Danny's parents told him never to go into the basement.

I was over at his place the first time that he tried to open that thick, dark oak door.

I remember we were seven at the time, I think.

Him flashing me that cheeky, lopsided smile before standing on his tiptoes and straining for the handle. I remember his dad

snatching him away a second later and slamming him back down next to me with a force that brought

tears into Danny's eyes. Mr. Johnson was a very big man, and although I'd known him all my life,

he had always been a slight source of fear for me.

As I grew older, this infantile nervousness around him subsided a little, but he always

made me wary.

Mr. Johnson knelt gripping Danny's shoulders.

His face was red with anger, but he also looked shaken.

I noticed he was trembling almost as much as his son.

Listen to me, Danny.

His voice cut like a knife.

You never, ever opened that door.

Do you understand me? Never.

I've told you before and I'll tell you again under no circumstances.

Do you go down there?

Then he bundled his sniveling son into a tight hug before inviting us to come watch cartoons.

Afterwards, I had asked Danny what was behind the door. He told me, in roundabout way that it was his basement.

He seemed only half interested in the conversation, always distracted by the tinkle of

an ice cream truck or an interesting stick.

...