Out of the darkness a soft mewling sound emerged.
"There's something in the cellar," I whispered.
My husband tried the light switch again.
"Damn fuse box," he muttered.
"Be careful," I urged, as he made his way down the stone stairs, torch in hand.
I listened to his footsteps as he moved around the small cellar. I imagined him checking corners, moving boxes. I heard the shuffles and scrapes of his investigations.
Then, nothing.
"Peter?" I called after a moment.
No answer.
"Peter?" I repeated.
Again, silence.
I deliberated for a moment but imagining a fall, an accident, was enough to spur me down the stairs. No torch for me. Peter had taken the only one. As I moved down the stairs holding only a candle I realised I could not see any light emanating from below. The torch was no longer on. As I felt my way down the wall I took in the iron tang of blood. I lowered the candle slightly but too late to stop from stepping on the step, slick with liquid. My foot slid sickeningly through the dark liquid and I hit the floor with a slam that knocked the wind out of me and left me dazed.
In the darkness I registered the change in the air as the cellar door slowly closed. I heard the bolt being drawn across it from the outside.
Out of the darkness a soft mewling sound emerged.
