Page 39 of Follow Her Down
The word isn’t spoken.It’s a pressure drop in the room, a sudden chill against the nape of my neck that makes the fine hairs there stand rigid.My shadow daddy.His disapproval is a physical thing, cold and damp as a cellar stone pressed against my skin.It curls around my ankles like mist.
“Morning to you too,” I murmur.
I pull on my legs slightly, and he reluctantly releases them.
The floorboards groan like old bones beneath my bare feet.I ignore the chill clinging to my legs and pad towards the hallway.The footprints are clearer here.Smudged, yes, but purposeful.They lead straight down the staircase to the first floor.
I follow and then stop where the footprints do—in front of the battered basement door.The one I’ve avoided since I moved in.The one nailed shut with planks warped by time and dampness.
I kneel and trace a finger along one smeared footprint.The texture is rough, gritty, like dried clay mixed with…something else.Iron.I bring my finger close to my nose.The scent is faint, buried under decades of dust and mildew, but it’s there.Old pennies.Old blood.Whoever walks my house at night leaves messages written in red ink.
Come down to the basement, the message reads.Come play with me in the dark.
Shadow Daddy’s presence intensifies, filling the hallway and darkening it.The air thickens, tasting of wet earth and the sharp tang of woodsmoke that always clings to him.
Careful.Sera.The unspoken words vibrate in the silence.
I lean my forehead against the cold, rough wood of the basement door.The planks feel like prison bars.Beyond them, the silence isn’t empty.It’s a held breath.A waiting mouth.
“Who’s down there?”I whisper, my breath ghosting white in the suddenly frigid air.“I need to know.”
I turn the knob.It’s stiff, unused for years, and groans in protest.The nails holding the planks screech as I pull, putting my weight against the stubborn wood.One plank cracks near the top hinge, sagging inward.
A puff of air escapes the gap—damp, sweet-rot thick, smelling of mushrooms and decay and something profoundly wrong.It coils into my lungs, tasting like spoiled fruit left in a crypt.
Sera.Shadow Daddy’s voice is a scrape against my mind now, urgent, tinged with something like panic.Careful.
Shadows writhe at the edges of my vision, tendrils of darkness reaching for my arms, trying to coil and pull me away from the door.They feel like cold silk against my skin, insistent as they slide up the legs of my shorts to rub and tease my pussy.
He can touch me all he wants, but he can’t hold me back.He can’t distract me, not when I’m determined.
“Curiosity didn’t kill the cat,” I mutter, shoving harder.Another plank gives way with a dry snap.“Annoyance did.Leave me alone for a bit, Daddy.I’ll fuck you in a minute.”
I wrench the door open just wide enough to slip through.The darkness beyond is absolute, thick as velvet.The smell intensifies, wrapping around me, cloying and rotten.It clings to the back of my throat.
I sprint back upstairs for my phone, thumb the flashlight on, and head to the basement again.The beam slices through the blackness, illuminating steep, narrow wooden stairs descending into oblivion.Dust motes swirl in the harsh light.The footprints are here, too, stark against the worn, unpainted wood of the steps.
They lead down, down, down.
I place my boot on the first tread, and it groans like a dying thing.The second step answers with a higher-pitched whine.The air grows colder with each descent, damp seeping through my thin sleep shirt.
The silence isn’t silence anymore.It’s a low hum, the sound of vast emptiness, punctuated by the frantic thudding of my own heart against my ribs.
Shadow Daddy’s cold presence presses against my front, a wall of icy dread trying to shove me back up the stairs.It feels like wading through freezing tar.
“Back off,” I hiss, gripping the splintered handrail.“I’m going.”
CAREFUL, he shouts, his full volume resonating inside my skull.
His voice sounds strained, frayed at the edges.
The beam of my flashlight trembles slightly with my next step down.The footprints seem to glow faintly in the phone’s glare, leading me deeper into the belly of the house.Into the place where things get buried.
Halfway down, the iron-and-clay smell is stronger.Underneath it, that sweet, sickly decay grows thicker, blooming in the damp air like a poisonous flower.My stomach clenches.I force myself onward.
The basement is larger than I expected, cavernous and low-ceilinged, the brick walls weeping dark stains.Cobwebs hang like decrepit lace from exposed rafters.Old furniture shrouded in dusty sheets hulks in the corners.The floor is packed earth, uneven and damp.The footprints fade here, swallowed by the dirt.
But my light catches something else.Shadows?Movement?
