Chapter 2 - The Basement Ghost
The first week was fine. Better than fine, on the surface.
Carter came into my room before school to ask complicated questions about dinosaurs that I could not answer, forcing us to look them up on my old iPad together. Ivy treated my jewelry box like a public treasure trove, trying to smuggle plastic bead necklaces into her pockets. Allison worked three long days each week at a physical therapy clinic across town, and Trent managed inventory for a regional plumbing supplier, rushing out the door by seven every morning. Everybody came and went in a whirl of backpacks, car keys, and shouted goodbyes.
The person who seemed to be there most often, however, was Allison's mother.
Marjorie Bell.
She was sixty-five, widowed three years ago, and retired from an elementary school cafeteria where she had spent decades hauling trays and scrubbing stainless steel tables. She was quieter than I was, better with children, worse with directions, and possessed a quiet, unassuming presence that made her easy to overlook. We had seen each other plenty of times over the years at birthday parties, Christmasses, and school programs. We exchanged polite pleasantries, asked about each other's gardens, and got along without ever developing a relationship separate from our children.
On my fifth night in the house, the quiet fractured.
It was around 10:30 PM. I had left my phone charger plugged into the outlet in the kitchen, and when I went downstairs to retrieve it, I noticed the basement door—usually closed tight—was cracked open by a few inches. A warm, yellow strip of light fell across the dark hardwood floor of the hallway.
I paused, assuming Trent or Allison was down there looking for old holiday decorations or camping gear. I pushed the door open softly.
"Trent?"
No one answered.
I descended the carpeted stairs, the air growing cooler and smelling faintly of fabric softener and old paperbacks. The basement was fully finished, featuring a large rec area with a sectional sofa and a television on one side, and a partitioned bedroom alcove on the other.
Marjorie was sitting on the edge of the twin bed, methodically folding hand towels into crisp, uniform rectangles.
I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand gripping the wooden banister.
"Marjorie?" I blurted out. "I didn't know you were staying tonight."
She looked up, her expression calm, devoid of any guilt or surprise. She wore a faded floral nightshirt and fuzzy slippers. "I stay every night, Paula."
I blinked, assuming she was making a joke about babysitting late. "Oh, you mean you've been watching the kids this week? Must be a big help."
She shook her head slowly, smoothing a white towel across her knee. "No. I live down here."
The words didn't compute at first. My bookkeeping brain tried to run an audit on the statement and found zero matching data points.
"Since when?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
"Last summer."
Fourteen months.
I looked around the room, really looking for the first time. There were framed photographs of Allison, Trent, and the kids on the small wooden dresser. A pair of worn orthopedic walking shoes lined neatly under a metal chair. A faded patchwork quilt I dimly recognized from Allison's old apartment draped over the foot of the bed. A television remote control on the nightstand next to a paperback novel with a bookmark wedged halfway through.
Not temporary guest-room belongings. Life. Permanent, settled life.
"Oh," I said, the word feeling small and useless in my mouth.
Marjorie folded another towel, placing it neatly on top of a growing stack. "Nobody told you?"
"Apparently not," I said stiffly.
May you like
She offered a dry, knowing chuckle. "Welcome to the communication department of this household."
I excused myself quickly, mumbled something about a phone charger, and climbed the stairs as if walking through deep water.
