I remember seeing the house for the first time.

I was a child of seven. My young parents had just bought their first home.

I remember I used to hit living in the cramped cramped dingy apartment we previously inhabited and

opened the door to our new home with wide-eyed wonder. It blew in my young mind how

spacious this house was. I went upstairs to scope at my bedroom. I was so excited that I was

getting my own room and did not have to share it with my infant brother. On my

grand tour of my new digs I finally made it down to our basement.

The basement was nothing like the rest of the house.

The upstairs was elegant and classy.

The basement was cold, metallic and sterile.

The ceiling covered in ancient pipes winding in grotesque angles.

The floor covered in rough cement. I recall taking a look at the stairs for the first time and being immediately struck by how odd they were.

The stairs were surrounded in drywall which clashed with the rest of the basement.

One particular section of the wall was coloured differently than the rest.

It stood out like a sore thumb.

I inch close to it and felt the texture of it. It felt very strange. I then

knocked on it. A hollow sound perverted the empty air of the basement. Something about that sound immediately put me ill at ease.

I walked up the stairs as I could hear the same hollow sound echo in the emptiness of the basement.

As we settled into our new home, I began to get comfortable with my surroundings. The house began to feel familiar.

Everywhere, that is, except for the basement. familiar. as best as I could. Our family couldn't be happier. My loving father and mother doded

over me and my little brother. My life was perfect. Then it began. I would hear errant noises.

When I was pointing it out to my parents, they told me the old standby that the house was settling in.

...