surely have cautioned us not to go prowling around beneath the house?