She was contemplating the leak in the basement wall when she realized there was someone in her house. The water was slowly seeping through the crumbling concrete wall on the far side of the room, the part of the wall that had been fused together back in the 1960's when the house had undergone construction. She stood in the basement and wondered how much money it would cost to fix it, and the basement responded with a soft drip and the growing smell of mold.
She should have been more concerned about the people treading softly across the floor above her, but she wasn't. The rational side of her mind told her they could be murderers or thieves or rapists, and yet there was no panic, or fear, but only this strange sensation of utter calm.
"I'm probably having a stroke," she muttered to herself as she crossed the room and opened a small pocket door leading to a hidden stairwell. One of the reasons she bought the house, though it was ever so slowly falling to pieces, was the small oddities that came along with a house of this age: the dumbwaiter, the turrets, and the hidden staircases like the one she now softly climbed heading to the main floor. When she reached the door leading out to the kitchen, she paused for a moment, listening for the sounds of anyone in the room beyond.
She could only hear the smooth intake of her own breath, the muted beating of her heart in her ears. She opened the door and slipped through into the shadowed expanse of the kitchen and living room beyond. Her rational mind spoke up again, asking in exasperation where she thought she was going, and why she wasn't hiding somewhere. She had no answer, only the slow and steady movement of her feet across the tiles into the living room.
It was there that a sudden sound gave her pause, and sent her back, moving as quickly and quietly as she was able, back through the kitchen and into the hidden stairwell once again. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the sound of her breathing as she sought to control her heart rate, which seemed to be exploding out of her throat.
"Did you see something?" a voice from the living room asked. There was a pause, and then a reply,
"I thought I did…" She heard footsteps advancing toward the kitchen. A beam of light passed by the door, illuminating her for a second as she stood in the dark, her hands pressed over her mouth.
" I guess not." There was another pause, and another beam of light swept past the door. She waited for a moment, and then, stepping closer to the slight crack in the door, peered through into the kitchen.
The voices belonged to two men, young, and casually dressed, holding flashlights and guns. There was something so bizarre about seeing two complete strangers standing in her kitchen, looking around as if they had every right to be there, the moonlight glinting off the barrels of the guns they gripped solidly in their hands.
They seemed to be looking for something, and as they scoured the kitchen, she observed them through the tiny sliver between the door and the frame covered in peeling paint. The man closer to her was shorter, and fairer, a stern look on his face, but a light in his eyes that disclosed an unquenchable good humor. He was perfect in every aspect, all teeth and hair and captivating gaze, but it was his companion, as he stepped closer to where she was hiding, that caught her attention. He was tall, that was the first thing she noticed, but unimposing. As he pushed his dark hair out of his eyes with a hesitant, yet swift movement, she was captured by his strange introversion. Maybe it was because it was so strongly juxtaposed against the other man's obvious assertiveness, but something about his self-doubt, and dismissive disregard for his outward appearance shone through.
Thoughts of the oddity of the situation struck her as she stood there, absorbing the scene, and drinking in the view of the tall man in the kitchen--in her kitchen. There was something so weird about finding the man who broke into her house so goddamn attractive, but somehow she had become a voyeur in her own home.
Finished with the kitchen, their figures receded as they moved to another part of the house. She saw the shorter man pause and lift a picture off the wall. Though it was too dark, and too far to see, she knew what picture he was holding in his hand. A picture of her, on her graduation, her arms around mom and Britt and Steven; long brown hair, cap and gown, red dress and white shoes that made her feet bleed, soaking the straps and staining them. She hated those stupid shoes.
She watched him look down at the picture for a minute, his face expressionless, and then place it back on the wall carefully. She watched as he moved away after the tall man, swallowed up by the dark of the house.
She waited for a moment, and turned and descended back down into the basement. The image of the tall man in the kitchen, yellow artificial light illuminating the sharp contours of his face, seemed burned into her mind's eye. She had wanted to open the door in that moment, had wanted him to focus his eyes on her, but maybe if he had she would have left him wanting. Or maybe he really was a killer and would have turned his gun on her, leaving her kitchen a mess of blood and gunpowder. No, it was better that she had stayed in the dark.
She arrived back in the basement, breathing in the familiar musty air. No matter what drew her out of this room, something always brought her back to it. Maybe it was the safety she felt in the enclosed space, or the simplicity of the grey walls and floor and ceiling. Or maybe it was the smell of earth and water, as though nature was flowing in through the construction of the ancient house. Or maybe it was the body in the corner, with the long brown hair. The red dress and white shoes. The bloody feet.
A thump resounded from above her head. She wondered what they were looking for up there.