Amelia

AMELIA

“What’s wrong?” Adam says. It’s a question my husband frequently asks without really wanting to know the answer.

“Nothing. What now?” I reply as we stand in the boot room staring at each other. I catch sight of my reflection in some of the miniature mirrors on the wall, and look away. This place is a little too Alice in Wonderland for my liking. All that’s missing is a white rabbit.

“I was looking forward to another glass of wine but you smashed that idea when you dropped the bottle…” Adam says.

“Well, you said the crypt was full of them. We could just open another—”

“It was, that’s true, and it’s your turn to go down there.”

“What?”

“Once you see there is nothing to be afraid of, you’ll stop being scared.”

I’m not sure I agree with his logic, but I do have a feminist backbone, and anything my husband can do I can do just as well. So, although I don’t want to go down into the crypt, I will. To make a point as well as get some much-needed alcohol.

I notice that Adam closes each door behind us as we head back toward the kitchen, as though trying to keep something out. Although I’m sure he must just be trying to keep the heat in. When we reach the larder, he heaves open the trapdoor in the floor, and my senses are immediately assaulted by the dank, musty smell.

“What is that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Damp?”

It’s far more pungent than any damp smell I’ve encountered before.

“Pass me the torch,” I say.

“The battery is completely dead now, but there is a light switch down there. It’s on the right as soon as you reach the bottom.”

He holds the trapdoor open as I start down the stone steps. There is no rail to hold on to, so I feel my way down the wall. It isn’t just cold, it’s wet. Slimy might be a more accurate description. My fingers find the switch, and an ugly fluorescent tube on the ceiling comes to life, creating an eerie green glow. The humming sound it makes is oddly comforting.

Adam was right, there are no ghosts or gargoyles, but the place definitely feels spooky. Everything is made of ancient-looking stone—the walls, the ceiling, the floor—and it’s so cold down here that I can see my breath. I count three rusted metal rings embedded in the wall, and do my best not to think about what they were used for. I spot the racks of wine in the distance and hurry to take a closer look, keen to get back upstairs. Some of the bottles are coated in so much grime and dust, it’s impossible to read the labels, but I spot what looks like a bottle of Malbec.

Then the lights go out.

“Adam?” I call.

The trapdoor up above me slams shut.

“Adam!” I scream, but he doesn’t answer, and all I can see is black.