When I was a child and I was forced to go to the basement of my parent's house, I would always get the chills. After the initial comforting musty smell of the exposed ceiling and walls of the basement would subside, I would suddenly be stricken with a great and impending doom. Something was looking at me from in between the flat slats that served as the stairs. I always knew that. Although I didn't see anything there, I knew that there was something waiting for me to leisurely make my way back up the stairs to the relative safety of the living room so that it could wrap its slender fingers around my thin ankles.

So it was that anytime my mother had me deposit the laundry into the washer or dryer, I would prance down the stairs and keeping my knees high so that I could rush to the light switch at the base of the stairs. Without a doubt in my child's mind, I knew that the thing was just about to grab me as I pulled the light's cord. Somehow the little flickering lightbulb skipping into life was enough to keep the thing at bay.

I knew this to be true.

These were facts of life.

Well into my teens, I took those steps three or four at a time to be sure to confuse the monster peering out from the spaces between each step. I was too clever for it.

This was my own unspoken torture until I went to college. The stairs on campus were all constructed from concrete and so there was nothing to worry about when I would make the long journey from my dorm room to the communal laundry area. It was all good. Soon those stairs fell way to other childish fantasies, and I would only ever withdraw them in my nightmares.

I got a job and an apartment, and they disappeared from my mind entirely. They were worse than a forgotten memory; they were a dark note slipped into the folds of my brain.

After building my credit score, I went house shopping. With relentless intensity I searched for my dream house. I wanted for my success to reflect my hard work and perseverance, as ridiculous as that may sound. I wanted something nice. That is how I came upon a nice ranch style home with too many rooms and a deep dark basement. I was on cloud nine as I followed the realtor throughout the home, examining the faucets and closets and back lawn. Then she drew my attention to a door I'd not paid any mind to. But there it was. Sitting directly adjacent the fridge in the kitchen. My stomached flipped and I had something approximating an anxiety attack without exhibiting the symptoms to my tour guide.

I gripped and twisted the realtor's pamphlet between my hands in front of my thighs. When she asked me if I would like to look at the basement, I nodded and grinned through teeth that felt like they may burst into pieces. She flicked the light on and waltzed down the steps and I followed, feeling what can only be described as vertigo. The wooden steps were slats without backs. All of the sudden, I felt the sudden urge to burst past her on the steps and run to the bottom. I maintained my composure and asked her inconsequential questions about moisture accumulation and insulation. When I felt the bare concrete basement floor beneath my feet, I felt better, but not by much. I felt as though if I spun around and looked in between the spaces of each of those steps, I would see something, anything peering back at me.

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I was being obtuse. I was an adult. I didn't have to worry about monsters under the stairs. I steeled myself and saw that the space between the wall and the back of the stairs was completely open. I breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing could possibly hide under there. I felt foolish and folded the realtor's pamphlet into a neat square and put it away into my back pocket.

I closed on the house and moved into it rather quickly, realizing that the furniture that had filled my apartment to the brim left my new home looking much like a museum with all of its excess floor space. I had no use for all of the extra closets as of yet or the basement.

The first few weeks went smoothly, and I had a new set of hoses and outlets installed in a spare room for my washer and dryer so that I would not have to use the ones in the basement.

I was awakened by some rustling underneath me one night and felt my skin grow cold. Something struck me then. I hadn't put anything in the basement. There were no stacked cardboard boxes down there. There wasn't anything that could be making any ruckus down there. I don't have pets and I don't have a significant other.

Slowly, I pressed my ear to the floor next to my bed and could hear what sounded like deep and wheezy breathing, like someone was suffocating. I could feel my groin tighten and I went lightheaded. I recoiled from the hardwood floor and exhaled and inhaled very deliberately to calm my nerves.

I moved through the house and opened one of the boxes in the kitchen to find a glistening knife. That door next to the fridge seemed to beckon me. I switched the light next to the door that I knew would illuminate the floor down there. Swinging the door open, I found nothing. Nothing at all. I closed the door back, locked it, and flicked the downstairs light off.

I slept hard for the rest of the night with that knife on my bedside table.

A month or so passed after that and I put the basement out of my mind. That is, until I awoke once more to that strange arduous breathing beneath the floor of my bed. I went to the door in the kitchen, this time forgetting to bring anything to defend myself. I was sure I only needed to put my mind at ease. I would prove to myself once and for all that I was being a big baby. There are no such things as monsters that go bump in the night.

I clicked the light on, swung the door open, and was met with nothing again. The cold air from the basement rushed up and I could feel my arms bubble up in gooseflesh. I had to do it. It should be put to rest.

I ran down the stairs as much as one can actually sprint while on steps. I met the ground of the basement and spun around in all directions. Nothing and no one.

The light flickered and I froze as I was submerged into darkness for a millisecond.

My eyes shot to the open spaces between the stairs and I could have sworn I saw something lurking back there. What? I don't know.

Then the single lightbulb popped in its socket and rained down glass and eternal darkness. I scampered. I panted like an animal. I went on all fours and scrambled as quickly as I could back up to the dim light at the top of the steps. I slid onto the kitchen tile on my belly and slammed the door next to the fridge closed. The kitchen light allowed me to quell those insane childish thoughts and as the light emboldened me, I snatched a flashlight from the bottom kitchen drawer and swung the door open one last time and shone the light against the blackness of the basement.

Upon the top step of the stairs, there were the unmistakable impressions of claw marks that were not there before. I no longer think my fear of stairs is unfounded.

I intend to contact my realtor to discuss the terms for putting the house back on the market.