The basement told a whole different story. It had never been finished, so the walls were made up of exposed pipes, cobwebs and untamed wiring. The old wooden stairs creaked as you went down into the darkness. Often she wondered if she went down, would she ever come back up? One of the cement walls had been spray painted with graffiti, which made her think that some kind of sinister gang had lived here before. What happened down here, she often wondered in this creepy, spider-infested concrete land. And did they do their laundry during their illegal activity? Fabric softener and crime didn’t seem to mix. But everyone needed clean clothes. Even Gangsters.
Leaving the bag of trash on the floor, she quickly ran upstairs. The creaky off-tune stairs each played a different note behind her as she finally got to the top and slammed the basement door behind her. She didn’t like that stair song and knew the from the first moment she first walked through the house, that the basement would never be her favourite place. She preferred sunshine and happiness. She was an upstairs dweller. The rest of the house captivated her. Every part seemed to want to tell her a story. The doors looked like at any moment they would open their wide mouths and start taking. She would peer through their old keyholes, wondering where those keys were. Did someone still out there have those keys? The high winking windows, the smooth winding staircase – she loved it all. Even the fireplace in her parent’s bedroom grinned at her with a smile – mouth open wide, waiting for a lunch of burning embers to be served. It was a house of imagination. It’s breathed of stories of the past, and she wanted to know those stories.