It was a cool evening. Soft winds in the air when a stiff bang was heard outside the house. We went to investigate from our second floor studio apartment.
Nothing seemed to be amis around the other 8 units but a large door was situated in the middle of all their order. This door, battered and bruised, was the entrance to the storm cellar. Not usually the shape for a door serving this purpose but at the bottom of the steps leading down was a sharp turn towards protection and storage.
This night, the door was gone. Absent from its duty the door was broken in three long strips and stuck like stray hairs in a vacuum hose to the stairwell below. At the bottom, a hanging lightbulb was on and illuminated their backs, causing shadows leaning towards us as we peered into their own world.
I looked below and said aloud, "Is everyone alright?"
A shrill voice called back, "Oh yes, quite alright down here!"
We had no tenants, and as my first instinct was always curiosity I asked, "Any chance we could see you to check on you?"
"Sure, sure! I'll be right there." Said the voice that was presumably supposed to be there.
A short, bald, and pale man stepped from the basement and into the stairwell. He had a white shirt and black slacks torn and hanging from him like a dead squirrel on a powerline. Down most of his bare skin was a tan layer of mud. His arms were quenched and hands holding a mound of wet pale clay sopping between his finger tips. His expression was of bliss and his eyes seemed bored.
I was fairly uneasy but mustered the courage to quench my curiosity. In my desire for safety I told him, "Well, I'm glad you are alright. Feel free to go about your nightly business. We will just be off."
His eyes grinning, he said, "Sounds good!" Before he raised the pile of wet clay over his eyes and began to cover his face. A lack of breathing was apparent before I looked away.