I Live in Your Basement (3 page)

“Uh… because I’m awake,” I replied. “Mom, what are you doing down there?”

“Laundry,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep, either. So I decided to do laundry.
You know. It always relaxes me.”

“Mom—come upstairs. Now!” I cried. “There’s someone down there with you!”

She squinted up at me. Tilted her head, examining me with her eyes. “What do
you mean?” she asked softly.

“Hurry!” I insisted. “That boy. He talked to me again. He’s down there, Mom. He says he
lives
down there.”

“Marco, I’m worried about you,” Mom said calmly. She started up the stairs,
her eyes locked on me. “You’re not making any sense, dear.”

“But I
am
!” I insisted. “I heard him, Mom. He talked to me—just now!
He’s down there! Really!”

“It’s too late to call Dr. Bailey,” she fretted. She stepped up beside me and
pressed her palm against my forehead. “No fever.”

“Mom—I’m not imagining it!” I wailed.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” she said. “I want you to rest all day. Then we’ll see
if you are ready to go back to school on Monday.”

“But, Mom—” I started. “I—”

The boy’s voice interrupted me from downstairs. “Marco,” he called, “listen
to your mother.”

“Mom—did you
hear
that?” I shrieked.

“Hear what?” Mom demanded, eyeing me sharply.

“The boy—” I started. But I didn’t finish. Someone bumped me hard from
behind.

I stumbled toward the basement—and nearly fell down the stairs.

“Whoa—!” I let out a cry and spun around.

Tyler wagged his tail at me. He shuffled forward and bumped me again. He does
that all the time. Just to be friendly, I guess.

“You stupid dog!” I shrieked. “You nearly
killed
me!”

Tyler stopped wagging. He stared up at me with his big brown eyes.

“Don’t yell at the dog,” Mom scolded. “You’re really not doing well, Marco.
Let’s tuck you in, okay? You are definitely overtired.”

“But, Mom—”

I decided not to argue. What was the point?

I glanced down into the basement, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy. But I saw only darkness.

Where was he? Where was he hiding?

I knew I hadn’t imagined him. I knew I had really heard him.

So what was going on?

Mom let me go to school on Monday. The way things turned out, I wished she
had kept me home.

I felt fine. The bump on my head was still purple. But it had shrunk to about
the size of a quarter.

When I went into the school building, everyone ran up to me. The Franklin
twins were arguing about which backpack was whose. They are always getting their
stuff mixed up.

But when they saw me, they dropped both backpacks and hurried over.

“Marco—how are you?”

“Are you okay?”

“Let me see your bruise.”

“Wow. That’s real ugly!”

“Does it hurt?”

“I can’t believe you’re back!”

“You must have a really hard head!”

Everyone laughed and joked and made a big fuss over me. I enjoyed being the
center of attention for once. Usually, no one pays any attention to me at all!

I was feeling pretty good about things.

Until the bell rang and Miss Mosely asked me to come up to the front of the
class. “I think we’re all glad to see you in school today, Marco,” she said.

Jeremy started clapping, and then everyone else clapped. Even Gwynnie, who
sits right in front of the teacher.

“Since we’ve been studying health care,” Miss Mosely continued, “I want you
to tell everyone what it was like in the hospital.”

Hospital?

I stared at her. My brain did a flip-flop. My mouth dropped open.

Had I been in the hospital?

“What was your room like in the hospital?” Miss Mosely asked. “What kind of
doctor examined you? What did the doctor look for?”

I blinked. Thinking hard. Trying to remember.

“Tell us everything,” Miss Mosely insisted. She crossed her arms and stared
at me through her round, black-framed eyeglasses, waiting for me to talk.

“I—I don’t remember,” I stammered.

One of the Franklin twins laughed. A few kids whispered to each other.

“Well, what
do
you remember about the hospital, Marco?” Miss Mosely
asked, speaking slowly and clearly as if talking to a three-year-old.

“I don’t remember anything. Nothing at all!” I blurted out.

Gwynnie leaned forward so that she practically hung over Miss Mosely’s desk.
“Maybe I should hit him on the head again,” she said. “You know. To help bring
back his memory.”

A few kids laughed.

Miss Mosely frowned at Gwynnie. “That’s a
terrible
thing to say. It’s
not a joke. Memory loss from a hit on the head can be very serious.”

Gwynnie shrugged her big shoulders. “Just kidding,” she muttered. “Can’t
anyone take a joke?”

Meanwhile, I was still standing up there in front of everyone. Feeling
awkward and confused.

Why didn’t I remember the hospital? The first thing I remembered, I was lying
on the den couch at home.

Miss Mosely motioned for me to sit down. “We’re glad you’re okay, Marco,” she
said. “And don’t worry about the things you forgot. Your memory will come back.”

Up till then, I didn’t know it had
left.
I dropped into my seat,
feeling weak and shaken.

The rest of the day was a blur.

I was still thinking hard that afternoon as I started walking home. Still
trying to remember
something
about the hospital.

I saw some kids starting a softball game on the playground diamond. Thinking
about softball gave me a chill.

I started to turn away—but someone caught my eye.

Gwynnie!

She came chasing after me across the grass. She carried a baseball bat,
raised high over her head.

She had a grim, determined look on her face.

“Marco! Hey—Marco!” she called, waving the bat menacingly.

She’s going to hit me again, I knew.

But,
why?

“No—!” I let out a cry. And gaped at her in horror.

“Gwynnie—please don’t!”

“Marco! Hey—Marco!”

Gwynnie had a fierce look on her face. She swung the bat over her head again.

I froze. My legs refused to move.

With a loud cry, I finally managed to turn away. And I started to run.

I hurtled across the street without checking for traffic. What is her
problem? Is she
crazy?
I asked myself. Why is she doing this?

Did Gwynnie really think she could bring back my memory with a smack on the
head?

I turned the corner, breathing hard, the backpack bouncing on my shoulders.
Glancing back, I saw her on the other side of the street. Two school buses
rumbled by, forcing her to wait.

I lowered my head, shifted the backpack, and forced myself to pick up speed.

By the time I reached home, my heart pounded so hard it hurt. And the bump on
my head throbbed with pain.

I dove into the house and slammed the door behind me. Then I pressed my back
against the door and struggled to catch my breath.

“Marco? Is that you?” Mom called from the den.

Still gasping for breath, I tried to choke out an answer. But only a low
croaking sound escaped my throat.

Mom appeared in the living room doorway. She narrowed her eyes, studying me.
“How was your first day back?”

“Okay,” I managed to murmur.

“You didn’t overdo it—did you?” she demanded. “Why do you look so pale? Did
you take gym, Marco? I gave you a note to excuse you from gym—remember?”

“We… didn’t… have… gym,” I gasped.

Mom was always giving me notes to excuse me from gym. She was sure I’d poke
my eye out or break every bone in my body in gym class.

“Why are you so out of breath?” she asked, crossing the room tome. She placed
a hand on my forehead. “You’re sweating. Didn’t I warn you about sweating? It’ll
give you a cold.”

“Really. I’m fine,” I said, starting to feel normal again. I slipped out from
under her hand and peeked out the front window.

Had Gwynnie chased me all the way home?

I didn’t see her out there.

“I felt okay today,” I told her. “No problem.”

I wanted to ask her about the hospital. But I didn’t want her to know that I’d lost my memory. It would only cause a lot
more trouble.

So I didn’t say anything about it. Instead, I made my way to the stairs.
“I’ve got a lot of homework to catch up on,” I told her. “I’ll be up in my
room.”

“Do you want a snack?” she called after me. “You shouldn’t do homework on an
empty stomach.”

“No thanks,” I replied. I climbed the stairs and hurried down the hall.

I stopped in the doorway.

And let out a startled cry when I saw a boy sitting on my bed.

He looked about my age. He had wavy black hair around a thin, serious face.
He gazed at me with round dark eyes. Sad eyes. He wore black denim jeans and a
loose-fitting plaid flannel shirt.

He didn’t appear at all surprised to see me.

“Who—who are you?” I stammered.

“It’s me. Keith,” he replied softly. “I told you. I live in your basement.”

I didn’t say anything. My mind went blank. I stared at the boy from out in
the hall.

My knees suddenly felt weak and trembly. I grabbed the sides of the doorframe
to keep from falling.

A cruel smile spread slowly over Keith’s face. His dark eyes flashed. “Come
in. I thought we should get to know each other,” he said. “Since you are going
to take care of me from now on.”

I swallowed hard.

I stood there frozen for a long moment.

And then I screamed, “No! No way!”

I pulled the bedroom door shut. It had a key and a lock, which we never use.

My hand trembled as I grabbed the key and turned it.

I tested the door.

Yes! I had locked Keith in. He was trapped inside my bedroom.

Now Mom would see him. Now she would
have
to believe me.

“Mom!” I shouted. “Come up here! Hurry!”

No reply.

Had she gone out?

No. She was probably in the kitchen starting dinner.

I tested the door again, making sure it was locked tight. Then I plunged down
the stairs, calling to her.

“Marco? What on earth—?” She came running from the kitchen, carrying an
onion and a knife.

“Come upstairs! Hurry!” I cried. “I’ve caught him! He’s in my room!”

“Caught who?” She eyed me suspiciously. “Who is in your room?”

“The boy!” I shouted. I grabbed her by the arm and started to pull her up the
stairs. “Keith. The boy who lives in the basement.”

“Marco—wait.” Mom tugged her arm free. “Please don’t start that again. You
know how worried I get when you start talking crazy.”

“I’m not crazy!” I wailed.

I grabbed her arm again. The onion fell out of her hand and bounced across
the floor.

“Stop pulling me. I’m coming,” she snapped. “You’re acting very strange,
Marco. I don’t like this one bit. Dr. Bailey said that if you started acting in
a weird manner, I should call him immediately and—”

“Mom—just don’t talk!” I begged. “Don’t say another word. Please—follow me.
He’s in my room. I locked him in. You’ll see him with your own eyes. Then you’ll
know I’m not crazy.”

She grumbled, but she followed me up the stairs.

I stopped outside my room and reached for the key. My heart pounded so hard,
I thought my chest might explode. My head started to throb.

I turned the key. And pushed open my bedroom door.

“There!” I declared, pointing to my bed.

Mom and I both let out cries of surprise.

Tyler sat staring at us from the bed.

He panted loudly. His tongue hung out. When he saw us, his tail started to
wag.

Mom placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “Go lie down on that bed, Marco,” she
ordered. “I’m calling the doctor right now.”

“No. Wait,” I insisted. I ducked out from under her grip.

I dropped to the floor and peered under the bed. “Keith—where are you?”

Not under there.

I climbed to my feet, ran across the room, and tugged open the closet door.
“Keith—?”

No.

I spun around. Where else could he be hiding?

Tyler leaped off the bed and bounded from the room.

“That poor dog doesn’t like being locked up,” Mom fretted.

“I didn’t lock him in here!” I shouted. “I locked Keith in.”

She
tsk-tsked.
“You’re going to be fine, Marco. Really you are.” Her
voice trembled.

It was easy to figure out what she really meant:
That hit on the head
scrambled your brains, Marco. You’re acting like a total nutcase!

I took a deep breath and tried to explain again. “Mom, I don’t know how Tyler
got in here. But I do know there was a boy in my room. And I locked him in.”

“I’m going to phone Dr. Bailey right now,” Mom replied. “But I don’t want you
to worry. Everything will be okay.” She hurried from the room.

Everything will be okay.
Mom’s words lingered in my mind.

As usual, she was wrong.

Dr. Bailey’s waiting room was all blue and green. A huge fish tank against
one wall bubbled quietly. The blue and green chairs, blue and green carpet, and
blue and green walls made me feel as if I were in a fish tank too!

Mom and I checked in with the woman behind the desk. Then we sat down on a
hard plastic couch against the wall.

On the plastic chairs across from us, a girl sat with her father. The girl
was about seven or eight. Every few seconds, she hiccupped loudly. Her whole
body shook with each hiccup.

“She’s been doing that for two weeks,” her father explained, shaking his
head.

“Dad,” the girl snapped, “it’s only been
HIC
ten days.”