The Basement

“I’m so glad you decided to rent the room,” Mr. Cheever told Ellen, his new tenant. “It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone in there and I really needed it rented out.”

“I’m just glad it was still available,” Ellen replied. “Apartments in the city are way higher than I expected. An entire three bedroom house was cheaper where I come from.” She smiled. “What amenities are included?”

“Amenities?” Mr. Cheever asked. 

“May I use the washer and dryer or do I need to go to the laundromat? Am I allowed to use the kitchen?” she clarified.

“Oh! Sorry, senior moment,” he said. “The washer and dryer are on the main floor and you may use them, just make sure to empty the lint trap and never leave your laundry unattended. If you start it, finish it. There is space in the cupboard for you and a shelf in the fridge. If you make a mess, clean it up. I don’t have a dishwasher.”

“That’s fine. I know how to clean up after myself. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Yes. Stay out of the basement. Under no circumstances are you to go in the basement.”

“Sure. No problem,” she said. “May I move in today? I keep my things in my car.”

“That would be fine. Welcome home. Payment is the first of the month, no exceptions,” he added.

She handed him a check and he folded it and placed it in his wallet. 

Ellen was startled by a knock at her door as she was getting ready for bed. Mr. Cheever called out from the other side. “Ellen? Are you decent? I brought you a cup of tea.”

She opened the door. “Why thank you. I would love a cup.” She took a sip. “Wow! That is good. What kind is it?”

“It’s just a special blend from the natural foods store. It’s supposed to help you relax for a better night’s sleep,” he told her. “I’ve used it for years. I figure with you being from the country the night sounds of the city might keep you up.”

“That was so thoughtful. You’re right. I haven’t been sleeping well since I left home, but you know how it is. If there aren’t any jobs where you live, you go where the jobs are.”

He nodded. “Yes, I know what you mean. Don’t worry about the cup tonight. You can take care of it in the morning. I’ll leave you to it then.”

Ellen woke up refreshed. She had indeed slept very soundly through the night. Man, I’m glad I found this place, she thought. 

It became a ritual. Every evening around nine Mr. Cheever brought her a cup of tea and she slept soundly, whereas she had never been one to sleep that hard before, hearing every creak of a floorboard or even the wind blowing gently through the trees – with the windows shut. 

One night she set the tea down on the bedside table and it got cold before she could drink it. It didn’t taste very good cold so she left it until morning. She did indeed hear every little sound. Mr. Cheever was in the basement doing something and he was none too quiet about it. Perhaps that is what the tea is about, she thought. He doesn’t want to keep me up with his midnight projects. “His house,” she muttered, “He can do whatever he wants.”

The next night as she was getting ready for bed one of her earrings rolled off the bedside table behind the headboard. She moved the table so she could reach the jewelry and glanced up behind the headboard. There was a book wedged between the board and the wall. She retrieved her earring and fished the book out. 

“Hmm,” she said reading the title of the book, which merely said ‘Journal’. At first she just opened it to see to whom it belonged hoping Mr. Cheever would be able to get it back to its owner. She saw a name inside the cover but then her peripheral vision caught a few words on the first page. She didn’t touch the tea as she settled into bed to read. 

The journal had been started six months prior to her moving in and ended abruptly after three weeks. Her hand covered her mouth as she fought to stifle a scream. 

The noise in the basement seemed suddenly louder than it had before and she tip-toed to the basement door and soundlessly opened the door. She peered down the concrete stairs and then as quietly as she could descended them far enough to see what exactly he was doing. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the old man. He was building a box that looked a lot like a casket and she clamped her mouth shut tight to keep from gasping. 

She forced her eyes away as she scanned the rest of the area. Hanging over a drain in the floor she saw a large chain attached to a floor joist with a large bolt. The chain had a hook on one end and the floor was stained red around the drain. There was a pegboard off to the left with assorted tools and knives. She turned and crept back up the stairs.

“Oh my god,” she said to herself over and over. “I can’t believe it.” She packed her bags quickly and included the journal. She thought to lock her door and retreated into the closet as she called the police. Whispering, she explained what she had found and that she was now hiding in the closet. The casket Mr. Cheever was building looked to be nearly complete. She was advised to get out of the house if at all possible and that a unit was on the way. 

She suddenly heard a sound like a lock being tripped and peeped through the levers on the closet door. “I can’t get away,” she whispered trying to keep her voice calm while she panicked inside. “He just let himself into the room.”

“Don’t hang up!” the operator said into the phone. “Whatever you do, don’t hang up!”

Ellen screamed as Mr. Cheever pulled the door open and she dropped the phone. 

“I see you have your bags packed,” he said. “Going somewhere?”

“My mom called,” Ellen lied. “She’s been hurt and needs me to come home. I was just making a reservation to fly home.”

“I never heard your phone ring,” he said calmly. “And, why are you in the closet?”

“I, I had it on vibrate so the ringer wouldn’t disturb you and I was in here so I would be quieter.”

Mr. Cheever picked up the phone. “Hello? Who am I talking to?”

The emergency operator quickly played along with Ellen. “This is Karen at the United Airlines reservations desk. I heard a scream. Is Miss Davenport all right?”

“Oh, yes, quite,” he answered, “I just startled the poor dear is all. She’ll have to call you back.” He closed the cover, hanging up the call.

Ellen’s eyes grew wide. “What did you do that for?” she asked him.

“You aren’t going home. I need your help with something,” he said. He grabbed her arm dragging her out of the closet and snapped handcuffs on her wrist before she could snatch it away.

Ellen fought back with her free hand and kicked at him but to no avail. He was surprisingly strong for his build and had her down the stairs and into the basement. He punched her in the face to make her quit fighting. The blow knocked her out. He then hoisted her up to the hook and chain over the drain.

Just as was selecting a knife the police snuck down the stairs and aimed their guns at him. “Halt or we’ll shoot!” one of them commanded.

When Ellen awoke in the hospital there was a detective waiting to speak to her. Ellen told him where to locate the journal in her luggage and he retrieved it.

He read it. “We’ve been looking for her for a while now.” He said. Her parents called in a missing persons report months ago. We’re going to have a forensics team check his place. There is no telling how many lives he’s taken or how many you saved by finding this and calling it in.”

Ellen cried.

The Christmas Tattle Tale

I don't know about you, but when I was a youngster I was devastated to learn there really wasn't a Santa Clause putting those presents under the tree. My sister gave it away. I guess I was lucky in that we actually got Christmas gifts. There are many children (and adults) who for economic or other reasons get no gifts and then when they go to school and hear about all the stuff other kids got it makes them sad and the other children are usually so excited they fail to notice that someone isn't sharing their Christmas experience.

Remember when you are out shopping to pick out a tag on a giving tree and fill the need, or donate to the Toys for Tots program or put something in the Salvation Army red kettles. Donating time at a homeless shelter or soup kitchen is also a good way of giving to those who have little or nothing during the holidays.

For a good historical account of Santa Clause across the globe, I found this site interesting:  http://www.lone-star.net/mall/main-areas/xmas-santa-origin2.htm 

THE CHRISTMAS TATTLE TALE

Pauley stared out the window of the bedroom he shared with his older brother Ted. The snow was falling lightly and the full moon peeked out from behind the clouds as they passed by. 

“Do you think Santa will be able to come through the snow?” Pauley asked Ted.

“Don’t be such a dork, Pauley.” Ted patted his back. “You’re seven now, it’s time you knew.”

Pauley turned to face his brother. “It’s Christmas Eve. Don’t call me names or you won’t get anything.”

“Pauley, there is no Santa Claus,” Ted told him.

“Is too!” Pauley said raising his little voice. “If there is no Santa, then where do the presents come from?”

“Mom and Dad,” Ted answered. I saw them putting them out last year. They didn’t know I was up.”

Pauley stuck his lower lip out and started to cry. “It’s not so. You take it back.”

“Little brother, you had to find out sometime. I can prove it. I know you won’t stay awake, but I can and I’ll wake you up when they put them under the tree.”

Pauley shook his head. “It’ll be Santa,” he said defiantly. He crawled into bed and rolled over towards the wall as his brother turned off the overhead light and did the same.

Ted woke Pauley as promised a little while later. “They’re putting out the presents,” he whispered.”

Pauley reluctantly climbed out of his bed and padded across the room in his slippers. They slowly opened the door and went to the stair railing that overlooked their living room and Christmas tree. 

“Now look carefully at the wrapping paper,” Ted whispered. “In the morning they’ll have tags from Santa on them.”

Pauley scowled at his brother and went back to bed. He slept fitfully and got up early. He sat quietly in his bed until Ted woke up too. “Can we go down now?”

Ted checked the Mickey Mouse clock next to the bed. “It’s six-thirty. I guess so. We usually do get up early on Christmas.”

“Why doesn’t it bother you that the presents are not from Santa?”

“Why should it? I got them anyway,” Ted answered.

The boys went to their parents’ room and tapped on the door and waited patiently for them to answer with a, ‘Come in,” or “Just a minute.” 

Their mom was smiling as she opened the door. “Are you boys ready to see what Santa brought you?” 

The boys went as fast as they could without getting scolded to be careful down the stairs and to the tree. Pauley started to cry as he picked up the first one he remembered from the night before and it was from Santa Claus.

“What’s wrong, Pauley?” his mother asked him. She looked at their father and shrugged.

“Ted is right,” he said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “There is no Santa Claus. We watched you put these under here last night.”

Their mother looked sternly at Ted. “Does someone need coal in his stocking?”

Ted looked down. “He needed to know,” he explained.

Their mom sat down next to them on the floor. She patted the floor for Ted to sit down, then she pulled Pauley into her lap. “Pauley, once upon a time there really was a Saint Nicolas. We call him Santa Claus. There is a long history of the story of Santa’s origins from different countries and their traditions are different, but here it is the giving spirit that endures. The story goes back to giving good children presents of toys and sweets, maybe some articles of clothing, or something useful to them, and the naughty children get switches or coal. Parents carry on that tradition to their children.”

She gave the boy a hug and dried his tears. Reaching behind her on the coffee table, she grabbed a tissue and handed it to him to wipe his nose. 

“Do you boys remember the reason we taught you for Christmas gifts? Santa is just a fun part of it,” their father asked.

Ted spoke up. “We give the gifts as a reminder of the gifts the three kings, or wisemen, gave Christ.”

“Good,” their father replied. “Now, no more peeking on Christmas Eve,” he directed. “And Ted, tattling is not nice, especially at Christmas,” he emphasized. “Now, I expect to see paper flying!”

The boys grinned and tore into their packages.

The Vet

“Fred, I’m sorry,” Blake, his supervisor told him. “You’re just too volatile. We have a lot of alarms on the machines in this plant and they go off frequently. You freak out every time, and then you start throwing things when someone says something about it. Ed had to restrain you today to keep you from hitting a fellow employee. We’re going to have to let you go.” Blake spun a piece of paper around in Fred’s direction and laid a pen across the pink sheet.

Fred sat, stone-faced, showing no emotion at all, as Blake stared at him expectantly. At last, he reached out, took the pen and signed the separation paper. He spun it back around to Blake so he could sign as witness and then stood up, shoulders back, chest out, chin up slightly, as he had for years when at attention in the marines, with his eyes straight ahead.

Blake stood up and motioned to the security guard in the outer office who had been watching through the window to come in. “Tom is going to go with you to your locker to make sure you clear everything out. Take everything with you, Fred. Because of your violent outbursts, you are no longer allowed on company property; not even to pick someone up. Do you understand?”

Fred gave a quick nod and turned to leave. He opened the door and waited for Tom, but Tom just pointed for Fred to go first. The lockers were near the employee entrance and the time clock. “Do I punch out before or after I get my stuff?”

“After,” Tom answered. “Leave the gear.”

Fred removed his wrist guards, hard hat, and safety glasses and placed them on the table. He pulled out his overcoat, ball cap, sunglasses, and lunch box. The locker being empty, he clocked out and was escorted to the parking lot. 

Fred climbed in his truck and started the engine. As he was about to back out he saw Tom step back and salute. Tom mouthed, ‘Good luck soldier’. He nodded and drove away.

Fred sat at his kitchen table with his head in his hands. He looked around the empty room that had once been filled with his wife cooking dinner while his boys did their homework. She helped them with it between stirring pots and flipping meat in the skillet. He studied the photograph of his wedding day, him in his dress uniform and her in that fabulous lacey white dress that came off so easily later that night. Fred closed his eyes as tears filled them and spilled down his face.

“I should just go on and get it over with. They’d be better off without me,” he said. “Where did she hide that gun?”

Fred heard a knock at his door. He sat there ignoring the knock, until it got more insistent. He pushed his chair over as he stood up. He stared down at it and then starting kicking it until it turned to splinters. He never heard the door open.

“Corporal!” he heard a voice shout. “Stand down!”

Fred stopped stomping what was left of the chair and spun toward the voice. He recognized the lieutenant from when he went to the base for reserve maneuvers. He stood at attention.

“At ease,” the voice said calmly. “Fred,” he said casually. “I got a call from someone named Tom Epps. He told me you have been having violent outbursts at work and today you lost your job. He was very concerned.”

“Yeah, well, did he tell you my wife left and took the kids with her too? It’s just a matter of time until the divorce papers show up,” Fred said angrily.

“No, but I’m not surprised. Didn’t you just get back from your fourth tour in Afghanistan?”

Fred nodded. “Yes, sir. They’re talking about sending us back in six months. I don’t blame Leslie for going. I’ve been sulking and angry. I break things. I yell and swear at the boys. I’ve broken dishes. The bedroom door is off the hinges. I think I’ll have to replace the frame to fix it.”

“Fred, I want to you check into the V.A.” Lieutenant Brown patted him on the shoulder and motioned for him to sit on the sofa. “Have you been having bad dreams? Do they wake you up? I understand the alarms at the factory spook you pretty good. You take cover and shiver in the corner. It sounds like you have PTSD.”

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?” Fred asked.

Lieutenant Brown shook his head. “Have you thought about killing yourself? Do you do it often?”

“Every day,” Fred admitted.

“Go pack a bag, son, before this gets any worse. I’ll go with you and make sure you get checked in.”

“Why are you so concerned, lieutenant?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been in your shoes. I’ve done seminars for company executives all the way to the security sector so they know what to look for. I’ve left my card around town. That’s how Mr. Epps got my number. He was worried you’d hurt yourself or your family.”

“I don’t know about PTSD, but I’ll go with you. It might show Leslie I’m willing to try to get help. Even if she doesn’t come back, maybe she’ll let me visit with the boys. Right now I’m not allowed to be with them unsupervised.”

“That is rough. They offer family therapy too so they can understand what’s going on with you.”

Fred let out a deep sigh and nodded. “Give me a minute.” He stood and went to pack a bag.

                                                            ***********

22 veteran’s commit suicide each day. Stop the cycle! Please visit these websites for further assistance in helping veterans.

Stop 22:  www.stop22.org

Veteran’s Administration Veteran’s Crisis Line: 1-800-273-82550(press1)

www.stopsoldiersuicide.org