The Basement Table

My father never spoke about the war, but he spoke about the things he saw as a boy, and I thought those were just tales to scare a kid into staying in bed. He’d tell me about the time his sister, Millie, who was eight, started floating above the Ouija board they’d bought from a department store, her eyes rolling back, and a man’s voice rumbling from her tiny throat. My uncles and grandmother would nod along, their faces solemn, but I’d just snicker. Ghosts weren’t real. They were just stories to explain the creaks in an old house.

Then we moved to Texas, into a house that had been a church before it was converted. The realtor called it ‘character,’ but the moment I stepped inside, the air felt thick, like walking through a spiderweb. The upstairs had been carved into two bedrooms and a shared bathroom, and my room faced the old bell tower, which was now sealed off. The basement, which had been the church’s fellowship hall, was walled off and locked, supposedly for storage, but I never saw anyone go down there.

The first night, I heard a sound like a heavy wooden table being dragged across concrete, coming from below. I thought it was my brother, but he was asleep in the next room. The next morning, I asked my dad about the basement, and he said, ‘Don’t go down there. The previous owner left some junk, but it’s not safe.’ His eyes had a faraway look I recognized from his ghost stories, and for the first time, a shiver ran down my spine.

Weeks passed, and the sound grew louder, more insistent. It wasn’t just dragging anymore; it was like someone was pounding on the floor from underneath. My parents seemed not to notice, but my brother and I exchanged glances at dinner. One night, I couldn’t sleep. The pounding was rhythmic, almost like a code. I got up and walked to the bathroom, and as I passed the mirror, I saw a flicker behind me. I spun around, but the hallway was empty. I laughed at myself, but the laugh caught in my throat when I heard a child’s voice whisper, ‘Let me up.’

I told myself I was imagining it, but the next day, I found a key on my desk. It was old and rusted, with a tag that said ‘Basement.’ I hadn’t put it there. My brother swore he’d never seen it, and my parents denied owning such a key. That night, I couldn’t resist. I crept down the stairs, my heart hammering, and inserted the key into the basement lock. The lock turned with a groan, and the door swung open to reveal a narrow stairwell leading down into darkness.

I stepped down onto a cold concrete floor, and my flashlight revealed a sight that made me drop it. The room was filled with old pews, stacked haphazardly against the walls, but in the center stood a long, rectangular table made of dark wood. On it were dozens of candles, all burned down to black stubs, and arranged in a circle was a Ouija board, not the toy kind, but something ancient, with symbols I didn’t recognize. And sitting at the head of the table was a man, or what had been a man. His skin was gray and withered, his eyes were like black pits, and his mouth was open in a silent scream.

I stumbled back, but my feet wouldn’t move. The man slowly turned his head toward me, and his mouth moved, but what came out was not a voice; it was a chorus of whispers, all speaking at once. ‘You came back,’ they said. ‘You always come back.’ I looked down and saw that the floor was not concrete; it was dirt, and the dirt was moving, writhing with things that I can only describe as fingers, pale and boneless, reaching up. I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

I don’t remember running upstairs, but I found myself in my room, the door locked, and the key gone. The next morning, I told my parents what I had seen, but they just smiled and said, ‘There’s no basement in this house, dear. You must have been dreaming.’ I looked at my brother, and he shook his head, confused. ‘We never had a basement,’ he said.

But I know what I saw. And every night, I hear the dragging sound, and sometimes, I see the man in the mirror, his black eyes staring at me, his mouth moving in that silent scream. And I know that one day, I’ll have to go back down there, because the table is waiting, and the dirt is hungry.