Page 63 of I'll Be Waiting

I peer around the basement, which is well lit, the bulbs overhead not even wavering. As spooky basements go, it’s kind of disappointing. Oh, the floor and outside walls are concrete, the inner ones drywall and tape. Those bulbs don’t have any fixtures attached. But it’s the cleanest—and emptiest—unfinished basement one could hope to find.

This first room is the one where they’d kept the washer and dryer. And there’s still a washer and dryer there, probably so the cleaners can whip through the bedding and towels faster by using both sets.

There’s a shelf with detergent, bleach, dryer sheets, and empty laundry baskets perfectly stacked. Otherwise, this room is empty.

I’m turning when I catch sight of a panel in the wall. A panel that looks a lot like the one on the dumbwaiter shaft. Because that’s what it is. The dumbwaiter would have been used for moving things from one floor to another, and one of the main things it would be moving is laundry.

I open the panel. It’s empty, of course. What did I expect? The front page of a twenty-two-year-old newspaper? Drops of blood?

I’m about to shut it when I remember something else that should be in there. The penlight I dropped. I use my cell phone to examine every shadowy corner of that space, and there is no sign—

Nope, there it is.

I didn’t imagine looking into the dumbwaiter shaft then. Just the part about seeing the newspaper and feeling blood drops.

I dwell on that for a moment before I scoop up the penlight, shake off my thoughts, and refocus on the basement. Doors lead to other areas on either side. When I’d been here with Anton, both had been locked, which made sense when the basement was only open for laundry access.

One of those doors is still shut. The other is cracked open.

As I pass the stairs again, I look up. Yep, the door at the top hasn’t mysteriously swung shut. I approach the partly open door down here with care, listening intently. Once I reach it, I knee it open and jump back. Nothing leaps out at me—or scurries away—so I reach in and flick on the light. Then I stay in the doorway and look around.

It’s exactly what the owner had said earlier. Extra storage. Outdoor furniture, folding chairs and folding tables, boxes labeledWINEGLASSESandLINENS. The house is available for events—dinners and small weddings—and here’s where they store the supplies. The door was open because, with the upstairs one now locked, there’s no need to secure this one.

I back out and shut the door behind me. Again, I check upstairs to be sure the main-level door is open. Then I continue to the closed basement one. I reach for the knob and turn, expecting it to stop, but it continues turning, unhindered by a lock.

I repeat my ridiculous “safe entry” routine. Knee it open. Jump back. Wait for noises. Turn on the light. Push the door wider open and survey from the doorway.

It’s the furnace room, which contains… Wait for it. The furnace. And holy shit, Anton was right—the thing is massive, taking up half the room. In fact, it seems to be two furnaces, one smaller and more modern and the other the ancient behemoth Anton remembered, complete with a door for shoveling in wood. There’s also a hot-water heater. Otherwise the room is empty.

Well, that’s underwhelming. Maybe there’s another door? The basement seems smaller than it should be.

Are you really looking for a secret room?

Not really.

Okay, kind of?

I return to the storage room, and I can see all four walls. Same as I can see the fourth wall in the laundry room—the other three holding the stairs and two doors. When I map it out, I must admit there isn’ta chunk missing. The basement seems small because the entire area hadn’t been excavated. It’s a perfect rectangle, comprising those three rooms.

Disappointing, indeed.

The only wall I can’t quite see is behind that monster of a furnace. I’m walking toward it when a scratching sound halts me. The sound stops, too. When I move forward again, I listen, but it doesn’t come.

I’m lifting my foot when I feel something under it. I lean against the furnace and raise my stockinged foot to find a piece of concrete from where the floors are crumbling. That must be what made the sound—the stone-sized piece scraping against the concrete floor.

Did it sound like that?

No, it sounded more like…

I’m not even sure, but I don’t hear it again, so I chalk it up to the pebble. Then I catch another sound. This one soft but distinct.

A drip.

The very clear sound of a droplet plinking onto metal. I turn slowly, trying to track it… and my gaze lands on the hot-water heater.

Yep, the sound of water dripping in a room with a water heater. Shocking.

It didn’t seem to come from there, though. It came from closer to the furnace.

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