Basement

• Natalie Kretzschmar, Grade 7
• Poetry
• 2013

I stood at the door of the basement, thump; there it was again, a bump from the basement. I gripped the door handle, my hands shook with fear. I swung the door open; it creaked and groaned on its hinges, revealing the old creaky stairs leading into the blackness. The light switch was further down. Carefully, I placed my foot on the first step, creak, it protested under my weight. Slowly, I made my way down, trying not to make any of the other steps creak. I flicked on the lights, nothing. But the cold fear that embedded itself into the pit of my stomach was still there, warning me to turn and run. Taking a deep breath I walked forward until I came to the middle of the room and waited, still nothing. I turned to go back up the stairs to get to the safety of my bedroom when something caught my eye, a hand, swaying behind the furnace, it was swollen and puffy and the skin had a bluish grey tinged to it. I froze as it swung, back and forth, back and forth.