by Jean Martin
My husband always said I was foolish. “There’s nothing in the basement at night that isn’t there in the daytime.”
Our basement is a cellar, not a carpeted play space—even with the lights on, you can’t see what’s in the corners when it’s dark.
I don’t like it. It scares me.
My husband went down the basement last night to get a screwdriver.
I found him this morning at the foot of the stairs, with his throat torn out.
Once the estate is settled, I’m selling the house. Meanwhile, I’m living at my sister’s—she doesn’t have a basement.
A long-time fan of Sherlock Holmes, Jean Martin is a single lady, currently stuck at home in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, which is in the Monongahela Valley. She has been writing fiction for longer than she cares to admit and has talked to channellers, psychics, vampirologists, Anne McCaffrey, and some lesser-known authors.