Within Basil's Cellar
For the Vocal's Spooky Micro-Challenge
"There was only one rule: don't open the door!" Thea laughed at the memory of her room-mates seriousness when she spoke of the cellar door outside Professor Basil's home. Alit with soft, golden candles, his home was inviting, even romantic, not at all something to fear.
Thea opened the swinging iron gate, one she'd passed through many times on her short-cut to St. John's. This twisting lane was cobbled in worn, red brick, cosied by small stone houses draped in ivy. She'd habited this way countless times, from the darkest of nights after pub crawls with fellow students to stealing kisses with Alexander or was it Ezra?
Thea's ashy wool cape greeted autumn's chill; dusk upon her, guilt set in -Ugh, behind in reading. She grimaced, embracing her copy of Dante's Inferno, hurrying along.
The lure, her lust for all things beautiful, pulled her to her tip toes as she peered into the professor's sitting room. There he was. A black cat at his feet dozing, fire crackling, pipe lit, he held a glass of what appeared to be scotch, no doubt the best in his right hand. She tried to make out an unopened, rather thick book on his lap. - Dark Lover?
Well occupied. Shunning her room-mate's girlish notions, she eyed the cellar door. - Very good wine to help me digest his assigned reading.
Pulling the circular metal handle, taking quiet, careful steps, she descended. Making out a gas lamp just in time, as the door slammed behind her. - wind gust?
Spying wine, she grabbed a bottle. Thrilled, she turned to leave.
"Thea? I've longed for you!" Basil's gaze drew her closer.
“Do not be afraid; our fate. Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.” ― Dante
About the Creator
ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)
~ American feminist living in Sweden ~ SHE/HER
Admin. Vocal Social Society
Find me: @andreapolla63.bsky.social
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More stories from ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons) and writers in Horror and other communities.
The Gingerbread Man
Mormor, ( Swedish for Mother's mother), hummed gingerly as she stood on her very sturdy stool to reach far, far back into the very high, high shelf for the baking goods; her plump white fingers tugged at the shoebox full of tin cutter's, some quite old, older than she, one quite new and sharp. Mice leapt discreetly to the sides of the shelf so as not to fall down with the shoebox, the cherry cheeked Mormor and her plump fingers where they would surely meet the end of her broomstick. Soon it was St. Lucia and this was when her official holiday baking season was launched each year. The winter darkness was a cosy time, one for family sitting around the fire, glogg making, crocheting and knitting with great intent to finishing the grandchildren's Christmas scarves and colourful socks just in the nick of time. In the village the church bells rang and although she would not go to the St. Lucia ceremony this year, her grand-son, Benny would be skating across the well frozen pond afterwards, tromping up the glistening snowy hill that her old red farmhouse sat upon and entering her kitchen with a calamity of excitement. He was always hungry. She threw the ingredients memorised from her mother's recipe into a large wooden bowl, the smell of familiar spices delighted her as she listened to the St. Lucia songs coming from the broadcast on her small television sitting on a small table by the window. Of course she'd already made the Lucia buns in advance so little Benny once defrosted from his frisky jaunt could curl up next to the fire, sip warm chocolaty milk and delight in the spoils of his Mormor's snuggly, warm hearted ways. Being the only grandson in a flock of cousins and sisters was wretched at times, however it gave him more specialness, a sense of well deserved indulgences which he eagerly clamoured for since he was so small that her apron strings swayed above his cinnamon coloured hair. For years they had spent days together, baking, preparing his favourite dinner, mashed potatoes with meatballs covered in ketchup; watching soccer matches on the telly and his specialness grew and grew so very big that he knew that know one mattered more than himself. Mormor had lost her husband before Benny was born, thus showering him with as much affection as she did confections.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Horror
Killing him slowly
There’s an intruder in my house again. He stumbles through the door, wet carrier bags in hand. He’s bought me offerings. I show my appreciation, letting him caress my beautiful body. He wants to touch me. I rub myself against his legs. He sighs, dropping the bags. He can’t resist touching me. Running his hand slowly down my spine, I arch my back towards his caress, let out a low purr. It’s what we both need.
By N J Delmas14 days ago in Horror
Comments (10)
So captivating I love this
Oooo I really like this one, Andrea! Very descriptive and Basil feels like a chilling villain
Nice blending of your own and Dante!
well written, you filled with talent
Great story, best of luck....
Oh she is in for it now.
Oooo, I wonder what Basil wants with her. Loved your story!
Great story! The scene was so vivid in my mind.
This reminds me of 12th century intrigue, and yes, it's intriguing!
Nicely done!