The Basement of Beulah Road

Beulah Road in Crayne was the place to be on Halloween night. Everyone from the county would drive up and down the stretch, honking, scaring each other, then head home to their cheap beer and cheap thrills. But on any other night, it was just a gray ribbon of asphalt with tired houses and long shadows. That’s where I found myself at 1 a.m. on a Tuesday, with my cousin Ray, both of us pretending we were tough and careless, looking for something to break the boredom of a dead-end town.

We’d been driving for an hour, talking about nothing, when Ray turned off the main drag and onto the old access road that looped behind the abandoned Becker place. I’d heard the stories — everyone had. The Beckers had lived there in the seventies, a quiet family that kept to themselves. Then, one night, the house went up in flames. The fire had gutted the top floor and the roof, leaving the brick shell and the basement intact. The official report said an electrical fault, but the town knew better. Old man Becker had been a sheriff’s deputy, and some said he’d used the basement for things that weren’t lawful. After the fire, nobody went near it, except maybe teenagers looking for a scare.

Ray killed the engine and the headlights. The sudden darkness was absolute, the only light a sliver of moon behind clouds. ‘You ever hear the full story?’ he asked, his voice low, as if someone might be listening. I shook my head, though I’d heard fragments. Ray leaned forward, eyes fixed on the black outline of the house. ‘Becker, he collected souvenirs from his time on the force. He kept them in the basement, in a locked room. But one night, his wife found something she shouldn’t have. He chased her through the woods back there, caught her by the old oak, and—well, they never found her. His son, he shot. But the daughter, he hung her from the tree in the backyard. The same tree you can see from here if you look.’

I glanced where he pointed, but the darkness was a wall. ‘And the fire? What about that?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Ray smirked. ‘The fire was Becker’s own doing. He was standing in the middle of the living room with a can of gas, muttering about how the basement was too crowded. Neighbors saw the flames and called the fire department, but by the time they got here, the house was a torch. Becker was found in the basement, burned beyond recognition. They said he was holding a picture of his family.’

I laughed, a hollow sound. ‘That’s some messed-up story, Ray. But it’s just a story.’ He didn’t laugh. ‘Maybe. But they say the basement is still there, and the door is unlocked. And sometimes, if you’re out here late enough, you can see a light flickering through the windows—like someone walking with a lantern.’ I shook my head, but a chill ran up my spine. ‘Let’s go look.’ Ray’s eyes widened. ‘You serious? I thought you were scared.’ ‘I’m not scared of a burned-out house.’

We got out, the car doors creaking in the silence. The air smelled of ash and rot, like something old had died and never stopped decaying. We walked up the cracked driveway, our footsteps loud on the gravel. The house loomed before us, its windows like empty sockets. The front door was gone, and the opening was a black mouth. Ray pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight, but the beam barely pierced the gloom inside. We stepped over the threshold, the floorboards groaning under our feet.

Inside, the house was a shell, charred beams and fallen plaster. The smell was worse, a mix of smoke, mildew, and something else—something metallic. Ray’s light swept across the walls, and we saw the staircase leading down. The door at the bottom was ajar. Without a word, we descended, our steps echoing in the stairwell. The basement was cooler, and the air was thick, almost suffocating. The flashlight revealed a concrete floor, a few overturned chairs, and a heavy steel door at the far end, slightly open.

We approached, and I could see rusted chains hanging from the ceiling, and stains on the floor that I didn’t want to identify. Ray pushed the door open, and it swung with a long, rusty creak. The room beyond was small, with shelves lining the walls. On the shelves were jars—dozens of jars, filled with something dark and murky. My stomach turned. ‘What the hell is that?’ I whispered. Ray stepped closer, shining the light on the jars. Inside, I could make out shapes—fingers, ears, and what looked like a human heart suspended in a yellowed liquid.

Ray backed away, his face pale. ‘We should go.’ I agreed, but as we turned, the light flickered and died. ‘Ray?’ I whispered. No answer. The darkness was absolute, and I could hear my own heartbeat. Then, a faint sound, like a child humming. It came from the far corner of the room. I froze. The humming grew louder, and then a girl’s voice, soft and clear: ‘You found my toys. Do you like them?’

I felt a hand grab my shoulder, cold as ice. I screamed and ran, stumbling through the dark, hitting the walls, until I burst through the steel door and up the stairs, into the open air. Ray was right behind me, and we didn’t stop until we were in the car, doors locked, engine roaring to life. We drove away without looking back.

The next day, we tried to convince ourselves it was a prank, a trick of the mind. But we couldn’t explain the scratches on Ray’s forearm, or the fact that when I got home, I found a jar in my backpack—a jar with a small, shriveled heart floating in it. And the humming hasn’t stopped since. It follows me now, in my dreams, in my waking hours, a constant, gentle lullaby from the basement of Beulah Road.