Shrieking, Kathy tripped up the open staircase from the basement. Her red mouth a sharp slit, slobber roiling from each corner and down her chin.
She skittered from one foot to the other, up each wooden step.
Eyes bulging, visage ragged. Hair, scrambled at the temples, tried making it to the top before she could.
Jeans, ripped at the pocket seam, hung off her skinny hips. Shirttails, torn and dirty, flapped around her waist. Shoelace untied, tripped her, screaming up the last step.
She caught herself and stayed upright. Then whipped her head around, dark curls straightened by the force of the turn. Was that the rumbling of a beast echoing down below? Or her imagination affecting my own delusional tendency?
“Shared hysteria,” Dr. Warner called it the last time it happened.
Kathy, gasping for breath, staggered, stupified, her arms thrashing around in front of me.
I grabbed one flailing arm with my gloved hands, making sure she couldn’t bite me as she had one time before. She struggled against me, wanting to free herself so she could run again.
Holding tight, avoiding her snarling teeth, I stood still, breathing as she breathed, slowly taking longer breaths as I’d been taught. Picturing both herself and me coming down from panic.
And, soon we did. Exhausted from being terrified, and from the work of breathing out the horror, Kathy finally slumped against me. She let me lead her to a chair.
Jenny, our foster sibling, had come down from upstairs; she brought some water, and Kathy sipped.
“Oh, it seemed so real!” “I must quit going down there no matter what I need.”
“We’ll bring everything up here so you don’t think you have to go down there by yourself,” I suggested.
“Mrs. Bartles won’t care,” Jenny ventured.
“And, I think we may need to start seeing Dr. Warner more than once a week for awhile,” I looked to both Kathy and Jenny for agreement to our plan.
“What shall we tell Mrs. Bartles when she gets home?” Jenny asked while she patted Kathy’s now quiet curls?
“Well, there’s no damage, not even stuff scattered around. Shall we just keep it to ourselves and not worry her for now?”
“I’m okay with that; I feel like such a fool.” whimpered Kathy.
“Just stop that now; you know it’s not your fault,” chided Jenny. “PTSD is PTSD.”
“Well, I’m exhausted,” I realized, “Let’s get up to bed.”
Kathy stood up, pushed in the chair, and took water with her.”
Jenny followed. I brought up the rear, turning out the lights and leaving the stovetop light for Mrs. Bartles.
My foster sisters were well up the stairs before I realized I was hearing that low beastly rumble echoing down below again.
Song Lyrics
Shrieking up the basement stairs, red mouth split with fear
Wooden steps remember every breath we leave down here
Eyes too wide for daylight, hair racing her own head
Something down below us won’t admit that it is dead
Shared hysteria, the doctor’s word like rust
I hold her like a lifeline, like I’m holding back the dust
Teeth snapping at the air, I match her breath with mine
Counting down the terror, stretching seconds into time
Water on her lips now, quiet curls collapse
We swear we won’t go back there, seal the floorboards, lock the past
Lights are low, the house asleep, safety almost won
Then the basement starts to breathing—Oh My God, it isn’t done!
Don’t forget the ongoing Groundhog Day’s super sale! Continuing through Valentine’s Day and my birthday, February 23rd.
Thanks for your support. BTW, now there’s a button that lets you give from $1 to $1000!
