The Lattice of the Basement Window

For the past three mornings, I have found my work boots stacked one on top of the other, soles aligned, toes pointing toward the basement door. It’s a small, almost insignificant detail, but it’s wrong. I never stack my boots; I kick them off at the back door like anyone else. The first time it happened, I chalked it up to sleepwalking or just a strange coincidence. But then it happened again, and again. Each time, the toes pointed to the same door, the one that leads down to the cellar in our hundred-year-old farmhouse.

Last night, I had a dream that I was standing at the top of the basement stairs, looking down into the black. I couldn’t see the bottom, but I could hear a faint, rhythmic scraping, like something was being dragged across the concrete floor. I woke up with a start, my heart hammering. My wife, Clara, was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide. ‘You were moaning,’ she said. ‘I thought you were having a nightmare.’ I told her about the dream, and she shuddered. ‘It’s just the house settling,’ she said, but her voice was thin. We’ve been here for five years, and we’ve never had any trouble, not like the stories I’ve heard about this place. The previous owner, old Mrs. Havelock, died in the basement. They said she had a heart attack, but the neighbors whispered she was scared to death by something she saw down there.

The third morning, I decided to check the basement. I’d been avoiding it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wanted me to go down there. I opened the door and flipped on the light. The bulb flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the stairs. I descended slowly, each step creaking under my weight. The basement was cluttered with old furniture, boxes, and a coal furnace that hadn’t been used in decades. At the far end, there was a small window set into the wall, its glass coated with grime. That’s when I saw it: a pair of my boots, stacked neatly, toes pointing at the window. I hadn’t put them there. I was wearing my slippers.

I felt a cold draft seep through the basement, and I heard a faint scraping sound, like something dragging across the concrete. It was coming from behind a stack of boxes. I pushed them aside, revealing an old door I’d never noticed, half-hidden behind a dusty workbench. The handle was rusted, but it turned. The door swung open to reveal a narrow crawlspace, barely wide enough for a man. Inside, I could see a lattice of old roots and cobwebs, but at the end, there was a small, glinting object. I crawled in, my heart pounding. It was a child’s shoe, a single, worn leather shoe, covered in dust. Next to it, carved into the dirt, were the words: ‘I see you.’

I scrambled out, my breath ragged. I ran upstairs, past a startled Clara, and into the kitchen. I grabbed the phone, but I didn’t know who to call. I stood there, staring at the basement door, when I noticed my boots were no longer stacked at the bottom of the stairs. They were at the top, toes pointing toward the kitchen, toward me. I haven’t gone back down there since. I’ve boarded up the basement door, but last night, I heard a scraping sound coming from under the floorboards. And this morning, I found my slippers stacked on the kitchen table, toes pointing at the basement door. I don’t know what wants in, but I know it’s patient. It’s been waiting a long time, and it’s not going to stop until it gets what it came for.