The Cellar Incident

By Lee Bruno

Marge never believed in in the existence of pure evil. Certainly, she placed no credence in the idea of supernatural evil, such as powerful spirits or entities from elsewhere that are capable of entering our material realm and committing horrific acts. Such fanciful notions were not part of her worldview. As Marge saw it, we already had enough vicious, hyper greedy and power hungry people in our real world, including any number of natural calamities that was enough to deal with. Who wanted to be concerned about being beset by evil imports from some netherworld?

One evening in early October, Marge and four of her friends, all college seniors, set off to look through an old, vacant farmhouse as a possible site for their Halloween party.

As the three young men are examining the second floor of the house, they are interrupted by the hysterical calling out to them by one of the two young female companions. She insists, rather incoherently, that something awful has happened in the cellar. She seems to think what happened was caused by some kind of fantastic, monstrous thing, which suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Of course, her friends assume she is mistaken. As the group, all go to check out the cellar, they attempt to calm her by suggesting explanations that are more logical.

Marge, the other female member of this group, is also aware that something very extraordinary did happen, and she too is shaken to the core. However, she remains silent about what she experienced. Why? When put on the spot, she draws a blank. She cant think how to explain what she saw, heard and felt, without revealing the too humiliating truth of how she knows this: because she was eavesdropping at the cellar door.

Had she not eavesdropped, Marge realizes she could have remained blithely unaware of the cellar incident, which is by far, what she would have preferred. She will later desperately look for logical, rational explanations for what seemed to have happened in that cellar.

However, she will find further evidence that will only support what Marge didnt want to believe. Indeed, that house is host to some evil alien thing that doesnt belong in this world.
The Cellar Incident will shatter Marges unquestioned concepts of what constitutes reality. The experience will haunt her dreams, torment her thoughts and force her to rethink her views on everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490748368

Lee Bruno

The author has had a lifelong interest an all aspects of the paranormal as well as the impact such extraordinary events have on the psyches of experiences. Also, as a student of the UFO phenomena, she worked on a study of a group on alien abductions held at MIT in 1992. The author was a Boston resident for many years. She earned an undergraduate degree at Duquesne University and an advanced degree at the University of Florida.

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Copyright 2014, 2016 Lee Bruno.

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ISBN:

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Contents

One

I never believed in the existence of pure evil // my life as a child

Two

Things change // my life in college

Three

A good place for a party

Four

The house and what happened there

Five

Back home with a shattered psyche

Six

Deconstruction of a worldview

Seven

At the coffee shop with Travis

Eight

Before Thanksgiving

Nine

The uncertainty principle

Ten

Late night thoughts of an almost sober mind

Eleven

Courage in the cold

Twelve

Weeks go by...

Thirteen

Saint Patrick's Day at the pub

Fourteen

Nightmare or Vision?

Fifteen

April

Sixteen

View from a pig's eye

Seventeen

Cherry Popsicles and ants

Eighteen

Finished with school

Nineteen

Time on my hands

Twenty

Graduation time

Twenty-one

Looking for different pieces of the puzzle

Thanks to Andrew Kolinski, Louis Coppola,

Anthony Brach, Anna Jasper, Elaine Nazaro,

Georgia Flamburis, Jonathan Witsberger,

Robert Anthony Bruno, Joan Elizabeth Bruno

and Deborah E. Galaski for their help.

This book is dedicated to all those I love: Family members,

Relatives, Dear Friends and Companion Animals. Whether

They are still living or have pass away, they all remain

In my heart forever.

I never believed in the existence of pure evil // my life as a child

One

I never believed in the existence of evil. Not pure evil, as in the idea of some monolithic cosmic force that exists in eternal opposition to what we define as 'good'. I don't think there was ever a time, even as a child, that I seriously believed the devil, monsters, ghouls or other terrifying creatures really existed. Sure, they made great fodder for scary stories and movies, but they weren't real. In the world as I saw it, truly evil things had no place. It's a testament to my happy, secure childhood that I was able to perceive the world as an unfailingly good place. Plus, I've come to realize I also seem to have been blessed with a cheerful and positive temperament, as a child, anyway. And thankfully, I didn't have any bad experiences in my early years to spoil my exuberant outlook on life. I loved my family, my friends and enjoyed life's delights: bright colors, flowers, ice cream sundaes, snowstorms, Saturday morning cartoons, summer vacations, kittens and puppies and so many other things. All was right with the world: God lives in heaven and Santa Claus lives at the North Pole. My mind had no space for dark thoughts; my world had no place for nasty or evil things. I'd say I was one lucky kid. Naturally, time and experience would inevitably impose a more complicated and a proportionately less enchanted view of what life is all about.

It sounds trivial now, but my first experience in disillusionment came with the realization that Santa Claus was a hoax. I don't remember exactly when I got suspicious about reindeer flying through the sky carrying Santa in his sled full of gifts for all the children in the world. Could reindeer actually fly? Did Santa have a sleigh big enough to carry all those presents at once, or did he have to go back to the North Pole a few times to restock his supply? Gee, that seemed like an awfully big job for anyone, even Santa, to accomplish in one night. The tip-off for me was when I noticed the gifts my little brother and I got from Santa were wrapped in the paper I'd seen my mother buy at the store. It was the same store where I saw my mother whispering something to a clerk as she pointed to a toy. That toy turned up as one of my brother's gifts from Santa. Hmm... I could have more easily have accepted on faith that reindeer could fly than dismiss as coincidence the gift-wrapping paper and the toy. I was reluctant to confront my mother with this, mostly because I wasn't sure I wanted to hear her confirm it. Eventually I did, and she told me the truth. She asked me to promise not to say anything to my little brother.

I still recall the mixed feelings that surfaced in me. On one hand, I took this as an authentication of my 'big girl' status. I was grown up enough to be entrusted with this adult secret. On the other hand, in my heart of hearts, I couldn't be happy to know that one of my very favorite people in the entire world wasn't an actual flesh and blood person, but a 'spirit', that is, the spirit of Christmas, good will and gift giving. My mother made it sound like this spirit Santa, that is the real Santa, was actually better than the Santa little kids believed was real. I didn't get it. I couldn't figure how a spirit something could be better than a real something, you know? So I learned the truth about Santa Claus. He wasn't what I believed he was. He wasn't real, not in the only way, I understood things to be 'real'. This was my first experience with deception and disillusionment in a world I thought was perfect. I mean I put Santa right up there with God and other wonderful and good things. And if Santa wasn't for real...

As I got a little older, I inevitably was introduced to other unsuspected harsh realities. Like death. My first experience with the uncompromising sting of death was when my grandmother was killed in an automobile crash. At age 7, I knew that people died, but at 7, I naturally didn't think much beyond that. Death was just a word. As far as I understood, when people died their souls left this world and went to this wonderful place people called heaven. I hadn't a clue how that worked or where heaven was, but I did pick up on one sure thing about death: when people die that meant, you were not going to see them ever again. Wherever it is that dead people go, don't expect a phone call or a postcard. Death is a permanent condition.

Before my grandmother's death, I hadn't personally known anyone who had died, except for old Mr. Ambrose who lived down the street with Mr. and Mrs. Jennings. Mr. Ambrose was Mrs. Jennings' father, and Mrs. Jennings was a lot older than my mother, so I knew her father had to be really, really old. He sure looked it too. I can't say I actually knew Mr. Ambrose except that I'd seen him in the neighborhood for as long as I could remember. I'd see him almost anytime I passed the Jennings house. He was the figure you'd see sitting in a rocking chair looking out from the big bay window or, in good weather, sitting on the porch swing. I never heard him speak and never observed him doing anything. I figured it was because he was too old to do anything but sit and look around. I would always wave to him and sometimes he waved back. Then one day my mother told me that Mr. Ambrose had died. I don't think I had any kind of reaction to the news, like surprise or sadness. His death meant that I would never see him again, but since I barely knew him, this was not particularly upsetting to me. With my beloved grandmother, however, it was a very different matter. It simply never occurred to me that death would come to anyone I really knew and loved. In my inconsolable sorrow, I felt betrayed by something of which I had been unaware: life has an incredibly mean streak to it. Eventually, as I became an adult, my lovely childhood naiveté about life gradually slipped away unnoticed.

As an adult I came to accept life as it is -- more or less, anyway -- it's not as if you really have a choice. I didn't hold a neurotic grudge against life for not living up to the gilded expectations of my formative years. In fact, I became quite the levelheaded, pragmatic realist from early adolescence. To me it was more appealing to cast my lot with the intellectuals and hard-nosed skeptics; besides, it made you seem smart and cool. Thus, I was one of those people who gave little or no credence to things not amenable to scientific scrutiny. This included religion too. To me, orthodox and fundamentalist religions represented little more than an atavistic expression of primitive tribalism dressed up in modern garb -- sometimes not even so modern. It all had more to do with an attempt to impose meaning to life's randomness, and a way to chase after the perennial hope for immortality. Still, I did maintain a vague belief in God - The Supreme Being, the First Cause Uncaused, and the 'Higher Power' -- whatever anyone wanted to call the Prime Mover of the Universe. I was inclined to believe this because it seemed a reasonable assumption, given the Universe is just too ordered and awesome and life too incredibly complex and mysterious to be attributed to an accident of physics and chemistry. So in the back of my mind, I guess I believed there might be some meaning and purpose to it all -- but the 'what' and 'why' of it was not something I felt a need to contemplate or speculate on. Beyond the boundary of my limited beliefs, I had nothing to say.

I developed a distain of all intimations of the 'supernatural'. As far as I was concerned, the study of so-called paranormal phenomena was just a load of pseudo or quasi-scientific crap, although I never went out of my way to openly criticize anyone who expressed a sincere interest in this subject. If they wanted to waste time pondering things you could only believe to be true but never actually prove, it was their business, not mine.

If it seems that I've overstated my disbelief in 'pure' evil and my dim view of all things non-rational or supernatural, I have a reason. I feel it's necessary to make it clear that I have never been anything but a complete skeptic regarding such matters, if not an outright debunker of pursuits that have no practical application in the real world or that make assertions that fly in the face of reason and common sense. There is no question in my mind that I would have maintained this position for the rest of my life, if nothing had ever happened to challenge it. Believe me, it would have taken the psychological equivalent of a nuclear blast to alter my worldview -- which is exactly what happened.

After this horrifying, mind-bending incident that occurred in the cellar of an old, abandoned farmhouse outside the city, I was forced to rethink everything. The house was a rundown, dismal, spooky old place, which right off makes it sound like a stereotypical place for a frightening experience. Cliché aside, this place provided more, much more, than just an imagination-provoking ambiance. What happened there shook me to my very soul.

This cellar incident occurred when I was my senior year in college. Exactly what happened, how or why, I will never know for sure - but if what seemed to have happened, did happen -- and unfortunately, for me, I came to have little reason to doubt it now -- well, it was simply beyond all human understanding. It was exactly like something from a horror novel. That is, things that just don't happen in the real world. Not in the world, I knew.

I was not alone when this happened, yet I might just as well have been. Except for one other person who was also at that house at the time, I haven't talked about this incident with anyone. There are a number of reasons, which will become evident, that forced me to remain silent.

Things change // my life in college

Two

E ven though the individual I confided in is a close and trusted friend, it was still very difficult and uncomfortable for me to explain this experience. Of course, there could never be an easy way to tell such an outrageously unbelievable story to anyone. Much as it was killing me, I saw no alternative to keeping this story to myself. I never imagined that I would ever commit this story to writing for anyone to read. How I came to the decision to do this, I will describe later.

In telling this story, I will be deliberately vague about some specifics. Except to say it occurred in the Boston area, I won't name the college we attended, neither will I identify the real names of the people involved, nor the name of the town outside of Boston where this event took place.

Even though it will become obvious, I want to state up front: no one was or could have been directly responsible for what occurred that evening. Nonetheless, it will also become equally obvious that the incident would probably not have happened had it not been for the self-indulgent predilection of one of our group, which I will explain. Finally, nothing would have happened -- as far as I would have known -- if a certain suggestion had not been uttered, or if I had simply ignored it. Had I ignored that suggestion, I would not have been privy to what took place in the cellar of that ghastly and truly ungodly house. I could have remained blithely ignorant of something of which I would just as soon remained ignorant. But unfortunately, what happened is what happened and nothing can change that.

Let me give you some background information about the people involved and the circumstances:

There were five of us. We were all in the same graduation class and had met each other during freshmen orientation. Although there was nothing in particular about us that would have established a predictable sense of commonality, we were strongly drawn together and maintained an exceptional closeness throughout our years in college. We maintained regular contact as a group, almost as if we were family members. Otherwise, we had different sets of friends and no significant mutual interests. Still, as with family, we had a special bond. We'd established a tradition of going out together at certain times. Halloween had become a big thing for us; we'd have a great time together cooking up plans for what had become a party we threw on this holiday.

I'll give a cursory description of our group, saying only what needs to be said to give a sense of them as people, and commenting on specifics only where they have some relevance to this story:

I will call myself Marge: It was my grandmother's name. I grew up in a middle-class suburb of Cincinnati. My life there, as I've described, had essentially been very positive and secure. I saw my parents as normal, generous, accepting people with whom I seldom had any serious quarrels. One exception was when I was about 13 and found myself becoming noticeably chunky. I became concerned to the point of obsession about my weight. I whined about it to my parents. They would shrug it off, suggesting I shouldn't worry so much about it or repeat their advice, that I just watch what I eat and try exercising more. I got myself one of those calorie-counting books, and took it with me to the supper table one time, to assess caloric intake. I was completely surprised when this upset my parents. They seemed to find this insufferably rude; they both jumped on me. My father angrily insisted that I was dealing with my weight concern in a silly and ineffective way, and then uttered that hackneyed statement, people are starving in the world, and you worry about foolishness! I got so pissed-off I jumped up and shouted: Well, you can just send my food to those starving people. Then I stomped off determined never to say a word again about my weight worries to such brutally insensitive people, if I even wanted to speak to them again. However, me being generally a wimp, with an irrepressible appetite, it didn't take long for hunger to override my anger and I sheepishly returned to the dinner table, sans book, apologized to my parents for my yelling as I sat down. A row almost ensued again when my bratty kid brother mouthed fatty to me when I glanced at him. God! How badly I just wanted to smack him in the mouth! I managed to contain my fury and things went smoothly from there. The weight problem, however, remains with me. Other than intense little conflicts such as this, my only dissatisfaction with my parents was their lifestyle. I began to see them as too middle class, too predictable, which is to say, kind of boring. After I entered college, however, I came to realize just how exceptional my family life was. I was one of the few people to have grown-up in that apparently near-mythical environment: the non-dysfunctional family. Compared to so many of my peers, I had virtually nothing worth complaining about.

Travis: One of the three guys from our group, came from Pittsburgh. I guess I would have to say he is the one I feel closest to. In truth, I started out having a crush on him. I'm sure he picked up on this, and before I had a chance to get too caught up in any romantic fantasies, he kind of set up a conversation whereby he could tell me he's gay. I had no idea! Maybe I was not sophisticated enough to recognize gayness unless it was telegraphed through some blatant stereotype. I was surprised and naturally disappointed, but this didn't stop me from liking him for the attributes that attracted me to him in the first place. Oh, he could sometimes be quite antagonizing and argumentative. There were times when he could get me pissed-off like no one else. Despite this, I could never stay angry with him. His bluster was never as harsh or judgmental as it might sound. I knew this, and knew, no matter what, he was a completely trustworthy friend. For these reasons, I could discuss things with him that I might hesitate to do with any of the others.

Franz: Was born in Haiti but lived in New York City since his early adolescence. He had an exceptional capacity for science and mathematics, exceptional enough to be awarded a full scholarship, unlike the rest of us. Besides being handsome, he was also charming with his modest, unassuming demeanor. Maybe it was his upbringing, but he was quiet, reserved and very polite in ways you don't often see in young people born in this country. I'd seen him with a number of women, although never a white woman. I assumed this was an indication of his preference, but I never had the nerve to ask.

Brian: Is from Boston and is engaged to his high school girlfriend. He was born and grew up in the city's one-time rather notorious Southie area. He had some notable rough edges around him with definite remnants of Boston redneck attitudes towards gays and African Americans. It was interesting to see the attitudes he'd grown up with soften and change through happenstance friendships with people who defied any stereotypes he harbored. Anyway, he was an all-round likable guy who was sometimes quite gruff, but could usually be counted on to interject humor when conversations got too heavy or absurdly intellectual.

Sherri: Is an outstanding person in many ways. Though none of us came from poverty-stricken backgrounds, compared with Sherri, we were dirt poor. She came from a very rich California family. Although there was nothing snooty or pretentious about her. She was generous with her money, but never in an ostentatious way. Besides money, Sherri had just about everything else going for her too. She was the picture-perfect California girl: Nordic good looks, long blond hair, slender build, tall and with a perpetual healthy-looking tan, which she made sure to maintain with frequent short trips back to California along with visits to tanning salons. She was a real head-turner, someone who would always stand out in any group of people. I didn't waste time envying her since there was no way I could possibly compete with her to begin with. She enjoyed the privileges that money can buy, which included having traveled to all sorts of places throughout her childhood. After high school, she took off a year for this grand trip around the world. Naturally, her greater experiences made her more worldly and sophisticated than the rest of us.

Now Sherri was remarkably open and honest about herself, which is something I had to admire, though I must admit that some of her revelations made my middle class morality do a double take. For example, her total disregard for fidelity. She was engaged to this guy, Eric, who was at UCLA. We'd even met him a couple of times when he came to visit her. He was, she proclaimed, the love of her life, her soul mate, and the man she would one day marry. This didn't stop her, however, from getting sexually involved with other guys. She once referred to them as just 'fuck buddies'. She claimed that what she did with them had no impact on her relationship with Eric. This struck me as a most unconventional attitude, one that I found hard to believe, but I had no reason not to take her at her word.

While I didn't understand her ability to detach completely sex from any feelings except lust, it wasn't my place to judge her actions. This issue concerned Sherri, her boyfriend, and the other guys with whom she became involved. I honestly believed that anything done between consenting and responsible adults was their business alone. If Sherri or anyone else wanted to fuck their brains out, it was not my business. Having said this, however, a serious issue arises when questions of what constitutes 'consenting' and 'responsible' are not necessarily clear.

It makes me feel a bit sleazy to reveal such private information about Sherri, even though you'll never know her identity, and I would not be dishing the dirt on her, if her proclivity for casual sex had not created an enormous problem.

For the moment, I'll charitably refer to it as Sherri's peculiar 'whim'. It's unclear to me whether it flowed from her uninhibited, casual attitude about sex, or whether it was a reflection of unresolved, unrecognized psychological problems within her. At best, this behavior revealed an inexcusable lack of common sense judgment. Anyway, this 'whim' would prove to be extraordinary costly. The best way for me to explain her 'whim' is to tell you how I inadvertently learned about it:

We were in our junior year at the time, and I needed a particular book for a class that I couldn't locate anywhere. As it happened, Sherri had a copy and offered to let me borrow it. I asked if I could come by her apartment on Saturday and pick it up. She suggested I drop by anytime afternoon.

It was such a nice day that I decided to walk to her apartment, which would take about 20 minutes. I don't recall the exact time when I started out but I was certain it would be afternoon when I arrived. I called Sherri to let her know this, but there was no answer and her message machine was on the blink. I figured she was in the shower or had stepped out for a while and would no doubt be available by the time I got there.

Shortly past noon I arrived at her apartment. I was about to give my signature rap on her door, when I was stopped by the sound of a boy's voice. I instantly glanced at the number on the door, thinking I may have mindlessly approached the wrong apartment. No, it was her door... I rapped again and I heard that boy's voice say, Zelda, someone's at your door. A voice that sounded like Sherri's said something, but it wasn't clear. Seemed as if she were talking over a noise that sounded like a hair dryer. The door lock was being fumbled with, as if the person trying to open it wasn't familiar with doors that have multiple locks. After several tries, the door was successfully opened by a boy I'd guess to be 15, maybe 16 at most. He was a cute stocky guy with curly black hair, wearing a red Boston Red Sox tee shirt. I had no idea who he was, or why his hair looked sopping wet, as if he just stepped out of the shower or just come back from a swim. Whoever he was he seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

"'cuse me," he said with a quick glance as he bolted around me to the stairs. I didn't get a chance to respond since he was gone in a flash. I walked into the apartment expecting to see someone else in there -- the person I thought I heard him refer to as 'Zelda'. But no one else seemed to be there but Sherri, who was in fact drying her hair in the bathroom. I called out to her and she responded,

Hi, Marge, I'll be right with you. The book you want is on the kitchen table.

Fine. I went to the kitchen, picked up the book and went back to the living room, sat on the couch to wait for her to emerge from the bathroom.

She was combing her still damp hair when she entered the room, wearing this gossamer robe through which you could see her bare tits and her bikini underpants. Obviously, she had recently stepped out of the shower -- which was the same impression I had of that kid. Hmmm... Then thinking of this 'Zelda' that boy had called out to, I asked, Is there anyone else here?

"No." She yawned, and showed no curiosity as to what would have prompted me to ask this question. She said nothing more as she continued combing her hair, seemingly attending to non-existent tangles.

"So you got the book?" She asked without looking at me.

Well, she'd told me to come by afternoon, and it was afternoon... Nevertheless, I had an uneasy sense that perhaps I'd arrived a bit prematurely. The longer she combed her hair and said nothing, the more I felt she hoped that I take the book I'd come for and just leave. Well I did not intend to leave till I found out just who the hell that boy was. However, it was obvious that if I wanted to know, I would have to ask,

Who was that kid, Sherri, a relative? I highly doubted that was the case, though I hadn't mean it to be sarcastic, but that's how she took it.

Yeah, right, he's a relative from California. He just dropped by for a little visit.

Hmmm... How was I to interpret this? I didn't know what to say.

Then she looked directly at me, pursed her lips. "Oh, c'mon, Marge, don't play games. You know he's not a relative."

I looked at her with a squint... I really didn't know what to make of this rather hostile response. Okay, so he's not a relative. Well, who the hell was he? I looked at Sherri standing there in her see-through robe, combing her damp hair. Obviously, she'd just been in the shower. Then I thought about that boy who'd dashed out of her apartment, his hair wet, as if he too, had just come out of the shower... Oh, no! It can't be that they showered together! No. I wasn't prepared to believe that my dirty little suspicion could really be true. And who was Zelda? She and the boy were the only people here. Unless she gave the kid a false name... God, I didn't like where this seems to be pointing. So, I asked,

"So uh ... you were the person the kid referred to as Zelda."

She shot me a guilty smile.

I sat back and just looked at her. Good God! Don't tell me that Sherri actually made it with that kid! Jesus, this was a real stunner! What the hell was wrong with her? She could probably have any guy she wanted, so why a kid? Damn it, now, There are limits; there are some lines you just don't cross. I restrained myself from jumping all over her and getting sanctimonious, which I could easily have done. Though I held back, I couldn't pretend to find this acceptable. I couldn't resist a little intentional sarcasm this time.

"Well, seeing that boy with his wet hair and seeing you... I'd guess the two of you took a shower together. Right?"

She snickered as she raised her eyebrows, and went on running the comb through her hair as she kept her eyes looking toward the ceiling, half-smiling. And on top of it all, she had this damned cavalier attitude! I'm sure she hadn't anticipated that I'd arrive early enough to run into the kid. Though it was evident that she would have preferred that I hadn't, yet the fact that I'd seen the kid and figured out what had taken place didn't appear to bother her much. If I were in her position, I think I would have been sufficiently mortified to concoct some bogus story to explain the boy's presence.

"If you don't mind my asking, where did that boy come from? Was