The Trouble With Cellars

By Daniel Ståhl

Ruth Roy, a Wisconsinite in her late sixties, seeks to put the tragedies of her small town past behind her by acquiring a small property and founding a business along with a new life in the Old World before age and decrepitude overtake her. Her new beginning takes a sinister turn, however, when horrific nightmares begin to haunt her and a prophecy - discovered within a tale within an antique journal - has her doubting not only her chances at a new life, but her neighbors and her very sanity. She finds herself searching desperately for a way out of the horrors that threaten to ensnare her; horrors which all began with that tiny little house she acquired, and the mysterious cellar on top of which it was built.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365465482

Book preview

Loon

Prologue

Prologue

There is upon a time both far and near

A quiet girl, her sister held so dear

Alas, she yields her bond of blood and kin

To waters swift, and all who dwell therein

She drifts so swift, then 'round the river's bend

But Ruth, dear Ruth, her death is not the end

Part I

in which

acquaintances are made

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

April 18, 1889

Thursday

The Thames, on board the Sphinx

The rain is pouring down on us for the third day today, with no sign readable to me that it will cease any time soon. For years I have dreamed of wandering the streets of London, only to be greeted by this. All we made acquaintance with during our two day stay were the four walls of the inn.

I did leave both my employer, Hans, and the warmth to brave the weather twice, but with the streets overflowing and one's shoes sloshing rainwater with every step I might as well have stayed inside. Or so I told Hans, and not least myself, as I slunk back in to let the fire warm my feet and the gin my innards. So that is me, when it comes right down to it, the great adventurer, defeated by a bit of wind and rain. It may be that I was never made out for quests and legends, but for ink smudged desks and smelly ledgers. Surrendering at the first sign of inconvenience, while the greatest city of the greatest empire the world has ever seen is there, outside the window, waiting for me. Your city. Inviting me. 

It is tempting to wallow in self-disgust, but perhaps what I need is simply a different perspective. Perhaps the hero of fairy tales and fearless dragon slaying is not me, but rather the gentleman explorer, smoking a pipe of good tobacco while some hapless natives trudge through the jungle carrying his baggage. Yes, indeed, that must be it. At any rate, as London slips out of view into the river mists and driving rains outside my cabin window. As a fancy it makes for better company than self-reproach. Time will tell what sort of man returns to you.

As becomes a sophisticated man of the world, if that is what I am to be, I do confess to thoroughly enjoying the inn Hans picked for us, the Silver Key. It sported a terrifically snug little saloon, which we shared with two other guests and the house-cat, all sheltering from the storm. I never had much love for cats, the way you do, but there was something about the way he effortlessly leapt into my lap as we sat down for a smoke on the first night of our stay. 

I surprised myself by not shooing him away and having a word or two with the proprietor – cats given free reign to bother the patrons is scarcely the sign of a superior establishment. It was the strangest thing: as he made himself comfortable and rolled himself into a little ball, nose tucked beneath his tail, I felt chosen. Honored, even. Honored that he never showed the slightest interest in any of the other patrons, but came at once into my lap whenever and wherever I took a seat, with all the airs of royalty. I am sure you would have loved him. His immaculate fur was black as soot, and hung around his neck in a thin red cord was a brass plate with his name inscribed: Sytry.

Finally, here are two pleasant thoughts with which to end the day. First, with any luck, we will be returning home following the same route, affording me a second chance at exploring the city. And with even more of that same luck more favorable weather will welcome us then, and if Hans is good for his word I might be well enough off by then that I can stay a while longer, should I want to. 

My second cause for blithe spirits is what I overheard one of the mates say as we came aboard: there is a new wind coming out of the North Sea on the morrow, granting us clear skies and swift passage through the channel. How he can tell I can not imagine, but he sounded confident enough about it. Then again, so does my aunt whenever she prophecies heavy snows or a dry summer, but I have never known her predictions to come true for all that. 

If the new day proves this sailor right I will make it my business to ask him about it – for idle curiosity, if nothing else, as I reckon there will be plenty of time to while away in the months to come. The Sphinx is a beautiful ship, but I would imagine it offers little in terms of distraction, and the ocean is a large place. It is a good thing Hans insisted on bringing a modest library packed into those large coffers of his. I was skeptical at first, and still am – I can only imagine dragging them through some godless marsh all too well – but I must admit that at sea I'm glad he brought it.

Oh my, Ruth thought to herself.

She paused, closed the notebook and turned it over, stained and worn leather in aged and liver-spotted hands, looking for some mark or inscription. There was none. Opening it to the first page again, she looked at the date. April 18, 1889. Just over a century old.

Opposite, on the inside of the cover, written in the same hand, she read:

For you, Anne. Should I not find my way back to you, I pray that this notebook does. Yours always, Axel F.

Ruth leaned back in her chair and pondered. The air around her felt suffused by... what? By events long past and of antiquity, certainly, but of something more. As she let her fingertips run across the dusty surface of the notebook the sense grew stronger, something she could almost grasp. A premonition.

She shuddered, then blinked. The moment had passed and the feeling with it. Oh my, indeed, she told herself. What are the chances? They do say you can scarcely turn a corner in Europe without stumbling over some antique relic or other, but I never expected it to fall into my lap; and in English, at that. But what should I do with it? Perhaps I ought to turn it in somewhere. There seems to be an authority for just about everything around these parts. Maybe there's one for historical artifacts, too. That could wait, though. It was, after all, she who had found it in her own home, such as it was, so first things first. She would read it through herself. In time. If the notebook had kept this long, it would keep a few more days, she decided.

She had found it concealed beneath a cracked floorboard. I wonder what other hidden treasures are waiting beneath that floor, Ruth mused. So far it had yielded plenty of colored shards of glass, a handful of rusted through bolts, some half-spent candles and the scattered bones of what she presumed must be a rat. The notebook was clearly the grand prize in that collection. So far, at any rate. The wooden floor had been lain on joists on top of rough slabs of stone, leaving an inch or so of space for gems and debris alike to accrue over the years.

Ruth had begun tearing the floor up the day before, and it had proven to be stiff work. The thing was ancient by the looks of it, and massive, weighing more than she would have thought possible. Had it been in any better condition she might have tried to save it, but the way it was it breathed an atmosphere of neglect into the room, and that was absolutely unacceptable. No two ways about it, the floor had to go.

Ruth had soon learned just how mind-bogglingly expensive handymen could be, so she had spent her meager budget on a stack of Do-It-Yourself books and rented power tools. After all, brushing up a little place like this couldn't be all that difficult, could it? And if it was, that was simply part of the challenge. Part of the experience.

The place had, ostensibly, come furnished. There were a few chairs and a table in decent condition, which were just enough of out fashion to be coming into fashion. The rest, however, was a hodge-podge of scuffed and worm-eaten pieces she would place somewhere around the thirties. A heavy dressing table reminded her of her childhood, and not in a good way. Half of a bed frame might serve for scrap wood, which was probably where the missing half had gone.

The building itself was a tiny thing, squeezed in tight between two proper mansions, looming over it on either side. Two rooms, a tiny bathroom and a kitchenette in one corner; one door facing the street, and one in the back opening into an enclosed courtyard she shared with the rest of the neighborhood, made up of an odd mix of those turn-of-the-century mansions and a couple fairly classy apartment buildings. A neighborhood that clung desperately to the jagged slopes of Skansön, a tiny island just off the coast, opposite the small town center of Djuphamn and dominated by the mossy old stone fortress for which it had been named. If Ruth stepped a few paces into the street she could almost claim to have a view of the sea. Technically of the strait, she corrected herself. On the other side of which the waterfront of Djuphamn proper would reflect the golds and pinks of the setting sun back at her in the evening. It was a small, sleepy town; much like what she was used to, home to no more than one or two thousand souls, depending on how generous one was in counting the little clumps of houses scattered throughout the deep pine forests further inland. Isolated as she was from it, with but a ferry as her only way across, it was still her town now.

Hers was clearly the oldest of the nearby buildings. The view must have been quite something once. All in all, hadn't it been in such a sorry state the house would have been absolutely adorable – and absolutely out of her price range, of course – but that was nothing a bit of hard work and those power tools couldn't remedy. And she had all the time in world, or in her life, at any rate. Her resources were limited, true, but so were the living expenses of a single old lady raised during the Great Depression. And when she was done she would open the doors to the first authentic American sandwich bar in Scandinavia. It would be nothing short of glorious.

Before then there was much to do and more to get done, however. Three weeks in and that heady enthusiasm that comes with all fresh starts and burning of bridges had faded, and monotony was setting in. She had begun to contemplate whether she was even capable of finishing what she had started – after all, her hand was not as steady as it had once been, and nobody had ever called her muscular. Hips aching from sleeping on a camp bed and back hurting from unfamiliar effort it was easy enough to grow despondent.

To be fair, progress had been made, though. The roof no longer leaked water, a lovely bright red door that would not only shut, but could even be locked, was in place and the little kitchenette was also getting there. She hadn't trusted herself to get the plumbing and appliances put in, so after much ruing she had bit the bullet and hired help. A good thing it was, too, Ruth thought as she sipped her coffee. Cooking over a camp stove is only romantic for so long.

Once the door had been installed she had hung a red, white and blue wreath below a sign, saying

GENUINE AMERICAN

SANDWICH BAR

OPENING SOON

–

ÄKTA AMERIKANSK

SMÖRGÅSBAR

ÖPPNAR SNART

The real estate agent had helped her with the translation. She hoped it was somewhat correct – looking the words up one by one in the dictionary it seemed to get the rough idea across.

Ruth's train of thought was interrupted by a faint sound. Was that someone knocking? She was still for a moment, listening. Just as she decided it had been her imagination, there it came again. A knocking on the door, louder this time, but still cautious, hesitant. She put her cup down, got up and walked over to the door. Opening it she had to squint her eyes against the midday sun, its rays falling in parallel with the narrow street outside. Fresh spring air, ripe with the mingling smells of earth and dust and salt, filled her nostrils. The street was empty but for a middle aged man briskly walking away from her.

Excuse me? Sir? Did you see anyone knocking just now?

He turned towards her, a little too quickly to have been surprised. With steel rimmed glasses, receding hair and a worn jacket he struck her as exceptionally ordinary. Ah, yes, I... He cleared his throat. That is to say, ah, I did. Knock, that is. I thought, maybe... Trailing off, he walked up to her, hand stretched out in front of him. She shook it. I'm Gudmund. We're neighbors, in a way. I have this small establishment just up there, he said, hinting vaguely up the street. Here, he quickly went on, I brought you this.

The man held out a bundle of white cloth. Hesitantly unwrapping it, Ruth found a loaf of dark bread and tiny cup of salt.

It's rye, he said, offering no explanation as to any significance of this fact.

Oh, was all she could think of saying at first. That's so nice of you. Please, come inside. Ruth stepped back, holding the door open.

The man who had introduced himself as Gudmund made no sign of following her inside.

Is something the matter, Ruth asked three awkward heartbeats later.

No, nothing at all, thank you, the man replied, still standing in the street, looking at her, wearing a bland expression on his face.

All right then. Very well. Feeling a bit foolish about speaking to him from deep inside the room, she stepped forward into the doorway again, one hand on the door handle. With no response from her interlocutor, she grasped for something to say. So what is this... establishment of yours?

Gudmund's Bicycles and Arcane Consulting. It's just around the corner, to the right. On Tyskvägen.

Ruth didn't recognize his pronunciation of the street name. I'm sorry, it's on what? And wait a minute, bicycles and what now?

Tyskvägen. It crosses this street just up there, Gudmund said, gesturing and distracting her.

She poked her head out to look where he pointed. I see. You're right, that makes us practically neighbors. I'm sorry, bicycles was it, and...

Precisely. Biking really is the only reasonable way of getting around the island. Much too much hassle bringing the car over on the ferry. Besides, where would you drive it? There's only the handful of streets and that's it. Nope, sure as eggs, bicycles is the way to go, he interrupted her.

Yes, well, I can see the sense in...

I see you will be making sandwiches, Gudmund continued, breaking into a broad smile.

She returned his smile. Yes, I... 

Are you aiming for the lunch market? I think you might find that the average Swede prefers his lunch rather more filling than a sandwich. And very few work here anyway; there just aren't that many businesses this side of the water. Mine is one of only a handful. And when work is over there, he said, nodding in the direction of the mainland, taking the ferry here and back again for a quick lunch, well, I just don't see it.

Ruth cleared her throat. I see. I must thank you for your concern, but I was rather hoping for the tourist season.

Tourists? Gudmund looked at her, once again expressionless.

Yes, well, with the castle and the antique buildings and...

Oh, that, he interrupted her. Yes, I suppose there are some tourists. But the castle isn't exactly Versailles, and as for the buildings, he continued, looking indifferently up and down the street, this is Europe, you understand.

Ruth was growing increasingly flustered. Well, I don't know. You really are doing your best to talk me out of it, aren't you?

Gudmund's smile returned. "Oh, not at all. I'm merely thinking out loud, pay no attention. I