I'm Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid

outside the door. No knock. I didn’t hear any footsteps. It’s just a feeling. But it’s strong. I think someone’s right outside the door. Are they listening?
    I don’t move. I don’t hear anything. I step closer to the door and slowly put my hand on the door handle. I wait another moment, the handle in my hand, and then I fling the door open. There’s no one there. Only my slippers, which I left outside before entering. I’m not sure why.
    I should say Jake’s slippers. The ones he lent me. I thought I’d left them facing toward the bathroom. But now they’re facing out, toward the hall. I can’t be sure. I must have left them like that. It must have been me.
    I leave the door open but step back toward the sink. I run the tap to wash the bits of dead fly away. A drop of red blood lands in the sink. And another. I catch sight of my nose upside down in the reflection of the faucet. It’s bleeding. I grab a piece of tissue, ball it up, and press it to my face. Why is my nose bleeding?
    I haven’t had a nosebleed in years.
    I LEAVE THE BATHROOM AND head down the hall. I pass a door that must be for the basement. It’s open. A narrow, steep staircase leads down. I stop and put my hand against the open door. The slightestmovement, in either direction, causes it to creak. The hinges need grease. On the landing is a small frayed carpet leading to the wooden steps.
    From the kitchen, I hear the sound of dishes being washed and conversation. Jake is in there with his parents. I don’t feel the need to rush back. I’ll give him some time alone with them.
    I can’t see much from the top of the stairs. It’s dark down there. I can hear something coming from the basement, though. I walk forward. I see a white string hanging to my right as I pass through the door. I pull it and a single bulb buzzes on. I hear the sound from below more clearly now. A dull creak, sharper, higher pitched than the hinges. A hushed, whiny, repetitive grind.
    I’m curious to see the basement. Jake said his parents don’t use it. So what’s down there? What’s making that sound? The water heater?
    The stairs are uneven and precarious. There’s no banister. I see a trapdoor made of floorboards is held open on the right side with a metal clip. The stairs would be hidden under the trapdoor when it’s closed. There are scratches, like the scratches on the door in the living room, all over the trapdoor. I run my fingers over them. They aren’t very deep. But they look frantic.
    I start down. I feel like I’m entering a sailboat’s lower deck. Without a banister, I use the wall as a guide.
    At the bottom I step onto a large slab of concrete. It’s atop the gravel floor. There isn’t much room down here. The beamed ceiling is low. Ahead of me are several shelves holding brown cardboard boxes. Old, damp, stained, and fragile. Lots of dust, dirt.Rows and rows of boxes on shelves. There’s so much locked away down here, under the trapdoor. Buried. “We don’t use it” is what Jake said. “There’s nothing down there.” Not totally true. Not true at all.
    I turn around. Behind me, past the stairs, I see the furnace, a hot water tank, and an electrical panel. There’s something else, a piece of equipment. It’s old, rusty, not operational. I’m not sure what it is or was.
    This room really is little more than a hole in the ground. Probably normal for such an old farmhouse. I imagine it floods in spring. The walls are made of dirt and large hunks of bedrock. They aren’t really walls the same way the floor isn’t really a floor. No bar or pool table. No table tennis. A few seconds here alone would terrify any kid. There’s a smell, too. I don’t know what it is. Dank. Uncirculated air. Mold. Rot. What am I doing down here?
    I’m about to head back up when, at the far end of the room, just beyond