These days I wake up earlier than I ever have before. I make instant coffee and sit staring through a crack in the boards that overlook the greenhouses in the front field. Behind those, perhaps a few hundred yards, the road cuts across and bends lazily to its right and behind some trees. From my seat by the window i can watch the morning light creep onto and through the little block of gardens and rows of lawn. The scratching sounds from the basement aren't so audible in this front room; i imagine the thing down there has dragged itself towards the back kitchen-corner of the house. It's quiet and calm, the cars that once passed by even very early in the morning are no more, and I can sit and pretend that I, and the thing in the basement, are the only things left in the world.
Lately, though, I've started imagining what i'd find in the house i can just make out across the street. Shelves full of canned food or even dried pasta or fruit, or batteries. Tarps or have-a-heart traps. A bigger knife, or more razor blades. more guns.
A carpet spongy with blood, flies buzzing. A locked room, tidy, but with a closet full of unmarked video tapes. White corpses with black hands. Shit and rotted food and bugs.
It's so far away, and a needless risk, but i'm starting to think I need to go over there and see, so I can come back and sit in the mornings and not have a head filled with dares and imagination.
But first, the basement.
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