front of the house. It was dark, but once my eyes adjusted I could make out a crooked wooden door on the opposite wall.
When I lifted the latch, the door creaked open to reveal another set of steps, much steeper and more narrow than the main basement staircase. I felt the walls around me until my fingers touched a light switch. When I flipped it on, the space filled with dim light. Beyond the second set of stairs was what appeared to be
another
basement. A sub-basement.
Ordinarily, I would have been curious enough to go exploring. But I was drunk, and the space below me looked creepy enough that I didn’t want to check it out alone. I stepped a few feet into the stairwell so I could pull the doorshut behind me, intending to wait until whoever was using the bathroom had gone back upstairs.
I slipped and fell immediately. There was no banister to grab on to. I tumbled all the way down on my butt, the unfinished wooden stairs scraping the backs of my bare legs. I was tipsy enough that it didn’t hurt much, but I knew I was probably bleeding.
Once I’d recovered from my spill, I found myself in an area so tiny that it didn’t even qualify as a room. It was just a hollowed-out square of dirt, more of a crawl space than anything. But there was something nestled into one of the corners. Even in the dark, I recognized its shape. It was a duffel bag.
In hindsight, I don’t know why I took it back upstairs with me. I didn’t think there would be anything of value inside. I wasn’t even that curious. But I didn’t think it through at all—I was in a hurry—so I grabbed the bag and tucked it under my arm and limped out of the crawl space, the scrapes on the backs of my legs beginning to burn.
Whoever had come down to use the bathroom was gone. Alone again, I unzipped the bag and peered inside.
It was money.
I’d like to think that, if I hadn’t been drinking, I would have put it back where I found it. But that’s not what I did. Instead, I rolled the duffel bag into a ball and stuffed it up the front of my shirt. I kept my arms crossed against my chest as I went back to the party. I didn’t speak to anyone asI walked out the door, straight to my aunt’s car parked on the street, and stowed the duffel bag under the front seat. Then I returned to the house and got myself a fresh drink. It didn’t occur to me until a few days later that whoever had hidden the money might come looking for it eventually. But did it really matter? Nobody had seen me take it. Nobody had even known I was in the basement.
Later on that week, as I sat on my bedroom floor and counted the bills for the fourth or fifth time, astounded each time by how much was there, I reassured myself that everything would be fine. I smiled. “Finders, keepers,” I whispered.
Right now, alone in the basement again, all I want to do is put the money back where I found it. The duffel bag is long gone, but I figure that won’t matter to whoever stashed it in the first place. If whoever took my sister comes looking for the cash again, they’ll find it all right where they left it, safe and sound, every bill accounted for. They’ll let her come home. Everything will be okay. It has to be.
I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins as I make my way toward the little wooden door, unzipping my bookbag and reaching inside while I walk. All I have to do is run down the stairs, replace the money, and leave.
But as I reach for the latch, I freeze. My stomach turns.The walls seem to rise up around me, swallowing me, all the light and air and hope slipping from the room like water falling through the holes in a sieve.
Somebody has attached a shiny metal combination lock to the latch. The door is locked.
I grab the handle anyway and lean my shoulder into the door, trying to force it open. It doesn’t budge. I try again, then again, but the lock isn’t going anywhere.
With sudden clarity, I realize that whoever padlocked the door is at least one step
When I lifted the latch, the door creaked open to reveal another set of steps, much steeper and more narrow than the main basement staircase. I felt the walls around me until my fingers touched a light switch. When I flipped it on, the space filled with dim light. Beyond the second set of stairs was what appeared to be
another
basement. A sub-basement.
Ordinarily, I would have been curious enough to go exploring. But I was drunk, and the space below me looked creepy enough that I didn’t want to check it out alone. I stepped a few feet into the stairwell so I could pull the doorshut behind me, intending to wait until whoever was using the bathroom had gone back upstairs.
I slipped and fell immediately. There was no banister to grab on to. I tumbled all the way down on my butt, the unfinished wooden stairs scraping the backs of my bare legs. I was tipsy enough that it didn’t hurt much, but I knew I was probably bleeding.
Once I’d recovered from my spill, I found myself in an area so tiny that it didn’t even qualify as a room. It was just a hollowed-out square of dirt, more of a crawl space than anything. But there was something nestled into one of the corners. Even in the dark, I recognized its shape. It was a duffel bag.
In hindsight, I don’t know why I took it back upstairs with me. I didn’t think there would be anything of value inside. I wasn’t even that curious. But I didn’t think it through at all—I was in a hurry—so I grabbed the bag and tucked it under my arm and limped out of the crawl space, the scrapes on the backs of my legs beginning to burn.
Whoever had come down to use the bathroom was gone. Alone again, I unzipped the bag and peered inside.
It was money.
I’d like to think that, if I hadn’t been drinking, I would have put it back where I found it. But that’s not what I did. Instead, I rolled the duffel bag into a ball and stuffed it up the front of my shirt. I kept my arms crossed against my chest as I went back to the party. I didn’t speak to anyone asI walked out the door, straight to my aunt’s car parked on the street, and stowed the duffel bag under the front seat. Then I returned to the house and got myself a fresh drink. It didn’t occur to me until a few days later that whoever had hidden the money might come looking for it eventually. But did it really matter? Nobody had seen me take it. Nobody had even known I was in the basement.
Later on that week, as I sat on my bedroom floor and counted the bills for the fourth or fifth time, astounded each time by how much was there, I reassured myself that everything would be fine. I smiled. “Finders, keepers,” I whispered.
Right now, alone in the basement again, all I want to do is put the money back where I found it. The duffel bag is long gone, but I figure that won’t matter to whoever stashed it in the first place. If whoever took my sister comes looking for the cash again, they’ll find it all right where they left it, safe and sound, every bill accounted for. They’ll let her come home. Everything will be okay. It has to be.
I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins as I make my way toward the little wooden door, unzipping my bookbag and reaching inside while I walk. All I have to do is run down the stairs, replace the money, and leave.
But as I reach for the latch, I freeze. My stomach turns.The walls seem to rise up around me, swallowing me, all the light and air and hope slipping from the room like water falling through the holes in a sieve.
Somebody has attached a shiny metal combination lock to the latch. The door is locked.
I grab the handle anyway and lean my shoulder into the door, trying to force it open. It doesn’t budge. I try again, then again, but the lock isn’t going anywhere.
With sudden clarity, I realize that whoever padlocked the door is at least one step
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