Something lives in the basement.
It is my daughter who first tells me this, her eyes earnestly blue and so unlike my own.
She stands on her tiptoes and grabs my hand when I drop the fatty dough on the tabletop, flour rising up in an endless cloud of white – swirling, forever turning.
Who tells you this, I ask her, patiently, to which she replies that it was daddy, yesterday, during storytelling time. I say nothing. While I don’t believe that she’s speaking of our basement, I do believe that she is speaking of monsters, but as through the mouth of her father.
As to whatever that means…