The Hole
This is what I know. This is what I remember. The day the hole opened up in the basement floor, or at least the day we discovered its existence, Stella told mother about it. Stella told mother there had not been a hole, and now there was a hole, and perhaps should we fill it in with something. But mother said no, there was not a hole, there had never been a hole, and how dare you imply there could ever be holes in our floors what kind of family do you think this is. So, despite the dime sized hole in the floor, there was not a hole.
When the consequences were over, I went to see the hole for myself. There, on the concrete basement floor, halfway between the washing machine and the sump pump, was a hole. I covered it with my thumb. I thought, perhaps, I felt air coming out of it. This could not be true, because the only thing under the basement was the ground, and air comes from up, not from down. I dragged a box of old clothes that never made their way to giveaway over it, so mother would not have to see the hole, and there would not be more consequences.
And then, for a while, we forgot the hole. It was easy to forget, what with the fact it did not, officially, exist, and with the box on it, and with everyone upstairs and away from the basement, focused on mother and Baby. There was no time to be rifling around in boxes or hiding in dark corners or hunting for crickets like we once had. Mother needed attention not from Baby, and Baby needed attention not from mother, and so we paid them some, and forgot the hole.
But a hole is an inevitable thing, or at least a hole in the floor of a basement underneath a box of old baby clothes when there is a new baby upstairs, above the hole, tends to be. Mother was gone, out in the somewhere, and Baby’s clothes were missing. We did not discuss why, though we guessed, perhaps, they had left with mother. I remembered the box; Stella remembered the contents. They were her old things, mostly, and though we were unsure mother would approve of dressing our brother in pinks and frills, we concluded it was better than leaving him naked.
I did not notice the hole until I went to return the box. It was bigger, I was sure of it. I did not call Stella, occupied as she was with Baby. It could wait. It was just a hole. I did, however, crouch beside it, and lay my thumb over the hole. It did not cover it so neatly as I remembered. Still, I felt the air. I tried not to breathe it in. It had no scent, but I had a vague memory of mother’s father telling me about poison gasses seeping out of the ground and into your blood, making you waste sick away still breathing your death in, and it spooked me. I returned the box to the hole.
Later, upstairs, baby sleeping and Stella drying dishes and I washing them, I told her the hole was bigger. She said, what hole, and her eyes said mother says there’s not a hole, so I stopped speaking and refocused on the dishwater. I did not tell her about the air, or the poison, or the fear.
Mother returned eventually, as did Baby’s clothes, though whether this was at the same time I could not say then or now. So much is confused, so much out of sequence. I did not tell her about the hole, though I did inquire about the story her father told me. She was, in the right mood, always willing to repeat the old stories. But not this one. A sharp look and a request to stop telling lies and making things up was all I got from that line of inquiry. I did not mention the hole to her, or to Stella.
I did not mention the hole to her, or to Stella, but I began checking on it. A baby requires a lot of laundry done. A mother also requires a lot of laundry done. At least a load a day, often two or more. And across from the machine the hole, and the box above the hole.
On a shelf near the laundry corner lay an old box of sidewalk chalk in pastel colors, set away at one end of summer never to return from the underground. One day, in a fit of disquieted curiosity, or perhaps boredom at the laundry, or perhaps the desire to prove to myself that the hole was, in fact, growing, I took a thick stick of green chalk and marked a line right at the edge of the hole.
There was no change, the first day. There was no change, the first week. I started to feel quite silly. But it became a ritual, checking the hole, whenever I did laundry. Put the soileds in the washer, check the mark. Put the wets in the dryer, check the mark. Put the drys in the basket, check the mark. No change, and all was well.
All was well until it wasn’t, and Baby got sick in the night, and mother was nowhere. I asked Stella should we call someone and she blinked at me, silent. We both knew that answer, but as all rituals, it has to be done. That way later, no one can say you didn’t care enough to think to try. Baby got sick in the night and Stella washed him and I washed the bedding and I checked the mark. I almost didn’t, being dead tired and Baby sick with Stella upstairs, but rituals must be done.
I moved the box, I checked the mark, and the hole was bigger. The hole had doubled in size. It could no longer be covered even by both my thumbs together. I stared at it a long moment, until I heard the water run in the pipes up to the bathtub upstairs. I took the chalk, made a new mark, and replaced the box. There was no time to worry about holes and floors and holes in floors. There were sheets to wash and Baby to soothe.
Baby was sick long enough and strange enough that, on perhaps the fourth or fifth day, Stella floated the idea of calling Auntie Ash. Auntie Ash was not our mother’s sister. As far as I knew, mother had no sisters. She had a brother, far up north and very dead. He had my name before I did. Perhaps she was the sister of one of our fathers, but I never thought to ask, and neither did Stella, as it seemed unlikely we would get an answer. Auntie Ash was a woman we could call, and we had a very short list of those.
We waited one more day on mother before we called Auntie Ash. Baby could barely keep anything down, and was hot to the touch. I had taken to wrapping him in wet, cold towels and sitting with him in front of a fan, despite the nights starting to turn crisp and chilly. I washed a lot of towels. The hole was getting bigger. Not every time I checked, but a lot of them.
The curious thing about the hole was it was not as if the floor was crumbling in on itself. That, I had seen, we had all seen. The hole was smooth around the edges, as if it had been drilled. And it was getting bigger. Doubled in size about every day and a half. At that rate, the box would not cover it soon. Soon, it would be big enough to fit my whole hand into. I did not like that thought, and did my best not to think it.
Auntie Ash arrived the sixth day of sickness. By then, Stella was ill, too, and confined to her room. Mother was still nowhere, and I was beginning to worry that she, too, was ill somewhere. Auntie Ash asked to be alone with Baby, as she always was when she did her work. I swear to you, I did not go to the basement first. I called mother. I was worried she was ill, and alone, and confused, as she tended to get when she did not have a companion.
I called mother, and she said she could not come home. She said she was looking for her baby. Baby is here, I told her, and Baby is sick, and Stella is sick, and Baby and Stella both would probably like very much to be able to see her in their time of illness, even with Auntie Ash taking care of their care. She said Baby is not her baby, he is a thing. I said he is certainly not a thing, as a thing cannot eat nearly as much as Baby does. She said Baby is a thing, and replaced her real baby. I said if he is a thing and a replacement, where did he come from. She said the hole. I said, but you said there is no hole, and so there is no hole. And she hung up.
I first went to Stella, but could not rouse her from her fever sleep. I tried the door on Baby’s room, but found it still locked, with Baby and Auntie Ash inside. So I went to the basement to look at the hole.
It was not yet big enough to fit a baby through, not even Baby at birth, early and little and brittle as he was. Certainly not Baby now. But there was the air coming out of it, a soft breeze. The air must come from somewhere. I could almost put my hand in it. I did not. I grabbed a flashlight from the shelf where the chalk lived, and shone it down the hole. The beam of light went far down into nothing. There was no bottom I could see.
Then I shut the beam off. And then darkness. And then a light shone back. I had not timed my own light, but I was certain this beam from elsewhere matched it. When it shut off, I shone my one in three beams in quick succession. The same came from the point of light within the hole. I replaced the box, and returned upstairs.
Auntie Ash was done with Baby, and moved on to Stella when I returned. I peeked in at Baby, I couldn’t bear not to. He looked better, color returned, not breathing so heavy. I did not like leaving him alone with Auntie Ash. I liked leaving Stella with her even less. I could not let them go on wasting forever ill, so I made lunch to occupy my hands and mind.
Auntie Ash was finished with Stella as I was finished preparing lunch. As she sat down to eat, I asked about mother. Auntie Ash asked what about her. I told her what mother had said about Baby, leaving out the part about the hole. Auntie Ash said don’t go around telling people that, your mother tries her best, and no one will believe you anyhow. I asked her if she had ever seen a hole that gets bigger and bigger. She said to not talk about that either. To just do your chores and keep your head down and stop paying so much attention to things. I thanked Auntie Ash for tending to Baby and Stella, and waited for her to leave.
Baby and Stella both were much improved the following days. They could leave their sick beds; Baby could take his bottle, and Stella warm broth and tea. I did not look at the hole. Stella asked if I asked Auntie Ash why I did not get ill. I had not. I told her about mother instead. Stella stared at Baby a long while, and when she was done turned to me and asked if I had got anything out of the hole.
I did not understand her meaning, and said as much. She fished in her robe pocket a moment, and set down a brass ring with a dark garnet stone. She did not tell me where she obtained it. I already knew. When Baby caught sight of the ring, he began to shriek, and did not cease until Stella returned the ring to her pocket. She tilted her head in a question I could not answer.
We decided to fill in the hole, no matter the treasures Stella was able to grasp from its depths. This meant leaving the house, and crossing the street even, to speak to Mr Bracken, and borrow some quick dry concrete. Mr Bracken had whatever tools one could ever need for any job one needed completed. He did not ask for payment, only favors. I did not let Stella bargain with Mr. Bracken. I took that task on alone. Favor completed, we filled in the hole. Even with mother nowhere, we slept easy that night.
We slept easy the next three nights. And on the fourth night, awoke to a bam-bam-bam far below our feet, like someone chipping at concrete. I sprang from bed. Stella, still quite weak, followed after. The door to Baby’s room was flung wide, and all the lights on. I flew to the basement. Stella hurried after.
The front door was open, mother’s car in the driveway for the first time in a while. The basement door was open, propped with a brick. Here I slowed, instinct taking over, mother cannot hear her children make a single sound or there will be consequences. I rounded the corner into the laundry nook. Mother knelt on concrete, over the hole. The hole that was now Baby sized. She knelt and her arms were bloodied. Her arms were bloodied and covered in scratches and the blood dripped down into the hole. Her face was bloodied and covered in scratches and the blood dripped down into the hole.
Where’s Baby? I asked and she did not turn. I walked to face her and crouched to meet her eyes. Where’s Baby I asked and she hissed at me like the feral cat we had once tormented through the window screen. Where is Baby? I asked and she hissed again and said they didn’t give him back. And I said who didn’t give him back. And she said the ones who took him. And I said you were the only one who took him and she grabbed my hair and pushed my face down into the hole. Consequences.
This is what I know. This is what I remember. There is nothing in my mind between the sharp tug of hair and the darkness and waking up in this bed. This is all the truth, as I understand the truth to be. If you go to the house you will see the hole, if the house has not yet fallen into it. No one will tell me how long I have lain here. You will see the hole and you will feel the breeze and if you shine light into it something will answer. I have been told I must have seen something, and that something must be a clue to where my brother is.
I know where Baby is. He is in the hole. Mother put him in the hole. And one day, when I am well and out of bed, I will go back to the house, or the hole where the house was, and climb into it. It should be at least big enough for me, now. I will climb into it, and I will bring Baby out of it. And then I shall find where they are keeping Stella, and where they are keeping mother, and we will find another house. And that house will have no holes in the floor, or anywhere else.
Marlowe Jones is a writer from Vermilion, Ohio. When not writing, he is watching horror movies, birdwatching, or trying to identify bugs in his yard. He is primarily a poet who occasionally wanders into fiction. His poems have been published in Green Blotter, Sink Hollow, and The Courtship of Winds under a previous name, as well as in Wingless Dreamer, Plumwood Mountain Journal, The Quarter Review, Elevation Review, and Delmarva review under his current name. He has recently graduated from the NEOMFA program through Cleveland State University.
