The SWAMP REVIEW
What Lurks Beneath
by Jonas Grosvenor
“I just don’t understand. Why in the nine hells are you down there?”
“Look, it doesn’t matter. I just need you to open the hatch for me.”
“Did it get jammed shut when it slammed down or something? It sounds like I should get help, may be hard to pry open.”
“No, no. It just doesn’t have a latch on the inside, and the thing locked itself when it closed, you gotta open it for me and it’ll be all clear from there.”
‘Fine. I’ll swing by and open it.”
“Thanks man, it smells like mold and shit down here.”
I hung up on him. It felt odd. I hadn’t seen him in months, last time was shortly after he moved into that house. Previous owner disappeared, if I recall. Blood was found, never a body. Drove the price down. Only way he could afford the place, with how the market is now. Strangely, though, I don’t recall there ever being a hatch in the basement when I came over to check the place out. Not that it was out of the question. The basement was an absolute mess, trash scattered upon every section of floor the eye could possibly fall upon. Who knows what lurked beneath it all? Cain, probably. He would’ve cleared it out by now.
I went to grab some things before I went. I wondered to myself what I’d need. It’d be late by the time I got there, so I threw a flashlight in. Old, dim, cuts out sometimes, but still usable. I figured I wouldn’t really need anything else, but just in case, I went to my garage. Musty and dark, as always. There was a tool chest left of the doorway; rusted. I pulled with all my might, and the drawer I needed broke free. There were plenty of hand me downs and found objects in there, but the only thing of note to me was the crowbar inside. Once bright red, paint chipped with use. Just in case the hatch was jammed.
I walked out to my car. An old Saturn, bought 2 weeks ago. Last car got stolen, taken away in the night while Mr. Sandman forced my eyes shut. Had all my old CDs in there. I shook the thought from my head. Irrelevant. I tossed the crowbar in the trunk and drove off. I debated on whether or not to turn the radio on. Didn’t really feel like the time, but I always hated driving in silence. I decided to see what was on 101.5, the go-to station of mine. It was on a commercial break. I decided it was a sign and turned it back off. Better the crushing weight of silence than being preached to by personal injury lawyers.
I arrived. The sun had finally given up and was drifting lazily down the horizon, until eventually with renewed vigor it would rise once again, cycle in perfect place to begin anew. I looked at the fence. White picket, once upon a time. Now, in ruin. Half the posts were downed, all but a few specks of paint had chipped off and been swept away by the winds of time. I looked at the yard. Overgrown. The grass ran a foot high, clearly having been neglected since the day he moved in. I looked at the house. The windows were coated in dust, the gutters were stuffed with an entire season’s worth of dead leaves, and the sound of silence hung heavy in my ears. Odd. Cain was always a neat freak, and would’ve died before he let his home sink this low into disarray.
I walked up to the front door. As abandoned as the rest of the house was. I gripped the doorknob, turned.
Or so I expected. In reality, the door was locked. I looked down for a welcome mat concealing the key, but no such luck. The stone was bare. I looked around for a pot or out of place rock or anything that could be a place to hide something under or in, however there was simply nothing that would be of use. I reached into my pocket for my phone, intending to call him and ask if there was a hidden key anywhere, and yet all my fingers touched was fabric.
I walked back into my car and searched the interior, but I found nothing. Clearly, I had left it at home, forgetting it as I was preparing to leave. As I stepped back and tried to summon a solution to my conundrum, my eyes fell upon the trunk. The crowbar. I walked to the trunk and popped it open, grabbing the crowbar within. Weighty. Stiff. Perfect.
I walked back to the front door. I considered attempting to pry it open, but that was really just a waste of time. Walking three paces to the right, I came upon a window. Tool of destruction in hand, I braced myself, brought the instrument high and over my shoulder, and swung with all my might. With a loud shatter, the crowbar sailed clean through the glass. I spent a minute pushing glass out the frame, and then gingerly stepped inside.
The house was dark and the air was stale. I leaned my weapon against the wall, surely unneeded now that I had made my entrance into the home. Though, how much of a home was this, really? It was clear nothing in, on, or around the place had been cared for in months. In fact, moving boxes could still be seen. Only half unpacked, the place could not have possibly been lived in, especially not by my friend.
I pushed these thoughts deep down, where they’d never feel the light of day again. His apparent personality shift would have to wait to be explored until after he was rescued. Even as strange as this all felt.
I retraced old steps, making my way to the basement. All the while accompanied by boxes and cobwebs on my way through and down. Finally, I set foot on the basement floor. The place was a complete mess, garbage still strewn about, with a path cleared leading to the back of the room. Thankfully, no food waste or anything of the sort seemed to be down here, or else my nostrils would be assaulted beyond comprehension with how dank and old the hoard was.
I walked down the path. It didn’t take particularly long; it was only for a minute, but it felt like an eternity. The air was oppressive, and I had to take extra care to not trip over any stray trash. After I made the distance, I came upon it. The hatch. Unusually, it looked like it was once cemented over, recessed and hidden in the floor. The cement had been broken away, chipped, and smashed, leaving the hatch exposed. I knelt down. There was a small but sturdy looking latch, bits of grit still stuck to it, dead center of the hatch, other than that, nothing really of note, save for the fact it appeared rather heavy, made of thick steel.
I grabbed the latch and turned. It unlocked. As I grabbed the rim and heaved it open, a wave of stench and heat was released and laid siege to my olfactories. The smell was an unholy alliance of rot and sulfur, the air oven hot and truly hellish. There was a simple metal ladder leading down a concrete tube, down into complete and utter darkness.
“Cain?”
“CAIN?”
Nothing.
With no better options, considering I had no clue what kind of state he was in, I turned my flashlight on and started climbing the ladder, descending into the unknown.
With every step, every rung, the smell and heat worsened. The decay worsened steadily, making me want to retch and run away, despite the fact I was in a position that meant I physically could not run. The temperature rose and rose and rose. Hot. Sweltering. Boiling. The stone began to change in color, slowly shifting from gray to dark red. The walls almost seemed to bleed, seeping with an insidious crimson liquid. Eventually, I found the bottom.
I turned around.
I saw it.
A skeleton laid there, dressed up in the clothes of one I considered a friend, of one I trusted. Hunched over it was a figure. I didn’t see it long enough to truly understand what it was. It was tall. It seemed skinless. I saw teeth, long and serrated. I dropped the flashlight. It broke, light finally abandoning me.
I heard the hatch slam shut.
I turned back around and scrambled back around and scrambled back up the ladder. I went as fast as I possibly could, and went faster than that, and even faster still, to save myself. Ahead of the figure, I reached the hatch, my succor, my savior, my lifeline. I lunged for the latch, eager to escape, to break free, to live.
There was no latch on the inside.
Jonas Grosvenor is a senior at Decatur High School. He lives with his mother and grandmother in Federal Way, Washington. He has not had a story published before this.