I Found a Monster in the Basement. There is no Basement.

I was an ugly little girl. Or maybe I was smelly. Maybe I had a sour look on my face.

The only thing I know is that I was somehow offensive to my classmates-- especially the bullies.

Most girls get their pigtails pulled by one boy who wants to get their attention.

Some girls get their pigtails pulled by every boy, get pelted with bits of gravel from under the swing set, get taunted with chants that are seldom clever but always cruel.

I was the second kind of girl.

Most of my childhood memories have mercifully faded into a sort of gray slush in my mind, but one memory stands out in clear and vibrant color, like a bloodstain on dirty snow.

It began with a whisper from underground.

I felt good that day. I had found a new place to hide during recess, an old corner behind the school that I had never seen before. I couldn't quite recall how I had gotten there, but it was secluded enough that I could barely hear the sounds of the other kids playing, which meant that it was perfect.

In that forgotten corner, sticking up out of the dead grass, was a little concrete building, the size of a small dog house. On top of the squat square of concrete was a wooden double door that had been padlocked shut.

I knew that it was a cellar door, and that it led to the basement of the school. But up until that day, I had never heard anything about the school having a basement.

I heard a soft, low whistling, and after a moment I realized it was coming from between the two wooden doors, a low whistle of air rushing through cracks.

The whistle stopped, and the whisper came.

"Little girl," it said.

Goosebumps spread from my low back to my shoulders, then rippled their way down my arms and legs. I didn't answer.

"Little girl," the voice repeated. It was cajoling, sweet, yet it made my stomach feel like bubbling mud.

"Yes?" I ventured, trying, in vain, to give my voice a boldness which I did not feel.

"What are you doing out here all alone?" it asked.

"I'm playing," I lied.

"No, you're not. Nobody comes here to play. This is not a playing place. It's a hiding place."

"Well, I'm hiding then. What difference does it make?"

"Only the difference between the truth and a lie," said the voice. "It's okay, you can hide here. I'm hiding, too."

"What are you hiding from?"

There was no answer. I was about to ask again, but the school bell rang, and I had to hurry off back to class. The path back to the schoolyard was long, and by the time I got to class, I was very late, and too out of breath to explain myself.

I was yelled at, but my knuckles were spared the thick wooden ruler that Ms. Everett wielded like a battle-axe.

I sat at my desk and tried my best to listen, but before long my thoughts were drawn back to the cellar.

The next time I saw it was several weeks later. I had searched for it every recess, in vain, only to find myself time and again at a dead end filled with overgrown weeds.

I finally found it by accident, when I was being chased by Bobby McNulty and his gang, who swore that when they caught me they would hold me down and take turns spitting on me.

Somehow, impossibly and before I knew it, I was back at the cellar.

There was the low whistle of air once more, but this time it was rushing inwards through the crack between the double doors. The padlock was gone.

"Welcome back," said the voice.

"Hullo."

"You found me again," it said. "I knew it wouldn't be long."

"How did you know that?"

"This is a hiding place," it said. "And you always need a place to hide."

"You're talking nonsense," I said. Somehow, I did not believe myself.

"Just because something does not make sense to you, that does not mean that it's nonsense. From my point of view, most of what your kind does is nonsense."

"Well, we agree on that," I said.

There was a moment of silence, and then the voice said, softly, "Marybeth?"

I had not told the cellar my name, But I answered all the same.

"Yes?"

"How would you like to not be lonely anymore?"

"I would like it very much," I said, surprising myself with my eagerness. "But Bobby will never let me be not lonely. He hates me, and all the other boys do exactly what he tells them."

"Hmm," said the cellar, in a throaty voice that was almost a growl. "Yes, Bobby McNulty, I know him. A mean spirit. He killed his poor, sweet wife just for talking back."

"You're talking nonsense again," I said. "How can Bobby McNulty even have a wife? He's only ten."

"He's ten to you," said the cellar. "But to me, time does not move in a straight line. It wiggles and jumps like little water droplets on a frying pan. I've got an idea about Bobby McNulty. Now, listen up."

I listened, and my stomach turned to water. Not in a million years would I be brave enough to do what the cellar had told me to do.

I left feeling terrified but strangely thrilled, my heart tingling with excitement at the prospect of ending my loneliness.

I resolved to wait until the perfect time, and hope that I was brave enough to do what needed to be done.

The perfect time came three days later, at recess--a split second where Bobby McNulty was alone. I had carried a stone in my pocket these past three days, just as the cellar had told me to, and now it ground against my finger bones as I gripped it tight, afraid that the sweat on my hands would somehow let it, and my chance for salvation, slip from my grasp.

"Hey Bobby!" I yelled.

He turned toward me with a questioning glance. I pulled the rock from my pocket, and launched it at his face.

The rock bounced off his forehead. He was stunned, in shock, maybe.

But once the blood began to flow, trickling its way down the bridge of his nose and dripping down his cheek, his expression turned to anger.

All he said was, "You're dead," before launching himself in a full bore sprint toward me. I turned, closed my eyes, and ran.

I ran until my lungs were bursting.

Suddenly, I slammed my shin into something hard. I flipped head over heels and tumbled across the soft grass. I opened my eyes. I had tripped on the cellar.

Bobby McNulty stood panting, red-faced, cutting off my exit. He stalked toward me.

The only warning was a low whistling sound, and then the cellar door sprang open.

What leapt out was blacker than black.

At first it looked like the shadow of a tongue. But then the tip of the tongue split open to reveal rows of churning black teeth.

The shadow mouth clamped down on Bobby McNulty, engulfing him from head to waist. It lifted him in the air. For a brief moment I saw his feet kicking at the sky, and then the shadow opened its maw and swallowed him whole.

I could see the silhouette of Bobby McNulty's fists as they pounded against the creatures throat, but not for long. With a great big gulp, he was gone.

The creature belched, and little Bobby McNulty's shoes fell out onto the grass.

It took a moment, or perhaps four or five, for my heart to settle down enough for me to speak.

"Y-you ate him," I gasped.

"Yes," said the creature. Its mouth did not move when it spoke. "I did. He was not particularly tasty."

"But what will happen now?" I asked. "People will come looking for him. Won't they find you?"

"No," said the creature. "Nobody will come looking for him, because there is nothing to look for. I ate him, his past, and his future, too."

"Isn't it wrong?" I asked. "To eat someone's future like that?"

"Perhaps," said the creature. "But I think of it as a trade. His future for yours."

I didn't know what to say.

"You should go," said the creature. "This place is a hiding place. It's not good to dwell here."

"Okay," I said, and then, "thank you."

I left. After a few steps, I turned to look at the cellar, but there was nothing there, only black, dead grass and Bobby McNulty's shoes.

I would be lying if I said that everything was fixed after that day. It was still picked on, still miserable.

But, it was just a little bit better. And, I guess, that was enough for a future.

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