I opened the pantry door, my hands trembling as I brushed past boxes of cereal and cans of soup.

Behind the shelves was the narrow white door that led to the basement.

I reached for the brass knob and turned it.

It was unlocked.

I opened it slowly, the hinges giving a tiny, dry squeak.

A draft of cold, damp air rose from the darkness below, carrying the smell of wet concrete and old earth.

I reached inside the frame and flipped the light switch.

A single, bare bulb flickered to life at the bottom of the stairs, casting long, skeletal shadows across the wooden steps.

I began to descend, keeping my weight close to the wall to prevent the old pine treads from creaking.

With every step down, the temperature dropped.

The basement was unfinished, the walls made of rough, grey stone foundations that dated back to the original farmhouse built on this lot.

At the far end of the cellar, the massive, cylindrical water heater sat in the shadows, humming softly.

The concrete floor around it was cracked and stained with white mineral deposits.