Evil in the Basement

I think we are between Green River and Moab, on Hwy 666, when the Schlitz malt liquor really kicks in. I'm in the back seat with a large, sweaty, unattractive kid. He might be 17 or 18. How I got here is fuzzy.

It started out to be a fun night, riding with my older cousin. She's 16, two years older than me, and has her own car.

I remember drinking something clear and hot and then, the beer. The next thing I remember I'm in the back seat in some other car. This boy and I, still together, riding with the windows down, night air cool. We are sticking our heads out the windows and laughing.

The driver sees us and hollers, "Get your asses back in the car!"

This makes us laugh even harder. We're obedient, though. I'm hoping the driver is not as wasted as I am. He's obviously a teenager. Oh, I remember now, Anna asked him to take me home. She sticks me with this kid in the backseat and dumps me with this other kid. Before I call her a cunt, which is what I'm thinking, someone hands us another beer and sweaty kid opens it. We take turns guzzling from the cool tall can, beer going everywhere.

Suddenly, we are entangled; lips, arms and legs. We kiss and kiss for miles, his lips surprisingly delicious. I find that, in my half conscious state, I really like him. Next thing I know, the sun is coming up and I am home. I feel disgusted and quite sick. I'm still a virgin, of that I am sure.

The car has stopped in front of my house, the chilly stone structure, where I live with my mom. I practically roll out of the car, unable to stand, I crawl up the steep grassy hill, my hands and knees wet from the dew, pure and sweet, reminding me it's Sunday. I look up at the house, evil faces in the stone pillars, grinning at me. My stomach twists and I retch. Dry heaves. So very thirsty, but I still cannot go in. Instead, I turn on my back and fall asleep in the yard.

It must be several hours later because the heat of the sun on my face wakes me up and I slowly climb the front stairs to the porch and go inside to lie down on my bed. Mom is still not up yet.

The house did not want us there. I knew it from the first day we moved in. I could not go down the stairs to the basement. I soon found out about the two dogs, big dogs, black dogs, dobermans. Left behind by former tenants, locked in the basement to die, their angry spirits still lingered. I smelled it when I opened the basement door and I felt the damp, cold air circle around my ankles. After Aunt Mona told us about the dogs, the presence became colder and more revolting. I never saw it but imagined it when I tried to fall asleep at night. It took on the shape of curvy black skeletons and swirled up the stairs and into my dreams.