The Lake In Your Basement
She hears the water dripping, deep below, just at the edge of her senses. The rhythmic tapping of something that's not rain, not an unquiet faucet, down where there should only be silence and the low wooden sounds of the house rearranging.
If only she could stay asleep.
The door to the basement sticks, doesn't want to open, wood swollen by damp and grown willful with disuse, but she still makes it open.
Her force sends her stumbling down as it finally admits her, grasping for a railing which is no longer there, toes touching water–
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