The telephone chimed daintily in the distance and Jerry Miller clenched his teeth. Why Shannon had preferred that to a normal, old-fashioned ringer, he’d never know. She’d also tried to convince him to replace the landline with his seldom-used cellphone, but he didn’t want to be “in constant touch with the world,” as she’d put it. If that were so, he wouldn’t have retired at forty, taking just a few occasional contracts too lucrative to pass up. He should have dumped Shannon after six days, not six months. Sure, she’d made some decent improvements to the place—like the sauna, the 72-inch smart TV, and the barbecue smoker—but she was a nitwit. Great in the sack, though.

The chiming went on for a few more seconds before the answering machine took it. He could have picked up the basement extension—set never to ring—but he didn’t answer phones. From where he was standing, he could just make out Celeste’s voice on the other end, but not her words—something about “audit” and “sorry.” 

His mouth twisted. He supposed she was telling him she was stuck at the bank—again. For once, he’d chosen an educated woman with a real career and a house of her own, and it made an interesting contrast to the ones who latched onto him for his toned athletic body, movie star looks, and—last but not least—his money. But Celeste would have to get over the notion that her pissant little job came first. The last time they were together, he’d told her to ditch the career soon or he’d ditch her. 

Jerry picked through the wine racks. He’d acquired the fancy-schmancy habit a year or two ago from Lila—gorgeous black-haired Lila, a model turned artist, and the classiest chick he’d ever had. She’d also been the only one who ever tried to dump him. 

He found a nice French vintage, not old enough to be snooty over, but full-flavored and fruity, with a nice acidic touch. Suddenly, he was so thirsty he almost guzzled it right there. Yeah, real high-class. He’d take it upstairs and listen to Celeste’s message. Afterward, if he still had the urge to guzzle, he had German beer in the fridge.

Now, he wished he hadn’t given Bill and Peggy the weekend off. He wouldn’t have, if he’d known Celeste was going to be an asshole. Instead of a nice dinner at Crocetti’s, then back here for playtime, he’d have to cook for himself, or order in. He’d cover the tab, but she’d be the one to pay.

Clutching the bottle, Jerry paused with one foot on the first step. Had he heard something in the fun room? It was sound-proofed, but maybe he’d left the door open a crack when he checked the batteries in the camcorder. He listened. Nothing. As if anything could be there. This house was guaranteed pest free, and the exterminator came by every few months to make sure it stayed that way. He shuddered. Spiders, rats, snakes—they all creeped him out. The only thing worse was the dark. His stepfather used to knock him around and lock him in a windowless, dirt-floored tool shed for two-bit infractions like stealing, mouthing off to his mom, or picking on Becky, his dipshit half-sister.

But the confinement and the beatings had supplied him with ideas for some of his best fun room games. Jerry sneered, remembering Lila—naked and chained spread-eagle on the plastic sheeting he’d placed over the bed. 

“I may be gone two, three weeks, so go ahead and scream,” he told her as he walked toward the door. He paused in the doorway and glared at her. “I fixed it so no one’ll ever know you were here tonight. Just think how good you had it with me while you wait to die alone in the dark.” 

She had returned his glare, though something behind her green eyes showed a trace of fear. “Stop this, Jerry. Think of all the good times we had together. Don’t let it end ugly.”

“This was your choice, bitch. Remember that.” Reaching over, he flicked off the light. 

“Jer—!” 

He slammed the door on her sudden panic. 

When he’d returned from his planned four-day business trip—he’d still been working at the time—she blinked up at him in the light, her eyes haunted. 

Even if he’d relented and let her live, she was no good to him silent and staring at something beyond his sight. Given her cool sophistication, he’d been surprised at how easily she’d broken. After thinking about it, he decided maybe everyone feared the dark, but stood it in varying degrees, like the cold. Sooner or later, everyone got cold.

The noise came again, a soft moaning sigh so faint it might have been the chill autumn wind playing in the trees outside. The hair on the back of his neck stirred. Two steps at a time, he bolted up the stairs. 

A couple of hours later, Jerry was bored, a little drunk, and sorry he’d been such a chicken. He’d polished off the wine, TV sucked, and the message on the answering machine had indeed been from Celeste: “Hon, I just got an emergency audit dumped in my lap, so I’ll be tied up all weekend. I promise I’ll make it up to you. Sorry!”

Damn straight, she would. He could call a couple of the guys to come over for a poker game but didn’t want anyone to know he’d been stood up. Besides, with the wine in him, he’d have to be too careful not to let anything slip out about his past, and especially what his “labor relations specialist” job had really entailed. He’d gone to a lot of trouble around here to make himself seem respectable and legit. 

Christ, Celeste would pay for this!

He wandered into the kitchen and peered into the fridge. The pizza he’d ordered had been too greasy, and one bottle of the best Bordeaux in the world couldn’t rid his mouth of the taste. With a beer in hand, he paused. This stuff had more zip than wine, and the carbonation would feel good going down, but that last bottle of French had been just about perfect. He had plenty more. 

Jerry opened the basement door. Shannon had called it a wine cellar, though just one small section contained the wine racks. To him, it would always be a basement. He stopped halfway down, remembering that creepy sound. Then, he felt stupid. He’d done lots of ballsy shit in his life—why should a little noise scare him now? Besides, it couldn’t be anything but the wind. The fumigators had been by a couple of weeks ago—any surviving vermin would’ve had to wear hazmat suits. The idea made him snicker as he stumbled down the steps.

Even so, he hurried. He snatched a bottle from the wine rack without glancing at the label and trotted toward the stairs. He’d nearly reached them when a feminine voice whispered, “Jerry….”

He stopped so quickly that he weaved in place.

That little bitch! Now, he knew what was going on. Celeste, playing around, trying to get a rise out of him. It wasn’t the first time. Once, she’d yelled “rape!” in the parking lot of Bully’s Steakhouse. The bouncer—so muscle-bound that he seemed like something from a cartoon—would have beaten the shit out of Jerry if he hadn’t recognized him from the gym.

So, this was her game. She was pissed because he’d given her the ultimatum, so she’d pretended to be at work, then snuck in here to scare him. She could have asked a friend—most likely that ditzy redhead—to play a recording of her voice for the answering machine. When he found out for sure, he’d take care of that idiot, too. But first, Celeste.

Hell, with her key to the place, she’d probably been here the whole time. He didn’t know how she’d found out about his thing with the dark and rats and all; maybe she’d pieced it together because the exterminator came by so often. She was a lot smarter than she looked—with her big brown bimbo eyes and bleached blonde hair. Too smart for her own good.

Jerry thumped the wine bottle down on the steps and stalked toward the fun room. Good thing she liked it so much in there—she’d be inside for a long time. 

By the time he opened the door, his anger had cooled to icy calm. He stepped inside the windowless room, locking the door behind him. Fifteen feet away, a light had burned out in the back corner, past the brass bed bolted to the red tile floor. The light behind him caught the gleam of the steel handcuffs hanging from the headboard. Celeste giggled from the shadows beyond the bed. 

“Jerry….”

His head started to clear. Something was off. He hesitated.

“Jerry, wanna play?” she whispered.

He snarled and strode past the bed. She crouched between it and the cabinet that contained the camcorder and some of his toys. Above her, his leather stuff hung from a wall rack. Silently, she waited, as if sorry she’d taken it this far. Too late for that. She’d get what Lila got.

“You fucking bitch!” He towered over her. Gazing up at him, her green eyes were huge.

Green eyes. This wasn’t Celeste. And she didn’t look scared. Jerry started backing away. 

The lights went out.

He gasped, the ancient fear of darkness crashing over him like an arctic wave. He turned and lurched toward the door. His knee smacked against the bed, causing the cuffs to jangle against the brass headboard. He stumbled, half falling onto the silk bedcovers, but surged to his feet, groping in blind panic for the doorway. A couple more steps, and he’d be there. He slowed so he wouldn’t smash into it. Any second now, he’d be there.

He couldn’t find it. Arms outstretched, he searched. No doorway. No wall, either. How had he gotten so turned around?

He set off again, doing his best to head in a straight line. If he could find a piece of wall, he’d know exactly where he was, and he’d be able to feel his way out. Having a plan calmed him a little.

“Jerry, why don’t you want to play?” The murmur was plaintive, and a little pouty.

Christ. This was a nightmare. He must have passed out from the wine. He was still upstairs, sprawled in front of the TV. Even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t true. 

But it couldn’t be true that Lila was alive down here, either. On that last visit, he’d forced her to crawl and beg, he’d hurt her until he felt good, then he left her to die. He’d seen plenty of corpses—made several people into them in his “labor management” capacity—and death was one thing he knew all about. She was as dead as they came, wrapped in plastic and buried under the new wing. 

So, how was she here?

“Jerry…I came to play with you…like we used to. Remember?” The voice held a touch of spite.

He kept moving. Still no wall. He hadn’t even run into the bed again, or the cabinet. Or anything else. It was like the room went on forever. His footsteps on the tile didn’t even sound right. They echoed as if he were in an airplane hangar or a warehouse with a whole lot of nothing inside it. Except for him.

And the voice. “Jerry?”

Maybe he’d gone nuts. If so, someone in a psych ward would shoot some stuff into his arm pretty soon, and he’d feel better. Maybe even wake up.

Something furry brushed against his ankle. He screamed aloud, a high, girlish sound that embarrassed him.

A throaty laugh, followed by skittering noises, like rat claws on cement.

Something tickled his cheek, then his hair. When he raised his hand, cobwebs clung to it. He gritted his teeth, determined not to scream again. This wasn’t real.

The wine must have been bad. Spoiled, or something. Maybe some kind of mold like those Mexican mushrooms that made people see fucked-up visions. He hoped it worked its way out of his system fast.

Something dropped onto his head, plopped onto the floor, and scuttled away. Jerry shrieked. A second later came a many-legged scooting across his neck. He swiped at it, incoherently babbling. Warm wetness ran down his legs, splashing and trickling into his shoes.

“Jerry….” The voice came from inches away. He smelled Lila’s spicy perfume. “Jerry…it’s my turn to make up a game. Do you like it?”

“No,” he sobbed. “Stop it! Just stop it! Stop!”

Sharp teeth nipped his ankles and little stinging creatures scuttled up his bare arms. He bolted. Behind him, Lila gave the throaty laugh that he used to find sexy. Then she laughed again, ahead of him.

He veered off, screaming and sobbing, his breathing ragged. Crushing pain filled his chest and his heart leapt so frantically he thought it would stop.

It did.

He crashed to the floor. The abrupt absence of pain brought no relief.

Nearby, Lila’s voice said, “Jerry…come with me. We can play forever.”

Chilly fingers touched his face. He moaned in terror. He must be dead, his body no longer anything but a cooling mass on the floor. 

Then why wasn’t this ending?

“It doesn’t end, Jerry—not ever. It’s my game now. We’ll play it forever.”

#

The servants returned late on Sunday. Assuming Mr. Miller had retired for the night, Peg tidied up the living room and kitchen and closed the door to the basement while Bill put away the car and hauled in the luggage. As usual, every light had been left on, so the two turned off most of them and went to bed. When the boss didn’t appear at breakfast, Peg tapped on the master suite door. Peering inside, she found it empty. 

When she told Bill, he said, “Well, the Porsche is here, so he has to be around somewhere.” 

They stared each other down until Bill shrugged and ventured into the basement, almost tripping over a bottle of wine a few steps from the bottom. He knocked on the door to the room where the boss took his women, but there was no answer. Trying it, he found it locked, as always. He went back upstairs and told Peg.

“What do we do now?” she asked. “He’s never this late coming out of there and when the blonde from the bank stays over, she’s always up early, looking for breakfast. Besides, she usually drives her own car, and it’s not here. Something’s wrong.” 

“Well, we can’t just break down the door,” Bill said. 

After a long silence, Peg said, “I think we should call the cops and let them worry about it. Plus, he golfs with the police chief, so maybe they could check with him or something.”

Bill picked up the phone.

#

The police found Jerry Miller a couple of feet inside the brightly lit room, an expression of helpless horror on his face. They searched the area and examined its contents, alternately amused and appalled. They questioned Bill and Peg, but neither had ever accessed this room in the seven years they’d worked for Miller. 

After peering through the doorway, Bill told the officers, “I always wondered if it was something like this, though.”

Peg gave him a sour look. “So did I, but this is disgusting—and him always so uppity, too! I’m glad he never tried to get me to clean in here; I’d have quit on the spot.”  

In the end, the police found no indication of a crime or of anything that would frighten a man to death, as appeared to have happened. 

The coroner hauled away the body. A subsequent autopsy indicated a heart attack, and that was that.

#

Almost.

That winter, Jerry Miller’s only surviving family member—a half-sister from out of state—had the basement remodeled and sold the house. A year later, it was on the market again. Over the next few years, it was bought and sold half a dozen more times, then used as a rental. Each tenant had the same complaint: late at night, they sometimes heard noises from the basement.

Distant, throaty feminine laughter always followed by a man’s pleading voice, then screaming that lasted forever.

End