The “Problem”

The basement seemed like the best place to keep the “problem”. It was cool and damp, just perfect. But also, under the house, it was relatively soundproof.

I sat in the kitchen, dabbing my wounds with Iodine, wincing with each touch. I swigged the whiskey bottle in front of my and sighed. I was in shock, but the adrenaline pumped through my system, a smile tweaked the corners of my mouth upwards.

Within minutes I hear it wake in the form of thumps echoing from below my feet, I shuddered with each impact.


The doorbell rang.

I contemplated leaving it, but if they hear the sounds from within, they may get help, I cannot have that, not after what I’ve been through.

Opening the door I snarled, “What do you want?”

“Have you every heard about the healing power of our…”

“Did you not read the sign?” I pointed aggressively to the *No Cold Callers – No Politicians – No Religious Groups* message that emblazoned the door.

“Can we come in for just one moment?”

I stopped and thought about it, “Uhh, sure. Let me guide you to my den, it’s more comfortable in there than the living room. Hey, would you like a coffee?”

“We’d love one, thank you.”

I opened the basement door and clicked on the light, “It’s a little dark on the way down, there’s a switch at the bottom though.”

“Oh, is there?” the man asked asked as I shut the door and dead-bolted it.

Problem solved…

*For now.*

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