Down dusty wooden steps one glares into a gangrenous gloom. Smell of paint thinner and damp, and something very, very old. As one descends, the steps, of course, creak.
The cellar's floor is covered in untouched dust-dirt. Must be years since anybody's been down here. The gloom glares.
In a murky corner, four cardboard boxes are stacked up untidily. They lean against the wall like an inebriated tramp on the verge of collapse. The noise of leather soles on dust crackles and scrapes. Breath heaves and gushes in the dead air. Eyes begin to burn and blink.
Must be years since... now, I wonder what's...
Taking the top-most box down, the visitor looks within. Wiping their hands on their shirt, they see old photo albums, and the severed head of a Barbie doll. Gore-gripped, a groin contracts in the gloom.
Jesus, for a second there I thought...They look around the cellar, guilty, nervous.
Beneath the picture book, a notebook. A diary. On the first page of this diary, a name. Their own name. Confusion, like a whirlpool, deconstructs their mind. [You're madness, not mine.]
How the hell...? That's impossible. I've never...