The Monster in the Basement

 

by Catherine Maven

2021

When I first met my new neighbor Mary, I thought she was a robot – like those women in Stepford Wives. Her hair was always perfect, as was her makeup and her clothes. Although her kids were the same age as mine – five and seven – her house was always spotless and uncluttered, whereas mine always looked like a bomb had gone off. I met her husband, Sam, once, briefly, but he was one of those quiet guys that you can’t really read, and I seldom saw him. My own husband had run off the previous spring, and now saw the kids for one point five days every other weekend.

Whenever her kids came over to our house, they played like normal kids – running and screaming over nothing. They were careful to keep their clothes clean, though, and they did check with Mary for permission for everything, which I thought was weird. “Gemma asked if I wanted some juice. Is that okay?” they would enquire, like Stepford children.

“Sure,” Mary would reply. “Just make sure to say Please and Thank You, okay?”

“Yes, Mom,” they would answer, like they were in military school.

My sons drank whatever they wanted and then left their glasses everywhere.

“So what’s your secret?” I asked her finally. We were over at her house this time, so we were murmuring. There were no raised voices in her house. Even my rambunctious boys were always subdued there.

Mary looked around, as if checking to see if anyone was listening, then leaned toward me, so I leaned toward her until our foreheads were almost touching.

“I … I mean, there’s …” She was whispering. Her normal extreme composure had melted, and her eyes were darting left and right.

“Go on. You can tell me anything,” I whispered back, covering her hand with mine. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Promise?” Her eyes were desperate, tears pooling in them.

“Well, if you’re a serial killer, then, No …” I joked, hoping to lighten the moment.

She didn’t laugh. “Promise?”

“I promise. What is it?”

“Well,” she said, her voice dropping even more, until I had to turn my head to get my ear closer to her mouth. “You see, there’s a monster in the basement.”

I sat back and stared at her. She had always seemed perfectly sane, until that moment.

“A monster?” I asked in a normal tone of voice – maybe even raising my voice a little. What? I was surprised. Seriously?

“Shhh,” she whispered, squeezing my hand so tightly that it was starting to hurt. Then she smiled, like a prisoner in a photograph. “It's not so bad. As long as we’re quiet. As long as the house is clean. As long as we’re clean. As long as we're well behaved. The monster sleeps.”

She hesitated, then shook her head as if ridding herself of a memory. “But if not, then the monster awakens. You don’t want to be around when the monster is awake. Trust me!”

I didn’t know what to say to the crazy lady. But I had to try. “Why don’t you just move?” I asked, careful to keep my voice low and attempting to keep my natural sarcasm at bay. “If there’s a monster in the basement here, why not move?”

“Oh, no, that wouldn’t work,” she whispered. “You see, the monster goes wherever we go. That’s just how it is.”

“How can you live like this?” I whispered.

“Most of the time, the monster just sleeps, and everything is fine. Really.” Mary was trying to smile at me again. It was painful to see. “We’re happy. The children are doing well in school, and my career in real estate is going well.”

“What does Sam think about this?” (I had to ask. Poor Sam! Lots of guys say their wife is crazy – but this time…)

Mary closed her eyes, pressed her lips together for a moment, and shook her head. “He doesn’t believe in the monster. He told me it was all in my head. He is never around when the monster wakes.”

I didn’t know what to say. They had seemed like an – almost! – normal family. Until now. “Um … can we go down to the basement, so I can see the monster?” Cognitive-behavioural therapy taught me this.

“Oh, no, you can’t see the monster,” Mary whispered with a small smile, as if I were being silly. “It’s invisible.”

“Have you thought about getting – professional help?” How do you ask a crazy person if they know they’re crazy? I should have known what the answer would be, anyway.

“Oh, no, I can’t. Nobody would believe me, because when other people are around, the monster stays quiet.”

I went home after that, but distanced myself from Mary as much as possible. Her monster was not my problem, I told myself, and nobody in the family seemed to be suffering all that much. They moved away no long after, so I never did solve the mystery of the monster in the basement.