Unfinished Letter

So, I’m 43 years old, and I’m still terrified of the basement. One day, sooner or later, the paramedics will find me, half-eaten by rats, a flashlight thrown across the room at some unseen threat, with nothing more sinister than a 20-amp fuse clutched tightly in my hand like Gollum’s ring. Sure, the cause of death will be listed as cardiac arrest and will be attributed to one too many slices of deep dish, and not quitting smoking soon enough, but I need you to bear witness by receipt of this letter to the fact that the truth is far more sinister.

Sarah and I live in a 117-year-old house, and as Sarah likes to say, sometimes it acts its age. There are electrical problems, plumbing leaks, and we have an on-going project peeling layers of paint from the bathroom walls, and even though we’ve gone through four different colours so far, we have yet to hit drywall. We’ve lived here for 2-1/2 years, renting the first floor of this house, which, despite its personality quirks, has become our home, and we love it. Which is why we can’t figure out why the top two apartments (it’s a big house) are rarely occupied. In the time we’ve been here, we have gone through upstairs neighbours the way some people go through socks.

An apt metaphor, actually – socks.

You know how, when you’re doing laundry, inevitably, you end up with spare socks? Well, it’s like that. Our neighbours just seem to up and disappear. One day we’ll hear people upstairs, walking around, and we’ll know that we have neighbours. But before we ever really get to know them, they up and move out without any notice or explanation, and all we are left with is their unopened, unforwardable mail, and the strange feeling that something is seriously wrong in the upper floors of our old house. Usually, when you move out of somewhere, you’ll go back in a week or two to collect any mail that might have been delivered before you had a chance to register your change of address at the post office. Not so with our former neighbours. Not once have I seen any mail disappear from the front lobby, nor has anyone knocked on my door to collect their errant hydro bill, or that cheque their grandmother sent for their birthday that will, I suppose, remain uncashed.

This past winter we got quite a bit of snow, and sometimes we get seepage in the basement, which is why we have a sump pump, to prevent flooding. Now, most of the time, I don’t even think of the sump pump, or the pit in the corner of the basement furthest away from the stairs that open right to the backyard. Most of the time, I don’t think of the wet, sucking sounds that the pump makes, like an ancient, toothless thing gumming its dinner to death, or the smell that is equal parts old potatoes, spoiled wine and something older; something unthinkable. I dare not let my mind travel down that road, or my pulse will start racing again. Sometimes, when I let my imagination get the better of me, it can take on a life of its own, and the things I imagine, though merely the coinage of my feverish brain, are nonetheless real enough to me in that moment as to pose a legitimate threat, if not to my physical health, than certainly to my sanity.

Anyhow, we’ve been having an issue with the power in the front of the house, and Sarah just called me to let me know the power is out. I have to go change a fuse. Wish me luck. I’ll write more later if I’m able.