Fiction Friday: The Find (part 1 of 2)

The basement was not clean, it was never clean. Not dirty, just cluttered. The mound of dirty laundry made the end of the stairs treacherous, but after the mound of tee shirts and jeans, there were paths to the different sections of the big room.

Through the laundry path, you could duck colorful clothes drying on hangers and appear in boxes of decorations. Christmas and Halloween in boxes. Seasonal wreaths fought for space with porcelain houses and candle holders. falling off Out of season it all looked so strange. Memories out of place. The old man stood in the center trying to remember why he was down here.

Paint. He wanted to surprise his son and daughter-in-law with a little touch up work. They were out of town for a few days. Not here the man thought and he moved to another part of the basement.

He stepped on wobbly legs out of holidays and into toys. His grandkids had left stuff everywhere. Undressed Barbies, dress clothes, stuffed animals and coloring books formed a treacherous walkway. It spilled nearly to the workbench, the man was trying to get to. He could see the cans of left over paint on the bottom shelf, a pink see through scarf from the dress up clothes draped over them.

While the man was still, navigating his course, a noise caught his attention. At first he thought it was the dog, the reason he had been coming over everyday, but the dog was outside. It was coming from the cans. Maybe bumping together. A heavy truck he thought at first, but not in this neighborhood. Vermin. Well, in his days, the man had killed a mouse or two.

With determination, the man got to the bottom of the workbench and began looking, bump, bump. No flash of fur, or fearful squeak. He could hear it, but not see it Bump, bump.

The underneath of the bench was dark and deep. Thin cobwebs hung down to the cans in the back. Along the right side were the gallon cans and beside them the smaller sizes. The man looked at the tops of the cans for droppings. He had moved from handyman to soldier, trying to identify his enemy. Nothing. Probably a single animal unlucky enough to get trapped in the house. Bump, bump.

He could see the second can from the back, one with traces of mint green paint shift just a little. The mans eyes narrowed and, with an old reflex, he smelled the air for spent gunpowder. He slowly removed the front can, and then the next. In his mind, he held his finger to his lips and directed his team to flank with a silent finger.

When his hand got to the next can he recoiled immediately after touching it. It was warm, even hot. Bump, bump. It moved just a little. The air smelled suddenly stale. The man looked for heat vents, or what might be making that can feel like that, especially while the others around it were cool.

Maybe he was wrong, maybe there is a nest behind the next can. With a slow, shaky hand he slid it. He expected to reveal lumps of chewed paper, or the insides of an old pillow and a squirming, swarming mass. Nothing. Just the last can and cobwebs.

The warm can in his hand twitched. At first the man thought it was him, he must have bumped it against something. While he pieced together the fiction that would comfort him, it twitched again. He nearly dropped it and immediately tried to figure out how a creature had gotten into a sealed paint can.