Salamander in the Basement, part 4
Friday morning, I could almost feel the basement pulling at me. I
drove boxes to the Goodwill and forced Mom to sort through mementos and
books. As we labored, the basement was still, tamed either by my
ruthless disposal of its goods or by Mom's familiar presence.
After an hour, though, Mom disappeared. "I can hear that the
washing machine stopped," she observed. "I'd better hang up those
pants before they wrinkle. Don't you need a break?"
"No thanks," I called as she clambered out. A sudden breeze
whipped the door closed behind her, and as if in echo, the bookcase
behind me creaked. I turned to find it tilting precariously, a box
of books slowly inching its way toward me.
"Stop it!" I demanded, shoving the box back into place and nudging the
bookcase erect. "It's almost as if the place is haunted," I
muttered under my breath.
Half an hour later I had worked my way up under what would have been the
eaves if the basement had been an attic. Here, the ground sloped toward
the ceiling so that I had to walk crouched over for fear of grazing my
head on nail ends sticking through from the floor above. In this
shallow work space, I made some small headway, organizing Mason jars
and labeling boxes of Christmas tree ornaments.
At last, I stood, a box of discards in my arms, and straightened too
far. My head banged painfully against the floor joists, making me
swear and drop back into a crouch so I could feel through my thick hair
for blood.
"He doesna like it when you take his things, lassie," came a voice from
behind me, and my head spun around to take in a most unusual
sight. Perched atop a wicker picnic basket in the corner was what
can only be described as a leprechaun—a small, cheery, red-bearded man
dressed solely in green and decked out with four-leafed clovers. I
blinked, but the image did not fade and I was forced to conclude the man was not a result
of my recent head-banging.
"What are you doing here?" or "Who are you?" would have been more
scientific responses to this intruder into my basement, but I found
myself saying, instead, "You can drop the accent. Leprechauns
don't live in dirt basements. What are you—a gnome? A dwarf?"
I hope
you enjoyed this fourth segment of Salamander in the Basement. If
you'd like to keep reading, the ebook is free on Amazon today, and you
can also email me today to receive a free pdf copy if you'd
prefer. Thanks for reading!
| This post is part of our Aimee Easterling Short Stories lunchtime series.
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About us: Anna Hess and Mark Hamilton spent over a decade living self-sufficiently in the mountains of Virginia before moving north to start over from scratch in the foothills of Ohio. They've experimented with permaculture, no-till gardening, trailersteading, home-based microbusinesses and much more, writing about their adventures in both blogs and books.
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