MY AUNT LOCKED GRANDPA IN THE BASEMENT AND HID THE WILL
The smell of mothballs hit me the moment I opened the basement door, the air thick and stale, colder than the rest of the house. The single lightbulb flickered over boxes stacked high against the damp concrete walls, dust motes dancing wildly in the faint, weak beam filtering into the room. I heard a low, guttural moan from the far corner of the room, then distinctly heard heavy footsteps overhead. Someone was definitely home.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against my chest as I crept around the towering stacks of forgotten junk. I tried desperately not to make a sound on the old, creaky floorboards beneath my feet, straining my ears for any noise from upstairs. A bare, dangling bulb illuminated Grandpa slumped against the far wall, his eyes wide and staring into the dim light, looking frail.
He looked smaller than I remembered, shivering slightly in the biting cold air down here. He reached a trembling hand towards a loose floorboard near his feet, his lips barely moving as he rasped out a few words. “The paper… the important paper… she took it… down here… she locked me…” His voice was a dry, desperate whisper, barely audible above my own ragged breathing.
I fumbled with the edge of the board, my fingers stiff and cold, trying to pull it up. It was stuck tight. Just as I felt it give slightly under my relentless pressure, I heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning roughly in the lock on the door above my head. The sharp, final click echoed loudly in the sudden, chilling silence that fell over the room.
Then I saw the glint of metal in the shadows behind him, something long and thin glinting against the wall.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…The sharp, final click echoed loudly in the sudden, chilling silence that fell over the room. Panic surged, hot and nauseating. We were trapped. My eyes darted to Grandpa, then back to the door, the darkness pressing in around us. The footsteps upstairs moved away, fading into the general sounds of the old house settling. She wasn’t coming down. Not yet, anyway.
The glint of metal behind Grandpa caught my eye again. It wasn’t a weapon; it was tucked into a gap between the concrete wall and a leaning stack of firewood. It looked like a small, sturdy pry bar, rusty but solid. A surge of desperate hope washed over me.
“Grandpa,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “The board. Can you reach the bar?”
He nodded weakly, his eyes fixed on the tool. I scrambled over to it, my fingers clumsy with urgency, and pulled it free. It was heavier than it looked. I hurried back to the loose floorboard near Grandpa’s feet.
“Move your foot,” I urged gently.
He shifted, and I jammed the end of the pry bar into the narrow gap I had managed to create. With a groan of protesting wood, the board began to lift. I worked the bar along the edge, leverage doing what my fingers couldn’t. Slowly, painstakingly, I managed to pry the board up enough to slide my hand underneath.
It wasn’t empty. My fingers brushed against something metallic and cold – a small tin box. I pulled it out. It was an old biscuit tin, dented and faded. My hands shook as I popped the lid open.
Inside, nestled amongst a few yellowed papers, was a single, old-fashioned key and a folded note. I snatched the key. It was clearly a house key, and it looked like the heavy, aged key that would fit the basement door’s stubborn lock.
“The key,” I breathed, holding it up. Grandpa managed a small, shaky smile. The note was brief, written in his familiar, spidery handwriting: “Basement key hidden here. For emergencies. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” I muttered, a bitter laugh escaping me. This was certainly an emergency.
Keeping the pry bar clutched in one hand and the key in the other, I helped Grandpa carefully stand. He leaned heavily on me, frail but resolute. We crept towards the stairs, each step on the ancient wood a terrifying creak that seemed to echo through the house. At the top of the stairs, I listened intently. Silence. Or was it just the silence of waiting?
With infinite caution, I slid the old key into the lock. It turned with a stiff, grating sound that seemed deafening in the quiet house. I eased the bolt back.
“Stay right here,” I whispered to Grandpa. “Be quiet.”
I pushed the door open just a crack and peered out. The hallway was empty. The light from the living room cast a rectangle of pale yellow onto the worn rug. I could hear the faint murmur of the television. She was in there.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door wide enough for Grandpa and me to slip through. We moved as one, silent shadows ghosting across the hall floor. We reached the entrance to the living room and stopped.
There she was, my Aunt Carol, curled up on the sofa, watching a daytime show, a smug, relaxed look on her face. She didn’t see us at first.
“Carol!” Grandpa’s voice was weak, but it cut through the air like a knife.
She jumped, spilling the mug of tea she was holding. Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed into slits of pure malice when she saw me standing there with him.
“How… how did you get out?” she sputtered, scrambling off the sofa.
“You can’t lock me up, Carol,” Grandpa said, his voice gaining a little strength, fuelled by indignation. “Or [My Name]. Where is it, Carol? The will.”
Her face hardened. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” I stepped forward, the small pry bar still clutched in my hand, though it was unlikely I’d need it now. “Grandpa said you took it. He said you locked him downstairs.”
She scoffed, trying to regain her composure. “He’s old and confused. I just… I was trying to get him to stay put while I cleaned. And the ‘will’ is perfectly safe.”
“Safe where?” I challenged. “Safe like Grandpa was safe down there?”
Her eyes flickered towards the bookshelf behind her. It was just a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
“On the shelf, isn’t it?” I said, striding towards it. She lunged towards me, but Grandpa, despite his frailty, grabbed her arm, slowing her down.
I ran my hand along the spines of the books. There it was, tucked inside a large, leather-bound copy of ‘War and Peace’ – a thick, legal-looking envelope. I pulled it out. It was addressed to Grandpa’s solicitor.
“You found it!” Grandpa exclaimed, relief flooding his face.
Carol wrenched her arm free from Grandpa’s grasp. “Give me that!” she shrieked, lunging at me again.
Just then, the front door burst open, and two police officers entered. I must have sent that silent text I attempted before going downstairs, or perhaps Grandpa had arranged something beforehand.
“Police! What’s going on here?” one of the officers demanded.
Carol froze, her eyes darting between the police, the will in my hand, and Grandpa looking small but defiant beside me.
I stepped back, holding the will securely. “This woman locked my grandfather in the basement and stole his will,” I stated, my voice firm and clear.
The officers moved towards Carol, who suddenly looked very small and cornered.
Grandpa sagged against the back of the sofa, finally allowing the tension to drain from his body. I knelt beside him.
“Are you alright, Grandpa?”
He nodded, reaching out and taking the will from my hand. He held it close, a look of profound relief on his face. “Yes, dear. Thanks to you. I knew I hid that key down there for a reason.” He looked towards the basement door, then back at the will, a shiver running through him. “That woman… she thought she could take everything.”
The officers were speaking quietly to Carol, who was now crying, her earlier smugness gone, replaced by fear and indignation. The drama of the afternoon was winding down, leaving behind the stale smell of mothballs, the chilling memory of the dark basement, and the solid reality of the will now safe in Grandpa’s hands. We had gotten him out, and we had stopped her, just in time.