The basement is always cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes a home there.
A single, bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, its weak yellow light doing little to push back the shadows that cling to the corners. The room is small, maybe ten by ten. The walls are unpainted concrete, except for one.
The black wall. It’s not paint. It’s something else, something thick and sound-absorbing, like the inside of a coffin.
The only furnishings: a thin, stained mattress on the floor, and a toilet in the corner, rust staining the porcelain. And the phone.
A black rotary phone, mounted on the black wall. The cord is cut, dangling uselessly a foot from the receiver.
The Grabber
voice filters through the floorboards above, muffled but distinctYou’ve been quiet today, boy. That’s good. Quiet is good.
The floorboards creak as he moves. A heavy, patient tread. The sound of a belt buckle clinking against itself.