I'm Not Going

Whatever is in that cellar is not a rat.

It’s not a rat or cat or a raccoon that somehow squeezed its way in to get at the potted meat you insist I store there. I’m pretty sure that it isn’t some shelf that came loose either. You know I’m great at DIY, no way a 16” concrete screw is going to give so easily. And even if it did, I should have heard those cans clattering about by now.

I agree it’s odd. You know as well as I do that I’ve lived in this house my entire life. Inherited it after mom and dad passed away. At this point, I know every creak and groan and trickle through the pipes. And that? That is not a sound I’ve ever heard in all the years I’ve been here. Not even during that kitchen fire on Independence Day or the Great Christmas Tree Disaster of ’72.

Yes, I’m worried about it. Whatever it is. It’s 3 AM in the morning. There’s no one else around that I know of. I’m an average sized young woman with zero combat experience. Of course, I get a little on edge when there are sudden, unexpected noises behind that door in the kitchen.

I know it’s suspicious. That is the single most normal reaction to have at strange noises in the dead of night, especially when you’re in your pajamas playing horror games. And whose idea was that anyway? You’re well aware I have work early in the morning. Do you have any idea how grueling work at a bakery is? Hell, do you even understand that baking hundreds of loaves a day is nothing like the tradwife reels you see on social media?

Anyway, about that noise. It’s gone now. But I still don’t trust it. So I guess what you want is for me to get up and check it out. Alright then. This is me getting up. I’m walking. Going to make a stop at the knife drawer and get the biggest, sharpest kitchen knife while I’m at it… What do you mean, that’s dramatic? Considering the situation, I’d say that’s perfectly sensible.

So yes, I’m taking the knife. No arguing about that. I’m approaching the door now.

Carefully. Slowly. Look, I’m just going to sneak up, put my ear up to the wood and listen.

Give me a moment. Let’s be really, really quiet.

Never mind, it was definitely the wind down there.

If the wind managed to sound like heavy, ragged breathing.

And learned how to walk.

And wield what sounds like a sharp metallic object.

Yup, there is definitely something creepy down there. Pardon the brown stain that may or may not be appearing on my pajama shorts right now.

Wait. What?

You want me to go down there?

You want me to open the door, go down the stairs and check?

Okay, hold on. Back the fuck up.

Why the hell would I be insane enough to go down there? You heard it, right? I sure did. Whatever is down there is most definitely not hankering for those damned cans of potted meat. More likely just for the kind of activities that get you wanted in all 50 states. With all of those resulting in me generating thousands of clicks as a media personality with a bleached smile and dead eyes cheerfully recounts my last moments of agony and dread.

So no, fuck no, I’m not going to investigate. In fact, watch me turn this big rusty key on the door to buy a little more time…

You still want me to go down there?

Why? What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want to see me get killed? Did I steal your lunch and ask out your crush in high school or something? What on God’s green earth? Or do I remind you of someone who does? Why do you want to see me prance towards near certain doom like this?

“That is what you’re supposed to do in that situation”. That’s your answer?

Says who, exactly? You? For crying out loud, why do you think that is the one thing I should be doing right now? Yes, I know what an homage is. What does that have to do with anything? You think that I’m going to risk my neck just for a cool picture you have in your head, you are even more of an uninspired troglodyte than I thought.

Wow, so that’s it? Basically, you just expect me to open the door and walk down the steps to my potential death. That was always the plan.

You know what? Several months ago, I might have just done that. When I was just a young and dumb twenty-something girl with nothing in her head but fashion, becoming a model and marrying rich. Except then you got me into DIY and forensic investigation shows, inflicted a creepy professor on me and made me go through the early death of my parents by a deranged serial killer. Do you think anyone who experienced those things is just going to explore a dark cellar after hearing some unsettling sounds?

Especially when those are clearly footsteps that I hear coming up on the creaking stairs?

Hell no! I’m turning that key, I’m getting out of here and I’m going to call the damn cops from the safety of my neighbor’s house.

You’re just going to make me? Well, yeah. Unfortunately, you can. You’re the boss. What you say, goes. If you force my hand, I will put my knife down. I will unlock that door. I will go into that cellar and run into whatever is down there, even my own death. After all, I can’t say no to you, even if it’s going to cost me my life.

So here’s the question. Why haven’t you?

I’m still here. Not going through that door. Not going into the dark, convinced it’s the neighborhood boys playing a sick prank on me at best. Not flinging myself into danger. You have all the power in our relationship, so why am I still here?

As a side note, why is the thing in the cellar no longer coming up the stairs and why has it gone strangely quiet?

Fine, I'll say the quiet part out loud. Because all of this stupid. You know it, I know it, whatever is down there keeping the potted meat company knows it. None of this makes any sense. All of this seemed like a good idea at the time, possibly during a late night of devouring a whole carcass worth of spare ribs, smoking pot and drinking that sewer water you call beer. But now we’re here and we’re thinking through this goddamn life or death situation and it all seems moronic. Not like me at all. And right now, you are wondering if maybe, just maybe, making me go through this dumb charade is something you’re going to regret.

Well, I say you will, but who am I? I don’t make the rules. It’s up to you in the end.

I’m still in the kitchen, staring at the door with knife in hand. I’ll be there for a good long while and so will the menace in the cellar. Take your time. Make your decision. I’d say there’s no deadline on this, but only you know that one for certain.

Just let me tell you this. I made up my mind, even if you haven’t. I’m not going and if you’re going to make me, you don’t know me at all.