No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

morning. They rarely entered Uncle Kenny’s house, though —
they went to his storm cellar.
It was like a fallout bunker, a single hatch door protruding
from the weeds twenty yards from the laundry room. This
submarine door was always, always padlocked. Until one
morning when, under a gauze of damp fog, he’d found it
wasn’t.
So he’d gone inside.
Ashley remembered few details about the dark room at the
bottom of the long, rotten staircase. Mostly just the odors — a
musty, sweet staleness that was simultaneously putrid and
oddly alluring. He’d never smelled anything like it since. Cold
cement under his feet. Electrical cords on the floor; big lights
set up on tripods. Indistinct shapes, lurking in the dark.
He’d just been leaving, climbing back up the stairs when a
woman’s voice called out to him: Hey.
He’d turned, nearly tripping. He waited for a long
moment, half-on the stairs, half-off, gooseflesh prickling on
his arms, wondering if he’d just imagined it, until finally, the
female voice spoke again.
Hey, there. Little boy.
This had been a shock — he hadn’t known how the
woman in the cellar could possibly see him. It was pitch black
down there. Only as an adult, could Ashley begin to reason
that her pupils had been adjusted to the darkness, while his
weren’t. Like Darby’s crafty little shut-one-eye trick.
You’re a nice boy, aren’t you?
He’d cowered there on the steps, covering his ears.
No. Don’t be afraid. You’re not like them. The ghostly
voice lowered, like she was divulging a secret: Can you … hey,
can you please help me with something?
He’d been afraid to answer.
Can you bring me a glass of water?