The Blueberry Box

I remember it was a school morning. I don’t have the exact date, but I do know it was a Tuesday, at 6:38 AM. My brother Felix and I were running late, as usual. We had just fifteen minutes to get ready and catch the bus, so we decided on a quick breakfast of frozen waffles. Our house had a basement, just like the old one, but this one was different. It was a narrow, windowless space with a low ceiling, and the only light came from a single bulb at the foot of the stairs. We always kept it on, even during the day, because the dark down there felt thick, like it could swallow you whole.

We clattered down the wooden steps, our footsteps echoing in the cramped space. The basement was divided into two areas: the main room where we kept the freezer and shelves of canned goods, and a small alcove to the left that held the fuse box and a pile of old suitcases. Our bedroom was up the stairs, on the main floor, so we only went down there for food or laundry. Felix pulled the freezer door open and grabbed the last box of blueberry waffles. ‘Got it,’ he said, and we turned to head back up.

As I took the first step, Felix flicked the light switch off. ‘Hurry up,’ he muttered, his voice tight. He shoved the box at me and started racing up the stairs, glancing over his shoulder. I followed, my heart pounding. We’d both always hated that basement, but today Felix seemed extra jumpy. At the top, he slammed the door shut and locked it. ‘Why’d you turn off the light?’ I asked. He just shook his head, his face pale. ‘I don’t know. Just felt like something was watching.’

We ate our waffles in the kitchen, but the taste was off. The blueberries were bitter, and the syrup did nothing to mask it. I checked the back of the box: the expiration date had faded, but the brand name was ‘Harvest Morn’—we’d never heard of it. Felix poked at his waffle. ‘Where did we get these?’ he asked. ‘I thought we had the blueberry ones from last week.’ I shrugged. ‘Maybe Mom bought them.’

That evening, when I went to throw away the empty box, something fell out from the cardboard flap. It was a small, folded piece of paper, yellowed and brittle. I unfolded it, and in shaky handwriting were the words: ‘Don’t eat the blue ones.’ I stared at it, a chill creeping up my spine. I called Felix over. He read it and frowned. ‘Blue ones? The blueberries? They’re all blue,’ he said. We looked at each other, and the same thought crossed our minds: we’d eaten two waffles each.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt a presence in the room, like someone was standing over my bed. At 2:17 AM, I heard a noise from the basement—a faint scraping, like something being dragged across concrete. I woke Felix, and we huddled together, listening. The noise stopped after a minute, but then we heard a voice, low and raspy, coming from the vent that led down to the basement. It whispered, ‘Did you enjoy your waffles?’ We didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, we told our parents. They dismissed it as our imagination, but they looked uneasy. Mom said she’d bought those waffles at a yard sale—she forgot where. That comment made my stomach turn. Felix and I decided we’d go down to the basement, armed with flashlights, to see if there was anything wrong. We found the freezer door slightly ajar. Inside, tucked behind a bag of frozen peas, was another box of waffles, same brand, with a torn corner. This time, the note was still inside, but it was a drawing: a crude smiley face with teeth, and below it, ‘More for later.’

We tried to leave, but the basement door at the top wouldn’t open. We were trapped. The lights flickered, and in the corner, near the fuse box, a shape began to form—a tall, thin figure, with arms that stretched too long, and a head tilted at an unnatural angle. It stepped forward, and as it got closer, I saw its face: it had blueberries for eyes, and its mouth was full of teeth, stained blue. I screamed, and Felix shoved me toward the stairs. We fought with the door, and just when I thought we were done for, the door swung open, and we tumbled into the hallway.

We told our parents everything, but when they went downstairs, there was nothing there. The freezer was empty, and there was no note. They thought we’d made it up, so they forced us to go to school. But as we sat in class, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was still there, under the school, under the ground, waiting. That night, when I got home, I found another note on my pillow. It said: ‘I live under your bed now.’

We never saw the blueberry wrappers again, but every night, I hear a faint scraping from below, and the smell of burnt sugar and blueberries fills my room. And I know—that thing, whatever it was, is still down there, patient, waiting for us to be brave enough to go back. But we never will.