Thursday, November 2, 2017

The Basement

  I guess there's no point beating around the bush, so I'm just gonna get straight to it. There's a dead body in my basement. 
  No, I'm not kidding. It's the god honest truth. And here’s the thing, it’s been there for over a week.
  Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking 'dude that's fucked up!’ And you're right, it is. But I can assure you, there's a perfectly valid reason for why it’s still there. I cannot call the cops. 
  Pretty obvious, right? 
  Well, actually it’s not, and I'll explain why in a minute, but let me fill you in on the details first. About a week ago I was taking some dirty laundry down to the basement. I wasn’t suspecting anything to be out of the ordinary, I mean why would I? I'm just taking some clothes down to the basement, right? 
  So I walk down the stairs and make my way over to the light switch on the other side, and o boy do I get the shock of a lifetime. There is a guy dressed in a suit and tie, lying on his back in the middle of the floor. His hands are folded together, like he's praying, and he's got a big knife sticking out of his chest. 
  To say that I was gobsmacked would be the frickin understatement of the century. I couldn't move. I just stood there completely frozen, staring at the guy like a retard.
 The first semi-coherent thought that passed through my brain about twenty seconds later, was that it had to be a practical joke. Some of my douchebag friends would come running out with a camera and big grins screaming 'gotcha dumbass'. 
 And I wish that had happened, but no such luck. There was no one else there. It was just me and Mr Mysterious Dead Guy. And that's when the enormity of it finally hit me, and I nearly had a heart attack.
  And can you really blame me? 
  There I was, in my own basement, thinking everything is fine and dandy, and wham fricking bam, I stumble across a dead body. 
  So a couple of minutes goes by, and I'm slowly starting to come out of the daze I'm in and working up the necessary courage to go over there for a closer look. 
  But as I approach the guy I have second thoughts, so I stop, turn around and grab a hammer from the tool shop behind the staircase. 
  Don't ask me why, but that's what I did. 
  Then I go back to the body.
  And that's when I see his eyes are open, and my heart skips a beat. It's creepy enough having a dead body in your basement, but it's even creepier having a dead body with its eyes open. 
  Anyway, I walk a little closer and I see the bluest eyes I've ever seen in my life. It’s almost like they’re made out of polished ice. And they're staring straight up at the ceiling, like the owner has just seen a god damn ghost up there.
  So I stand where I am for a few minutes, wondering what the fuck do I do now? And then all of a sudden I decide to check if he's got any ID on him. I mean that's what they do on TV, right? Figure out who the victim is and all that stuff.
  So I take a few deep breaths and kneel down next to the guy and start going through his pockets. I'm careful not to touch him, which is actually fairly easy if you take your time. Then about a minute into the search I finally find what I’m looking for, a wallet.
  And that's when all fucking hell breaks loose. 
  As I'm going through the content of his wallet, the light goes out and I'm cast into complete darkness. I mean I can't even see an inch in front of me. All I manage to say is "Jesus Christ!" and then a cold hand locks itself around my wrist and starts to squeeze. 
 If you've ever been truly scared, and I mean really fucking scared, then you can multiply your experience by ten and you know how I felt. And yeah, you guessed it, I wet my pants. There was nothing I could do to stop it. It just came pouring out like water from a god damn garden hose. Then I sucked in a couple of gallons of air and nearly passed out. 
  So there I was, my heart was doing somersaults inside my chest, and I could feel the taste of blood and sulphur in my mouth and I got a dead cold hand wrapped around my wrist. So what do you think I did next? Well, I panicked of course. I completely lost it. 
  I tried to jump up on my feet, but the hand was holding me tight and didn't cede a millimetre. There was no way I was going to be able to stand up. Then wham, another hand locks onto my arm, just above where the other one is. And that's when I started screaming from the top of my lungs. 
  I was like a wild animal. I was kicking and screaming, hitting the hands trying to extricate myself. But it was no use, it was like my arm was stuck in a vice. 
  Then the hands try to pull me closer, and I go fucking mental. I throw myself backwards and kick the guy repeatedly, trying desperately to break free. I throw my arm behind me hoping to find something I can grab onto, and that's when my hand bumps into the hammer.
  Well, come to think of it, it was more like slamming into it. I hit it with such force that I should be withering in pain. But the adrenaline numbed the sensation and I was able to ignore it. Hell, I betcha I could even have taken a few sucker punches straight to the head and still kept going.
  So I finally realise what it is and after fumbling around for it with my hand for a second or two, I manage to get hold of it. And then something inside me takes over, and I go straight to auto pilot mode. 
  My arm start swinging with full force and the hammer keeps striking the guy repeatedly. It was almost like an out of body experiment. Kind of like witnessing a psycho bashing the shit out of someone on TV and not really caring one iota about what happened to the victim. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I probably kept it at it for a good minute, then I noticed the guy's hands had relinquished their grip on my arm. So I jump up and bolt across the room and manage to run straight into the fucking wall and almost knock myself out cold. But I remain conscious. 
  Then I race over to the stairs and run up to the kitchen, where I throw myself into a corner and assume the foetal position. Well actually, I pushed a heavy cabinet up against the door first. You know, just to make sure.
  So I sit there for almost half an hour hyperventilating and sweating bullets, until I'm finally able to think coherent thoughts again. Then I grab a torch and a new bulb and I return to the basement. The hand holding the torch is shaking like a vibrator, but I'm able to hold onto it. 
  The first thing I do is to shine the light on the guy's face just to make sure he's still there. He is. His face looks like an overinflated punching ball. It's covered in blood, mucus and bruises. Then I grab a stepladder and change the light bulb and approach the guy for a second inspection. And this time I make sure I stay half a dozen feet away.
  And that's when I notice it. His hands are in exactly the same position as they were when I first saw him. They're folded together on top of his chest. It's like he never moved them, and never grabbed my arm. 
  I shake my head in disbelief and blink a few times, thinking my eyes are doing a trick on me, but they're not. His hands really are folded together, which means he must have done it while I was bashing him with the hammer, or .... someone else latched onto my arm. 
  The thought scares the shit out of me, and I quickly snatched the hammer off the floor and raised it above my head. Then I start going through every inch of the basement. I make sure to take my time, and I do a thorough search. But the basement is empty. It's just the two of us down there. So I go back upstairs again, and that's when I realise what a fucking predicament I have managed to get myself into. 
  If I call the cops they'll automatically assume that I killed the guy, and I'll get locked up for life. And if there is one place I don't want to go to, it's the penitentiary, or as the folks around these parts jokingly refer to it, 'the penetratinary'. 
  Guys like me, who's only five feet ten and weighs in just shy of a hundred and fifty pounds, generally don't have a good time in places like that, if you get my drift... And that's when I realise I have to get rid of the body. That's the only way, and that's where I'm at now. 
  It's been exactly one week since I punched the guy’s ticket. There has been no mention of him in the media, so I guess he wasn't that popular. And thank god for that. I don't think I could put on a straight face if the cops came knocking on my door. 
  I'm not going to lie, the last week has been pure hell. The memory of the ordeal never leaves me. It's like a dripping faucet. It doesn't matter how hard I turn the tap, I just can't stop it. But I think I've managed to deal with it pretty well. I don't think I've given anyone a reason to suspect that I’ve recently bashed someone to death with a carpenter’s hammer.
  I've also reached a decision as to how I'm going to solve this problem, although it's not something I'm looking forward to. But hey, beggars can't be choosers, right?
  I've been down to the local hardware store and acquired two new handsaws, some heavy duty bin liners, duct tape and a hazmat suit. Items that will come in handy for what I’ve got planned. It will probably take me all night, but I don't think I'll run into any major problems. All I can say is thank god it’s winter and the temperatures are in the low twenties. Everything should be frozen solid by now, so there won't be that much of a mess to clean up afterwards.
  I've also done a few searches online, and I've got a good idea of how to dispose of various evidence. But that's not something I'm going to share with you. That's a secret that I'll take to my grave. 
  Well, I think that about covers it.
  Please wish me luck. If everything goes according to plan I might just be able to get away with it, and with time, put this entire mess behind me. If not, I'll guess you'll see my face in the papers and on TV before you know it. So if it comes to that, how will you recognise me? Well, that's a pretty easy question to answer, I'll be the little white guy looking straight into the camera, protesting my innocence.