Out of nowhere the cement foundation started to creak. A thousand dark lines shattered the floor, and the near powdered concrete collapsed and fell through with a whump and a cloud of gray dust. Silence
I stood there and watched, scared to move. I wasn't sure if it was going to get any bigger. I live in an old mining town, you see, so sinkholes in basements aren't incredibly uncommon. Most of the ones that are going to show up have done so already, but once in awhile someone gets killed when their yard collapses into a massive abyss.
Four long florescent lights hung from ceiling illuminating the cobwebs and boxes; empty shelving and of course the pit. It was only about five feet square. Five minutes passed - and inch by inch I put one foot in front of the other until I was looking down into the hole.
To my surprise it was only about six feet deep. With twin rails running at the bottom, shining dully in the light. No rubble. No more dust. Just clean rails and silky blackness.
Like a knife on a sharpening stone, getting louder and louder. Speeding up in repetitions, rhythmic and consistent. Growing in intensity as it seemed to approach me. I thought it might be city workers, and I figured I'd give them a piece of my mind for blowing a hole in my basement. But as I waited the sound just grew louder until my ears felt like they were bleeding. Rasp. Rasp. Rasp. And then it stopped. Dead silence.
Patter, patter. Patter, patter. Fear violently clawed it's way into my stomach and I've never run so fast in my life. The old wooden rail ripped apart as I pulled myself up the stairs. Bone-dry splinters ripped through the soft flesh of my palm and rivulets of blood ran down my wrists. The latch on the door exploded as I tore fast as a bullet to get through the doorway and slam the door behind me. I pushed my back against the white paneled door while taking huge gulps of air. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. I puked on the floor.
Having caught my breath I stepped forward and faced the door. Two bloody handprints with drops of blood running down into a crimson pool. The chair that I used to block the door was one of the strong oak chairs from my dining room set. I tilted the chair back and stuck the top of it firmly under the handle.
With every attempt to grab my cell phone from my pocket I was greeted with searing pain and pulses of blood as the splinters pushed themselves further into my hand. The pain was too much, and my neighbors have a phone, right? And it was dead silent in the house, usually the hum of the refrigerator or heating. But nothing was stirring. The lights were hardly working and it felt like the walls were closing in. Probably due to the loss of blood. Knowing this I got to the neighbors as fast as I could.
Mr. Peterson lives on my right. His lawn is constantly covered in flakes of green paint from the heat warped wooden siding that covered the single story 50's style house which he lived alone in. He opened the door in blue house coat.
“Good god,” He exclaimed when he saw me soaked in blood. “What the hell happened to you?” Mr. Petersons stubble covered face scrunched up and stared at me.
“I need to use your phone.” I gasped at him, clutching my aching stomach. “My basement collapsed and I cut myself on the railing, shitty wood.”
I explained as best I could what had happened, and we both agreed that I needed to go to the hospital. Mr. Peterson was kind enough to drive me there.
While the doctor used tweezers to pull the splinters out of my hand I told him how it happened. He was shocked that something like that could happen, and then went on a rant about how the mining companies screwed us over and should take more responsibility to mapping out old mining tunnels. He was adamant that I contact the city. I told him I would. He wrapped my hands with thick white gauze, it would have to stay on for two weeks or so, with fresh gauze every morning and night.
Skip forward a couple of hours to when I got home. Mr. Peterson was annoyingly persistent that he wanted to see the sinkhole, I was a little hesitant because the floor was still covered in blood and puke, but he was insatiable.
I unlocked the door and slowly opened it. The air was fresh, and smelled lightly of cloves. Straight ahead from my front door is the entrance to the basement. I expected the mess to be there still. But it was clean as the slate babies get when they're born. As stood at the front door Mr. Peterson huffed and walked down the hallway. Opening the door – which was also not blocked. The chair was back in the dining room. I had no idea what was going on, so I followed Mr. Peterson as he entered the basement.
The railing was completely removed while I was gone. Not a single splinter was left on the ground, nor a drop of blood.
And no pit.
I need help, Mr. Peterson thinks I'm crazy and getting him to finally leave was quite the ordeal. He said I needed to get my head checked. Old bastard. I'm staying at a hotel tonight. I'll go back to the house tomorrow to further investigate.
Submitted December 09, 2015 at 07:12AM by Merhner http://ift.tt/1m9wxmx nosleep
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