on the door, sending it swinging into the room.
Although a window occupied the far wall, someone had bricked it over, sealing out the night, and the moonlight, too, but this was of no matter for the walls were lined with the same candles we found along the staircase—their flames burning bright and dancing upon the wicks. Again, I noted the lack of fresh wax; the candles burned yet they didn’t become spent. They didn’t expel smoke or scent, they just gave off an odd blue light.
I think Matilda expected to find Nanna Ellen, because she burst into the room with a quick step, prepared to surprise anyone who may be standing inside. We encountered no one, though.
With the opening of the door, the nasty air rushed out at us as if freed from this place for the first time in centuries. Beneath this odor, I also detected a deep, earthy scent. The room was larger than I had expected, at least twelve feet across, and completely round except for the door. The ceiling climbed to a height of at least ten feet, dominated by a large canopy of stone bricks supported by thick wooden beams much like the ones we encountered in the staircase.
The cobwebs and dust were so thick a hundred years could have passed since the last time someone stepped foot in this place, had I not known otherwise. I thought of Nanna Ellen’s room and the dirt on the floor, how she left no footprints while Matilda and I left so many.
I knew Nanna Ellen had been here, because at the center of the room was a large wooden crate, about three feet deep and almost as wide and of a length that rivaled Pa’s height. The top had been pried open and set aside, and it was from here the malignant odor emanated. Dirt covered the floor, much like Nanna’s room.
* * *
? ? ?
AT FIRST GLANCE, the crate struck me as peculiar. Spiderwebs filled the room; they dangled from the ceiling and walls as thick as the canopy of an old weeping willow in the deepest bog. Even as we pushed the door farther into the room, webs broke free and fell to the floor with tiny eight-legged creatures scurrying for shelter the moment they recovered, taking refuge amongst the thick plumes of dust and grime. How had someone gotten such a large box up the stairs?
Matilda, still shielding her mouth, walked with caution into the room, her eyes fixed on the large crate. She circled carefully at a distance of a few feet, then approached, waving away the webs nearby. As she peered over the edge of the crate and took in the contents, her face creased into a frown; then she shook her head and stepped back again, a scream coming from her, but muffled by the sleeve of her coat.
“What is it?”
She grew pale, and for a moment I thought she might give in to nausea, but she fought off the sensation. Unable to speak, she pointed to the crate opening, her finger trembling before her.
I wanted to turn back. I wanted to take her by the hand and rush back out the door, down the steps and across the fields to our house, where I would climb back into the safety of my bed and pretend this was nothing more than another bad dream—but I knew I couldn’t do that. We had braved the night to come to this place, to search for Nanna Ellen, to get answers, and I had to remain steadfast and courageous.
I forced my feet to move, for they did not wish to do so. I coaxed them into the room one step at a time until I found myself standing beside the large wooden crate. I felt Matilda’s hand on my back and nearly jumped at the touch. My head spun around to face her only long enough to see her mouth the word Sorry. Then I turned back to the crate, leaned over it, and peered inside.
Dirt filled the crate to the rim—the same disgusting earth we found under Nanna Ellen’s bed, crawling with earthworms as thick as my finger, slithering through the black and over and under one another before disappearing back into the dirt.