Dwayne Johnson and the Creaky Door

DWAYNE JOHNSON AND THE CREAKY DOOR

CREAK.

I looked towards the basement door, and watched as it slowly swung open. Aside from the mundane thought that I needed to oil that hinge, I was confused, and a bit unsettled That door had never just opened itself. If anything, it stuck in the summer when the humidity caused the wood to swell. It didn’t just open spontaneously. 

It opens right into the stairs, and if you aren’t paying attention, you end up in a heap on the basement floor. That’s why I have a four inch barrel bolt attached to the top of my door for the very rare times that children come over for a visit. I can’t have my friends and their kids falling down the stairs, ending up in a broken pile at the bottom.

I was sure that the bolt had been in the locked position. I never leave it open. It was a habit. One of those things that you do all the time, even when it wasn’t necessary—like using your car’s turn signal when there’s no one behind you.  

But here it was, open.

So, I got up slowly and walked towards the door. I was a bit trepidatious. It was late, I was alone—except for my cat Dwayne (my last name is Johnson, how could I not?). The basement was dark. I ran my hand across the wall, found the switch and toggled it up. The light came on.

Nothing unusual. Just worn wooden steps leading down to my washer, dryer, freezer and my ancient soapstone laundry tubs. I sniffed (I have no idea why)—dust, soap, dryer sheets, and a faint underpinning of damp.  

“Hello!” I called. “Anybody down there?” I don’t know what I would have done it someone—or something—had answered. But there was nothing. Just the low hum of the freezer motor, and the ticking of my furnace.

I’m not going to lie. For about half a second, I considered going down to check it out, then I mentally slapped myself. Has anything good ever happened to any character in any horror movie, or any horror book, who goes down into the basement? That’s a hard no. Never.

So, I did what every rational person living alone has done when their basement door mysteriously opened on its own. I slammed it shut, and slid the barrel bolt into place and pulled the little knob down into the locked position.

I turned around and started. There was Dwayne, silently watching me while sitting on the counter.  

“What?” I said, trying to look annoyed.

She just jumped off the counter and sauntered away. Did I mention that Dwayne’s a female? No? Well, she is. Like I said, how could I not name her Dwayne Johnson?

So, full disclosure—because I don’t want there to be any confusion—I shoved one of the kitchen chairs under the door knob, because I am a coward. I wasn’t sure whether it actually worked, or if it was just something that I’d seen on television. But, no stone unturned, right?

The next morning I’d almost forgotten about the door, and was a bit startled when I walked downstairs and saw the chair jammed under the knob. I’d forgotten about my late night doomsday prepping. Then I was unexpectedly relieved. The chair was exactly where I had left it. Phew.

Dwayne wove between my legs and meowed, her not-so-subtle reminder that it was breakfast time, and the tin wouldn’t open itself. 

“Hungry?” I asked. She just looked at me with her RCF—resting cat face. You know the one—contempt mixed with exasperation. The one that silently says, “and you’re supposed to be the superior being?”

I filled her bowl, and put it down on the floor, much to Dwayne’s chagrin. In a perfect, Dwayne-centric world, her food would be served on the kitchen island, allowing her to survey all that she considers hers, and as an added bonus, allowing her to push her empty bowl off the counter to clatter on the floor—or break into a million pieces like the first and only iteration of her ceramic food bowl. In a Calliope Johnson world, though—read real world—Dwayne eats on the floor. She may or may not have harrumphed me before walking to her bowl to eat, tail in the air.

While Dwayne was eating, and before I made my morning tea, I walked over to the basement door and removed the chair. I even pooh-poohed myself for being such a scaredy-cat (no offence Dwayne). I was just about to unlock the door, when Dwayne was standing at my feet, meowing. Then she leaned against me on her back legs and and meowed for me to pick her up. Which I did, of course.  

I forgot about checking out the basement.  

Instead, I made a cup of tea, walked into the family room, and brought up the day’s newspapers on my tablet so that I could read about all the things I was sure were the cause of my low-grade anxiety. Dwayne made some biscuits on my lap, and settled in for a nap.

Later, when I went to get another cup of tea, and to make myself some breakfast, I glanced at the basement door. I mentally shrugged. I was more hungry than curious, so breakfast it was. The basement could wait.

But the door did open yesterday, right? I’d seen it myself. I wasn’t imagining it, was I?

Then the day got away from me. I needed to get some gardening done before the cold weather rolled in, so I opened the kitchen window that allowed Dwayne direct access to her catio. Of course she has a catio—an engineering beauty with a bunch of levels, a tunnel and a plethora of cat toys mounted to the sides. It beats having to walk her on a leash—at least it beats the one time I tried to walk her on a leash, an activity that is never to be repeated.

Charlie dropped over. I consider Charlie my ride-or-die. Charlie considers himself “Calliope’s person.” We’re mostly serious.

He came over with take-out from the shwarma place that’s a couple of blocks from me. We had dinner in the family room, plates on our laps, Dwayne begging Charlie because she knows that he’s a pushover. I reminded him that the chicken was too spicy for Dwayne. I swear she gave me the evil eye, and would have flipped me off if she had fingers.

We watched a couple of episodes of Stranger Things. Maybe that wasn’t the best choice. Maybe watching a scary show made me see stranger things where there was nothing. Or maybe it just made me see things better.

The next morning, Charlie was up first, making me a tea, and himself a coffee. When I walked into the kitchen the first thing that I noticed was that the basement door was cracked open. Not a lot, maybe enough for a cat to slip through. I say that because at that moment Dwayne came tearing up the steps followed by a cold breeze. She hid behind my legs, caterwauling the same way she does when I accidentally step on her tail.

“What the hell?” I said looking at Charlie. “Did you let her down there?”

He shook his head no.

“Was the door open when you got up?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice.” He put down the cups he was carrying on the kitchen table, and said “I’ll go check the basement.”

As he walked towards the basement door, Dwayne hissed and yowled.

“Maybe I should come with you,” I said, hoping he’d say no.

“I’m fine,” he said. He opened the door all the way, turned on the light, and looked down the stairs.  

I walked over and joined him at the top of the stairs. I gotta admit, my heart was hammering.

“You sure?” I said. “I can come down, too. It’s my basement. I’ll know if something’s wrong.”  

He looked at me. “If you want.” I did not “want” but my big mouth got the better of me.

You know how they say every person has the fight or flight reaction? I am definitely a flight person, so I had to steel myself to go down to the basement with Charlie, and not flee out of the house.

As we crept down the stairs, I looked back up at the relative safety of my kitchen. Dwayne was poking her head around the corner, intently watching us. Usually she’d follow us down. Not today.

When we got to the bottom, the first thing I noticed was the freezer door was wide open, and there was a frozen turkey on the floor. I have an upright freezer, and this is not the first time I have found it open. Dwayne took great joy in opening the door by clawing at the bottom, and noshing on whatever was in there. A number of times I’ve found a frozen loaf of bread with gnaw marks on it, and Dwayne looking nonchalant.  

“I think Dwayne opened the freezer, and the turkey fell out,” I said.

Charlie nodded, bent over and picked up the bird, handing it to me. “I hope it didn’t hit her.”  

I stuffed it back in and shut the door, promising myself I’d get some sort of latch to keep Dwayne out. We checked the rest of the basement, and everything seemed to be as it should. Sorta. All of a sudden my unremarkable unfinished basement was a creepy cavern below my house.

But still the question remained. How did the basement door open?

That night after Charlie went home, we were asleep in my bedroom—me on my side hugging a pillow, Dwayne draped over me like she was a blanket—when she jolted awake. Which meant her claws extended into my body.  

“Ow!” I said, wide awake. It’s amazing how fast a person will wake up when stabbed with eighteen needle-sharp cat daggers.

Then I heard the thump. Dwayne and I looked at each other. Remember the fight or flight response? Well, there’s a third response, and it’s freeze. That was me. My eyes were huge, my heart was hammering, my hands were shaking. I couldn’t move. Someone was in my house. 

Dwayne retracted her claws (thank you), and laid back her ears. She started a quiet hiss. Crouching low, she slunk across the bed and jumped to the floor, heading for the door.

“Stop, Dwayne,” I hissed back at her.  

She didn’t listen. I know, I know, she’s a cat and doesn’t listen to anything I say, but, I was serious. I had no idea who or what was down there, and my cat was being the bravest being in the house.

So, against my better judgement, and every horror movie or book, I got up to follow my brave little cat.

Why didn’t I call nine-one-one? I have no idea. But I did grab my phone.

As we crept downstairs, both of us avoiding the middle of step six, I could hear the sound of the barrel bolt sliding back, and the creak of the basement door opening slowly. I heard footfalls on the wooden stairs. 

I rushed into the kitchen, slammed the door, threw the lock, and called the police. 

At least that’s what I did in my mind.

In the real world, I did run in, but too fast, and the man—I could see it was a man—was still on the top stair and tried to push the door back open before I could slam it shut. I had my back against the door, pushing with all my might.

A hand snaked out through the opening, punching at me. I was losing the battle of the basement door, and the man’s body was partially into the kitchen That’s when Dwayne leapt into action. She launched herself at our invader, all claws and teeth, slashing, biting, yowling, and hissing. The man screamed, and pulled his hand and body back towards the stairs. I slammed the door.

But Dwayne was still attached to the man, scratching and biting. Both were screaming.

I opened the door to save my cat, only to see the man stumble backwards down the stairs. Dwayne rode him like a surfboard, still scratching and hissing. When he hit the bottom, Dwayne did a one-eighty in the air and bolted up the stairs. Once she was in the kitchen, I slammed the door, locked it, and called nine-one-one. As we waited for the police I could hear a low moaning from the bottom of the stairs. At least he wasn’t dead. I held Dwayne. We were both shaking.  

The police arrived in about five minutes. It seemed like five hours. Two officers went to the basement, guns drawn. Paramedics were called. The man was carried up the stairs on a stretcher and out to a waiting ambulance—broken leg and a plethora of cat scratches and bites.  

Police told me that he’d been breaking into my house to go into my basement. He’d done it three times already. 

“Why?” I asked, completely baffled. “For the frozen turkey?”

The two officers looked at each other, then back at me.  

The older one spoke up. “He said the basement called to him. Or, rather, what was under your basement floor called to him. It told him he had to go to the basement, and stop the cat.”

I looked at Dwayne, back on her perch on the island, cleaning her face. Probably getting rid of the residual intruder in her fur and claws.

“Stop the cat?” I said, completely confused and creeped out. “What do you mean, ‘stop the cat?’” I asked, furious that someone—something—wanted to hurt Dwayne.

The younger officer spoke up. “He had to sacrifice the cat,” she said. “Then the portal would open up under your house.”

“Portal?” I said, feeling like I had just taken a giant step left of reality.

The younger officer looked sheepish. “Yes. Like a hell-mouth. The intruder said that under your basement was a portal that would allow true evil back into the world.”

“And Dwayne is the only thing stopping evil from running rampant across the world?” I asked incredulously.

The older officer had that resigned I-thought-I’d seen-everything-until-tonight look on his face, and shrugged.

The younger officer spoke. “I guess. He was a little light on the details.” She looked at me. “He said that there would be others who would follow if he failed.”

Okay, I was officially spooked. “Did he say how many?”

She looked at me. “He said they were legion.”

Legion.

After they left, Dwayne and I were both standing, looking at the basement door, cordoned off with police tape. The forensics team on the way.

“Hell-mouth?” I asked her. She looked at the door, then at me.

The basement door slowly creaked open just a bit.