02 - Stay Out of the Basement (3 page)

“Yeah,” Casey replied, looking again to make sure. “No way Dad will know we—”

He stopped. His mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

His face went pale.

“My T-shirt!” Casey exclaimed, slapping his bare chest. “I left it in the
basement!”

“I’ve got to get it,” Casey said. “Otherwise Dad’ll know—”

“It’s too late,” Margaret interrupted, her eyes on the driveway. “He’s
already pulled up the drive.”

“It’ll only take a second,” Casey insisted, his hand on the basement
doorknob. “I’ll run down and run right up.”

“No!” Margaret stood tensely in the center of the narrow hallway, halfway
between the front door and the basement door, her eyes toward the front. “He’s
parked. He’s getting out of the car.”

“But he’ll know! He’ll know!” Casey cried, his voice high and whiny.

“So?”

“Remember how mad he got last time?” Casey asked.

“Of course I remember,” Margaret replied. “But he’s not going to kill us,
Casey, just because we took a peek at his plants. He’s—”

Margaret stopped. She moved closer to the screen door. “Hey, wait.”

“What’s going on?” Casey asked.

“Hurry!” Margaret turned and gestured with both hands. “Go! Get downstairs—fast! Mr. Henry from next door. He stopped Dad. They’re talking about something
in the drive.”

With a loud cry, Casey flung open the basement door and disappeared. Margaret
heard him clumping rapidly down the stairs. Then she heard his footsteps fade as
he hurried into their father’s workroom.

Hurry, Casey, she thought, standing guard at the front door, watching her
father shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand as he talked with Mr.
Henry.

Hurry.

You know Dad never talks for long with the neighbors.

Mr. Henry seemed to be doing all the talking. Probably asking Dad some kind
of favor, Margaret thought. Mr. Henry wasn’t handy at all, not like Dr. Brewer.
And so he was always asking Margaret’s dad to come over and help repair or
install things.

Her father was nodding now, a tight smile on his face.

Hurry, Casey.

Get back up here. Where are you?

Still shielding his eyes, Dr. Brewer gave Mr. Henry a quick wave. Then both
men spun around and began walking quickly toward their houses.

Hurry, Casey.

Casey—he’s coming! Hurry! Margaret urged silently.

It doesn’t take this long to pick your T-shirt up from the floor and run up
the stairs.

It
shouldn’t
take this long.

Her dad was on the front walk now. He spotted her in the doorway and waved.

Margaret returned the wave and looked back through the hallway to the
basement door. “Casey—where are you?” she called aloud.

No reply.

No sound from the basement.

No sound at all.

Dr. Brewer had paused outside to inspect the rosebushes at the head of the
front walk.

“Casey?” Margaret called.

Still no reply.

“Casey—hurry!”

Silence.

Her father was crouching down, doing something to the soil beneath the rosebushes.

With a feeling of dread weighing down her entire body, Margaret realized she
had no choice.

She had to go downstairs and see what was keeping Casey.

Casey ran down the steps, leaning on the metal banister so that he could jump
down two steps at a time. He landed hard on the cement basement floor and darted
into the bright white light of the plant room.

Stopping at the entrance way, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the
brighter-than-day light. He took a deep breath, inhaling the steamy air, and
held it. It was so hot down here, so sticky. His back began to itch. The back of
his neck tingled.

The jungle of plants stood as if at attention under the bright white lights.

He saw his T-shirt, lying crumpled on the floor a few feet from a tall, leafy
tree. The tree seemed to lean toward the T-shirt, its long tendrils hanging
down, loosely coiled on the soil around its trunk.

Casey took a timid step into the room.

Why am I so afraid? he wondered.

It’s just a room filled with strange plants.

Why do I have the feeling that they’re watching me? Waiting for me?

He scolded himself for being so afraid and took a few more steps toward the
crumpled T-shirt on the floor.

Hey—wait.

The breathing.

There it was again.

Steady breathing. Not too loud. Not too soft, either.

Who could be breathing?
What
could be breathing?

Was the big tree breathing?

Casey stared at the shirt on the floor. So near. What was keeping him from
grabbing it and running back upstairs? What was holding him back?

He took a step forward. Then another.

Was the breathing growing louder?

He jumped, startled by a sudden, low moan from the big supply closet against
the wall.

It sounded so human, as if someone were in there, moaning in pain.

“Casey—where are you?”

Margaret’s voice sounded so far away, even though she was just at the head of
the stairs.

“Okay so far,” he called back to her. But his voice came out in a whisper.
She probably couldn’t hear him.

He took another step. Another.

The shirt was about three yards away.

A quick dash. A quick dive, and he’d have it.

Another low moan from the supply closet. A plant seemed to sigh. A tall fern
suddenly dipped low, shifting its leaves.

“Casey?” He could hear his sister from upstairs, sounding very worried.
“Casey—hurry!”

I’m trying, he thought. I’m trying to hurry.

What was holding him back?

Another low moan, this time from the other side of the room.

He took two more steps, then crouched low, his arms straight out in front of
him.

The shirt was almost within reach.

He heard a groaning sound, then more breathing.

He raised his eyes to the tall tree. The long, ropy tendrils had tensed.
Stiffened. Or had he imagined it?

No.

They had been drooping loosely. Now they were taut. Ready.

Ready to grab him?

“Casey—hurry!” Margaret called, sounding even farther away.

He didn’t answer. He was concentrating on the shirt. Just a few feet away.
Just a few feet. Just a foot.

The plant groaned again.

“Casey? Casey?”

The leaves quivered all the way up the trunk.

Just a foot away. Almost in reach.

“Casey? Are you okay?
Answer
me!”

He grabbed the shirt.

Two snakelike tendrils swung out at him.

“Huh?” he cried out, paralyzed with fear. “What’s happening?”

The tendrils wrapped themselves around his waist.

“Let go!” he cried, holding the T-shirt tightly in one hand, grabbing at the
tendrils with the other.

The tendrils hung on, and gently tightened around him.

Margaret? Casey tried calling, but no sound came out of his mouth. Margaret?

He jerked violently, then pulled straight ahead.

The tendrils held on.

They didn’t squeeze him. They weren’t trying to strangle him. Or pull him
back.

But they didn’t let go.

They felt warm and wet against his bare skin. Like animal arms. Not like a
plant.

Help! He again tried to shout. He pulled once more, leaning forward, using
all his strength.

No good.

He ducked low, hit the floor, tried to roll away.

The tendrils hung on.

The plant uttered a loud sigh.

“Let go!” Casey cried, finally finding his voice.

And then suddenly Margaret was standing beside him. He hadn’t heard her come
down the stairs. He hadn’t seen her enter the room.

“Casey!” she cried. “What’s—”

Her mouth dropped open and her eyes grew wide.

“It—won’t let go!” he told her.

“No!” she screamed. And grabbed one of the tendrils with both hands. And
tugged with all her strength.

The tendril resisted for only a moment, then went slack.

Casey uttered a joyful cry and spun away from the remaining tendril. Margaret
dropped the tendril and grabbed Casey’s hand and began running toward the
stairs.

“Oh!”

They both stopped short at the bottom of the stairway.

Standing at the top was their father, glaring down at them, his hands balled
into tight fists at his sides, his face rigid with anger.

“Dad—the plants!” Margaret cried.

He stared down at them, his eyes cold and angry, unblinking. He was silent.

“It grabbed Casey!” Margaret told him.

“I just went down to get my shirt,” Casey said, his voice trembling.

They stared up at him expectantly, waiting for him to move, to unball his
fists, to relax his hard expression, to speak. But he glared down at them for
the longest time.

Finally, he said, “You’re okay?”

“Yeah,” they said in unison, both of them nodding.

Margaret realized she was still holding Casey’s hand. She let go of it and
reached for the banister.

“I’m very disappointed in you both,” Dr. Brewer said in a low, flat voice,
cool but not angry.

“Sorry,” Margaret said. “We knew we shouldn’t—”

“We didn’t touch anything. Really!” Casey exclaimed.

“Very disappointed,” their father repeated.

“Sorry, Dad.”

Dr. Brewer motioned for them to come upstairs, then he stepped into the
hallway.

“I thought he was going to yell at us,” Casey whispered to Margaret as he
followed her up the steps.

“That’s not Dad’s style,” Margaret whispered back.

“He sure yelled at us the
last
time we started into the basement,”
Casey replied.

They followed their father into the kitchen. He motioned for them to sit down
at the white Formica table, then dropped into a chair across from them.

His eyes went from one to the other, as if studying them, as if seeing them
for the first time. His expression was totally flat, almost robotlike, revealing
no emotion at all.

“Dad, what’s with those plants?” Casey asked.

“What do you mean?” Dr. Brewer asked.

“They’re—so weird,” Casey said.

“I’ll explain them to you some day,” he said flatly, still staring at the two
of them.

“It looks very interesting,” Margaret said, struggling to say the right
thing.

Was their dad
trying
to make them feel uncomfortable? she wondered. If
so, he was doing a good job of it.

This wasn’t like him. Not at all. He was always a very direct person,
Margaret thought. If he was angry, he said he was angry. If he was upset, he’d
tell them he was upset.

So why was he acting so strange, so silent, so… cold?

“I asked you not to go in the basement,” he said quietly, crossing his legs
and leaning back so that the kitchen chair tilted back on two legs. “I thought I
made it clear.”

Margaret and Casey glanced at each other. Finally, Margaret said, “We won’t
do it again.”

“But can’t you take us down there and tell us what you’re doing?” Casey
asked. He still hadn’t put the T-shirt on. He was holding it in a ball between
his hands on the kitchen table.

“Yeah. We’d really like to understand it,” Margaret added enthusiastically.

“Some day,” their father said. He returned the chair to all four legs and
then stood up. “We’ll do it soon, okay?” He raised his arms above his head and
stretched. “I’ve got to get back to work.” He disappeared into the front
hallway.

Casey raised his eyes to Margaret and shrugged. Their father reappeared
carrying the lab coat he had tossed over the front banister.

“Mom got off okay?” Margaret asked.

He nodded. “I guess.” He pulled on the lab coat over his head.

“I hope Aunt Eleanor is okay,” Margaret said.

Dr. Brewer’s reply was muffled as he adjusted the lab coat and straightened
the collar. “Later,” he said. He disappeared into the hallway. They heard him
shut the basement door behind him.

“I guess he’s not going to ground us or anything for going down there,”
Margaret said, leaning against the table and resting her chin in her hands.

“I guess,” Casey said. “He sure is acting… weird.”

“Maybe he’s upset because Mom is gone,” Margaret said. She sat up and gave
Casey a push. “Come on. Get up. I’ve got work to do.”

“I can’t believe that plant grabbed me,” Casey said thoughtfully, not
budging.

“You don’t have to push,” Casey griped, but he climbed to his feet and
stepped out of Margaret’s way. “I’m going to have bad dreams tonight,” he said
glumly.

“Just don’t think about the basement,” Margaret advised. That’s really lame
advice, she told herself. But what else could she say?

She went up to her room, thinking about how she missed her mother already.
Then the scene in the basement with Casey trying to pull himself free of the enormous,
twining plant tendrils played once again through her mind.

With a shudder, she grabbed her textbook and threw herself onto her stomach
on the bed, prepared to read.

But the words on the page blurred as the moaning, breathing plants kept
creeping back into her thoughts.

At least we’re not being punished for going down there, she thought.

At least Dad didn’t yell and frighten us this time.

And at least Dad has promised to take us downstairs with him soon and explain
to us what he’s working on down there.

That thought made Margaret feel a lot better.

She felt better until the next morning when she awoke early and went
downstairs to make some breakfast. To her surprise, her father was already at
work, the basement door was shut tight, and a lock had been installed on the
door.

The next Saturday afternoon, Margaret was up in her room, lying on top of the
bed, talking to her mom on the phone. “I’m really sorry about Aunt Eleanor,” she
said, twisting the white phone cord around her wrist.