Chapter 3 - The Dark Below
At the bottom of the earthen stairs, illuminated by the beam of my phone light, two figures huddled beneath a torn, dirty blanket beside an empty coal bin.
My father sat against the damp concrete wall, his white hair unkempt, his face hollow, pale, and covered in gray stubble. Beside him sat my mother, wrapped in an old winter coat, her eyes wide, glassed over, and confused.
“Dad... Mom...” I choked out, my voice breaking as I rushed down the rotting wooden steps.
I dropped to my knees in the dirt beside them. My father reached out with thin, trembling hands, clutching the lapels of my coat, pulling me close. He smelled of sweat, dust, and damp soil.
“Shawn...” my father wept softly, his body shaking against mine. “You came... oh God, son, you came home...”
“I’m here, Dad. I’m right here,” I whispered, tears spilling over my eyes as I wrapped my arms around both of them. “What happened?! How long have you been down here?!”
“Three days...” my mother murmured weakly, her voice thin and airy, barely above a whisper. She looked at me, but her eyes seemed to look right through me. “Shawn? Is it Christmas yet, baby?”
My heart shattered into a thousand pieces.
I looked around the small cellar. There was a single bucket in the corner, a gallon jug of tap water that was nearly empty, and a half-eaten loaf of stale bread sitting on a cardboard box.
No heater. No blankets other than the torn quilt. The temperature down here was barely thirty-five degrees.
“They locked us down here on Tuesday,” Dad rasped, coughing hard into his sleeve. “Greg... Greg said we were going to sign the house over. He said if we didn't... he would leave us here until we changed our minds.”
A cold, terrifying fury took hold of me. A rage so deep and dark that for a moment, I couldn't even breathe.
“Brenda...” I whispered.
Dad grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly tight despite his weakness. “She helped him, Shawn. She’s been taking the money you sent every month. She spent it all on Greg’s debts. When the bank threatened to foreclose on the house... they wanted to sell it out from under us.”
I helped my father stand up. His legs were shaking, barely able to support his weight. I lifted my mother into my arms—she felt impossibly light, like a bundle of dry twigs—and carried her up the wooden stairs into the warmth of the kitchen.
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When we stepped out of the pantry, Brenda was standing near the front door, holding her car keys, her handbag slung over her shoulder.
She was trying to run.
