The Basement

From what I remember, my parents were very loving of me when I was a kid. Though they were always incredibly busy with their work, they both still made me feel at home and loved. I never really new much about their lives outside our family too well, just that my mother was a teacher, and my father an accountant. They both worked full hours during the week, and so I struggled to see them very often and was mostly taken care of by various babysitters. My parents were also never really strict. In fact, there was only one rule that my parents enforced by far more than any other: never go into the basement under any circumstances. The door was locked with a combination that I was never told of. My first experience with my basement was at the age of five, when I noticed that the door was not locked for whatever reason. The door was much heavier than the rest in my house, and a foul and pungent odor permeated the air around me as soon as I opened it. A sense of trepidation grew upon me as I stared at the long staircase that winded down into the depths. The room was incredibly dark and quiet. I started my descent into the blackness when my mom came up from behind me and started to yell. She grabbed me by the arm and scolded me for what I had done. It was incredibly confusing to me, I had no idea what I had done to illicit such a response, especially since I never once seen her react in such a slew fashion. Nevertheless, she told me to never go down there again, and that it was not safe for me. Even though I was extremely curious as to what she was hiding down there, I never disobeyed, as I had thought that it could not be for nefarious reasons. And for three years of my life, I never once stepped into that basement. Strange men and women would sporadically come into my house on weekends to talk in the basement with my parents. At times I would try to listen in on their conversations, but it was to no prevail as the door was soundproof. However, when I turned nine, one day I was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of a faint noise. The noise resembled moans from a man. I did not think much of it at first, but it continued to keep me awake. I went downstairs to see what it was coming from, and then I noticed that the sound increased when I went towards the basement door. It was slightly open. Seems like my parents had forgotten to close it. Nothing would prepare me for what I saw next. My parents, along with a few others, were standing around a man who was pleading for his life. He no longer had any hands or feet as they had been visibly hacked off. As he pleaded for his life, I stood in silence, not able to move. I could not stop watching for another few minutes as my parents, wielding bloodied knives, simply stared at the pleading man. I quickly crawled my way back to bed, still hearing the muffled sounds. A few weeks later, my parents died in a car accident. I have kept this story a secret for many years and only now have mustered the courage to speak up.

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