text: Admittedly, this wasn't great. I stared at the cobwebbed ceiling of the basement as tremendous strikes of agony coursed across my back like a pissed-off thunderstorm. I suppose it was good that I was feeling something instead of nothing. I wiggled my toes -- Jesus, stupid, ah, dammit, ow -- and yes, they worked, despite the pain. Perhaps I should have waited for the kids to come home before venturing into the basement that I hate with all my heart and soul and that I'm honestly terrified of. It is filled with dust, spiderwebs, and bad memories. Oh, and the serving ware. I just had to store the serving ware down here instead of optimizing my kitchen cabinets so everything could fit. I made a mental note to clean the cabinets, assuming I would walk again. The kids think I'm ridiculous for hating the basement so much. They think I just hate dark places, or that being around their dad's stuff makes me sad, but they don't know what I know -- and I'm thankful for that. There's things kids shouldn't know. They laugh at me when I send them down into the basement to grab things, and I suppose I wanted to prove to them and to myself that I was just as ridiculous as they said. There's nothing down here but poorly-placed serving ware. It took me 30 minutes to gain the courage to open the basement door. It took me another ten to step onto the stairs. Then, another 15 to scurry down the steps like a frightened rat, race past my husband's old collectibles, snatch the serving ware from the cabinet, and bolt back up the stairs. It took 0.05 seconds from my foot slipping on the top step to the realization that there was nothing I could do to stop my fall, and 5 seconds for me to I tumble backwards down the steps into the cursed darkness once more. I really needed to optimize the kitchen cabinets. "Cathy?" I heard. It was a grating whisper, a voice drawn across sandpaper. I closed my eyes. *It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.* "Cathy... you're here." *Not real. Not real. Not real.* "Cathy, I'm so sorry. Please look at me." *Not real. Not real.* "Cathy, please. I'm so lonely." *Go away. Go away.* An icy breath cooled my ear, "I know you can hear me." "Leave me alone," I murmured. I kept my eyes closed. I've never looked at it, whatever "it" is. Something primal in my chest tells me it's a bad idea -- the same primal knowledge that screams for me to run, flee, hide, get the hell away. My back seizes up in pain. I can't move. "I just want to go home..." The voice sounded so sad and pitiful that I almost crack. "Won't you help me go home?" it said. My maternal instincts yearned to comfort, despite the fear and agony clouding each fiber of my body. "I just need you to look at me." One look couldn't hurt, could it? "Open your eyes, Cathy." Maybe if I helped it go home, it will leave me alone forever... "MOM! Did you pick up more snacks? My friends will be over in 10 minutes!" my daughter Olivia called. The front door slammed behind her. My heart leapt. I promised to never criticize her for slamming doors ever again. "Down here!" I yelled. I heard the top of the steps creak as Olivia finally saw me. "Jesus, Mom! Are you okay?" *I am now,* I thought as I felt Olivia's warm hands on my arm, as I heard her call an ambulance. The coldness retreated to the corners of the basement, but I could feel it watching. Waiting. One day I would crack. One day I would open my eyes and look.