The Warning About the Cellar

The voices behind the study door cut off at once.

Then the oak door shifted open with a groan. Footsteps crossed the hall at an unhurried pace, each one bringing Richard closer to the mudroom.

“Clara?” he called. The courteous, distracted note he had used earlier was gone. “Are you down there?”

I stood frozen. The brass stand lay toppled on the slate, and the shrill noise it had made still seemed to vibrate inside my skull.

“Clara?” His voice reached me again, nearer now. Leather soles pressed softly over the runner. There was nothing tired or mild in the sound; it held the clipped authority of a man expecting an answer.

“I’m here, sir,” I replied. I let my voice quaver, hoping he would hear only a startled servant and not the fear of someone who had just uncovered a secret.

I backed away from the painted cellar door and crouched beside the fallen stand. Taking hold of an umbrella, I pretended I had been trying to set it upright when Richard came into view.

He remained in the archway without reaching for the light switch. His coat was gone, and the sleeves of his white shirt were pushed up. Moonlight from the high window left his expression difficult to read.

“Why are you standing here in the dark, Clara?” he asked. His voice stayed even. His gaze, however, moved over the room, paused on the cellar entrance, then settled on me and the umbrella in my grasp.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lockwood.” I lowered my eyes. “I came looking for the mop. There was a spill in the pantry, sticky juice from the apple crate. I thought I should clean it before it brought ants, and I believed the mop might be stored with the winter things.”

He gave me no reply. Instead, he entered the mudroom with measured steps. My pulse battered my ribs. If he had heard that woman call his name, then he must know I had heard her too.

Richard passed close by me. I stayed still and watched him stop at the cellar door. He didn’t merely glance at it; he reached for the thick padlock and pulled hard.

The metal gave a short clack. The door stayed shut, the lock firm in its place.

“The mop is kept in the utility closet by the garage entrance,” he said, facing the door. “There’s no reason for you to be in this part of the house. It’s storage, and it’s off-limits.”

“Understood, sir. I won’t come back here.”

He turned and looked down at me. The accommodating man from the kitchen had vanished. His jaw was tight, his eyes cool and watchful, as if he were deciding whether I was useful or dangerous.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. I kept my hands quiet around the umbrella handle and tried to make my breathing seem ordinary.

Then Richard stepped over the stand. “Take care of the pantry mess, and go back to your quarters.”

“Yes, sir.”

He continued toward the hall, but stopped where the light faded. “And Clara?”

“Yes, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Don’t wander through the house at night. Brenda sleeps badly. She can be startled when she finds someone where they shouldn’t be.”

The words were calm. The meaning beneath them was not. This wasn’t a concern for Brenda’s comfort; it was a warning about what might happen if I crossed him again.

“Goodnight, sir,” I murmured.

I waited until the study door shut before I moved. Forgetting the mop and the spill, I hurried through the kitchen, slipped out the back entrance, and crossed the cold courtyard to the little apartment above the detached garage.

Once inside, I turned the deadbolt and fastened the chain. Then I rested my back against the door, struggling to draw a full breath.

My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I went to the kitchenette and gripped the edge of its cheap counter, staring through the window at the dark bulk of the main house.

Since taking the job five days earlier, I had held to a simple explanation. Brenda was a cruel, unstable mother, while Richard was a wealthy husband who chose not to interfere. It was ugly, but familiar enough to understand.

That explanation no longer fit. Richard had gone straight to the cellar door. He had tested its lock, not asked why I was there, and made sure I understood I must stay away.

A woman was behind that door. I had heard her voice call to him. Whatever else the Lockwoods had hidden, Richard knew she was there.

I could still hear the faint plea in my thoughts, tangled with the hard click of the padlock and Richard’s careful warning. My fear had not eased on the walk across the courtyard. It had only sharpened into something I could no longer dismiss.

I stood alone above the garage, looking toward the house and understanding the danger of what I had learned. The chilling certainty settled over me: Richard knew about the woman behind the locked door.