Page 19 of Bad Intentions

“Heeeelp! Pleeeease!” the cry comes again, making my skin crawl.

It’s coming from deep inside the house, very deep, and considering the house is small, like most on this block, I’m sure it’s coming from somewhere underground.

“Hello?” I call out and, holding the door open, pat the wall next to the doorway, searching for the switch. When I flick the light switch on, the room comes to life.

I hold my breath, ready for something horrible, but the view is nothing out of the ordinary. There’s a living room set and a coffee table, worn out and old, with discarded fast-food bags and empty beer cans on it. A single inflatable mattress lies on the floor by the wall, with sheets, a pillow, and a blanket over it. The old chandelier is missing one light bulb. There are more empty beer cans on the fireplace mantel.

“Hello?” I say louder, letting the door softly close behind me as I reach for the pepper spray, and this time, I pull it out of my pocket, remove the safety guard, and hold it in front of me.

“Heeeeelp! Down here!” the muffled voice comes again. I can vaguely pinpoint its source below the ground floor. The only thing that could possibly lead there is a door between the living room and the hallway. A door with a rusty dead bolt, though it’s unlocked.

Dread coils inside me.

I don’t want to step any farther, but something isn’t right. I could leave—that’s the best option—but what if someone’s trapped downstairs and I leave them to their own devices?

I could go down and check it out. But what if it’s a trap? I’ve seen plenty of horror movies, and I know better than walking around a stranger’s house or going down to the basement.

The third option is something I avoided just the other day—the police. But all things considered, only the third one makes sense.

I don’t move from the front door, my hand holding the pepper spray outstretched in front of me and ready to act. The only sound is some rattling from down below.

“Heeeeelp!” comes the muffled scream again, and that’s enough to break me into a sweat.

I snatch the phone out of my pocket. Screw it. I dial 911.

“911. What is the address of your emergency?” a woman answers calmly.

“Um… I’m in a house,” I answer, my voice cracking from nervousness, “and I think someone is trapped in the basement.”

“Is it your house?”

“No. Someone else’s.”

“Okay, ma’am. What is the address?”

There’s no way around this. I can’t run this time. Swallowing hard, I tell her.

“Got it. Are you safe right now? Is anyone else in the house with you?”

“I don’t know. It looks empty. I’m standing at the front door. But there’s definitely a woman or a girl somewhere below the main level.”

“Ma’am, I need you to stay where you are and wait for the police officers to arrive.”

“What if it’s nothing? A TV? Should I check so that the officers don’t have to waste their time?”

“Ma’am, please, stay where you are.”

“What if someone needs urgent help?”

“Ma’am, I understand your concern, but the officers are en route.”

I know freaking Burnville. Sometimes it takes twenty minutes for the officers to arrive, and even longer for the ambulance.

I stuff the pepper spray into my pocket and walk to the storage door.

“I’m going in,” I blurt into the phone. “It could be a kid. Or someone who needs help right now.”

“Ma’am?”