THE CELLAR

A Non-Story in Eight Scenes By Thomas Roland Johnson

Scene I: The Shudder

Ernie is retired, 68 years old and widowed. He lives a lonely life, rarely in his past—for much is obscured to him by age. His life is a boring, repetitious replay of the day before.

There is a break from the monotone.

Ernie shudders every time he walks past the cellar door. He does not know why. Perhaps it was those childhood stories—scary/funny because you knew how they would end. This was different. This was dark scary. The kind that claws at the back of your brain. Makes you want to wretch in fear; fear with no object.

That was the cellar.

Scene II: The Vigil

Ernie woke at 3:12 a.m. Not from a sound. Not from a dream. Just… woke.

The hallway light was off.

He sat up slowly, the way old men do—hands on knees, breath held, spine reluctant. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Not peaceful. Paused.

He shuffled to the hallway. The bulb above the cellar door was dark. He hadn’t changed it. He hadn’t touched it.

The door looked the same. But the air around it didn’t. It felt… thinner. Like something had passed through and taken part of the room with it.

He reached for the switch. It clicked. Nothing.

He stared at the knob. It was glistening. Not wet. Not oily. Just… aware.

Ernie turned away. He didn’t go back to bed. He sat in his recliner until morning, watching the hallway, waiting for the light to come back on.

It didn’t.

Scene III: The Erosion

At 4:07 a.m., Ernie stood in the hallway again. He hadn’t moved. He didn’t remember sitting down. But his knees ached, so he must have.

The door hadn’t opened. It hadn’t moved. But something had changed.

He felt it in his teeth. A low pressure. Like the house was holding its breath.

He reached for the knob. Not to open it. Just to touch it. To prove it was still a door.

It was warm.

Not body warm. Not furnace warm. Memory warm.

He pulled his hand back. It smelled like dust. But not from this house. From somewhere older.

He turned away again. But the hallway felt longer. The light from the living room—duller. The recliner—farther.

He walked. But the floor didn’t creak. It always creaked.

He stopped. Turned. The door was still there. But the knob was gone.

Just a smooth circle of wood. Like it had never been a door. Like it had never needed to be.

Scene IV: The Visit

Her name was Dr. Miriam Voss. Forty-three. Calm voice. Eyes like polished stone—reflective, not revealing.

She had listened. Not with sympathy. With precision.

“A man who fears madness,” she’d said, “is not mad. He’s lucid. And lucid men deserve answers.”

Three sessions later, she offered to come. To see the cellar. To face it with him.

Ernie agreed. Not because he was brave. Because he was tired.

She arrived at 10:02 a.m. Bright sun. No wind. The kind of day that makes dread feel out of place.

They stood in the hallway. The door was closed. The bulb above it flickered once, then held.

Dr. Voss placed a hand on Ernie’s shoulder. “Let’s open it together.”

He nodded. She turned the knob. It opened without resistance. Of course it did.

The stairs descended into a soft, gray light. No smell. No sound. Just the feeling. Like the air was watching.

Ernie stepped forward. One foot on the top stair. He gripped the railing. His knuckles went white.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

Dr. Voss smiled gently. “I’ll go. Just halfway. You’ll see—there’s nothing.”

She descended. One step. Two. Seven.

The light went out.

No click. No pop. Just absence.

Then silence. Not quiet. Silence. The kind that presses against your chest.

Ernie didn’t move. Not for ten seconds. Not for twenty.

Then, slowly, he reached for the door. Closed it. Softly. Deliberately.

He slid down the wall. Sat on the floor. Both hands over his mouth.

His eyes wide. His breath shallow. His scream—soundless.

Scene V: The Absence

Ernie did not move for hours.

The hallway light never came back on. The door remained closed. The silence—unchanged.

At 3:17 p.m., he stood. Not because he wanted to. Because the house felt heavier.

He made tea. He didn’t drink it. He placed it on the table beside the recliner, where Dr. Voss had once sat. It steamed for a moment. Then stopped.

He checked his phone. No messages. No missed calls. No record of her number.

He opened his notebook. The one he used for appointments. Her name was gone. Her handwriting—gone. The pages were blank.

He walked to the hallway. Stared at the door.

It looked… newer. The wood—less worn. The knob—restored.

He reached for it. Paused. Listened.

Nothing.

He opened it. The stairs were there. Lit. Empty.

He called her name. Once. Twice.

No echo.

He closed the door. Locked it. He didn’t have a key. But it locked.

That night, he dreamed of a room with no corners. Just walls that curved inward. And a voice that said, “You brought her.”

Scene VI: The Inquiry

Detective Caleb Murnane was thirty-one. Sharp suit. Sharper eyes. The kind of man who believed in facts, not feelings.

He arrived at 9:46 a.m. Badge out. Voice calm. “Dr. Miriam Voss missed three appointments. Her office said she came here.”

Ernie nodded. “She came to help,” he said. “She went down the cellar.”

Murnane’s eyes narrowed. “Did she come back up?”

Ernie looked at the door. “No.”

The detective’s voice, clipped and cold. “Mr. Halloway, I’m going to need you to sit down.”

He called it in. Backup. Warrant. Standard protocol.

They searched the house. No blood. No signs of struggle. No personal items belonging to Dr. Voss. No fingerprints. No trace.

The cellar door was locked. Ernie said he didn’t have a key. They forced it open.

The stairs descended. Lit. Empty.

They sent a drone down. It lost signal after twelve steps. The footage showed… nothing. Just stairs. Then static.

Murnane returned the next day. Alone.

He stood in the hallway. The door was closed. The light flickered. Held.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said. Ernie didn’t respond.

“I don’t believe in you either.”

Ernie nodded. He always did.

“I’m going down there.”

Ernie stepped aside. The door opened. The stairs descended.

Murnane hesitated. Hand on the knob. Flashlight. Mace. Snub-nosed revolver.

Then he descended.

Scene VII: The Descent of Murnane

One step. Two. Seven.

The light dimmed. Not off. Just… less.

Ernie waited. No sound. No call.

He closed the door. Softly. Deliberately.

He made tea. Placed it beside the recliner. Three cups now.

He sat. Hands folded. Eyes on the hallway.

The light flickered. Held.

Scene VIII: The Reminder

Three weeks passed.

No news. No search. No questions.

Ernie’s house was quiet. The hallway light stayed on. The cellar door remained closed.

He no longer made tea. He simply placed the cups. Four now. One for her. One for him. One for the detective. One for whatever came next.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t sleep.

He waited.

One morning, the doorbell rang. A boy. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Backpack. Curious eyes.

“Is this the house with the cellar?”

Ernie stared. The boy smiled. “I heard about it. Online. Some kind of mystery.”

Ernie opened the door a little wider. The hallway behind him was dim. The cellar door at the end—closed. The light above it flickered. Held.

The boy leaned forward, peering past him. “Can I see it?”

Ernie didn’t answer. He stepped aside.

The boy took one step into the house. Then paused.

The hallway stretched before him. Longer than it should have been. Quieter than it had any right to be.

He looked wide-eyed at Ernie. “Is it real?”

Ernie didn’t blink. He simply turned and walked to the recliner. Sat down. Placed a fifth cup of tea on the table.

The boy stood in the doorway. Not afraid. Not yet.

But the cellar was patient.