Crawlspaces
When childhood dread becomes an adult reality.
“Palmer and Carter had been working together for quite some time, and they were making a good team. Palmer was a licensed expert, and Carter was trying to determine whether he might want to become an apprentice, so it made sense to have them working together. From what I understand, Carter really liked working with Palmer, as Palmer was always allowing him to do new things. As for myself, I only worked with them or any other members of my team when they needed a so-called ‘extra hand;’ I was a floater, more or less. Otherwise, I spent much of my time in the office.”
“Robert, the code specifies that a crawlspace entryway be at least 18 by 24 inches. To say that the Oakley house was not up to code is an understatement. I regret that I didn’t measure it, but at the time I didn’t think it mattered because I had planned to bring it up to code. It wasn’t a surprise that a late 1800s house didn’t measure up to modern home codes.”
“Anyway, getting into the crawlspace required crawling into a space that was less than 18 by 24. You enter feet first, then one shoulder at a time, into a den of darkness; spiders; vermin; serpents; and other wildlife. The only protection you have, usually, is coveralls. Carter had been under more than one home, but that small entryway at the Oakley house affected him in a way that no other place ever had.”
“The house is huge, so naturally the foundation is huge. Carter had never had any problems with navigating a crawlspace, but once he worked his way into the access door, his light wasn’t powerful enough to illuminate anything else. Basically, it looked to Carter like he was lying face up in an unending tunnel. I suppose it seemed much like lying in a coffin. Then something happened that had never happened before—Carter had a panic attack. He began to scoot backward like an undulating snake until Palmer grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him free. Palmer said Carter still didn’t get straight up. Apparently, he crawled on the ground until he was nowhere near the house.”
“That particular job is what broke Carter Crandle. He made the decision that plumbing was not for him, and I don’t send him under houses anymore. From that day forward he works on roofing and inside attics, almost exclusively. Personally, I think the young man should go to school and get away from the manual labor. He has the brain for it, for sure.”
“Getting back on track, sorry. About three weeks later, Palmer and I returned to the Oakley’s house. We took the keys with us, but we didn’t go inside. We went straight to the crawlspace. I completely removed the door and knelt by the house. I took my flashlight from my pocket and shined it into the crawlspace.”
“At once I saw what had affected Carter so much. The crawlspace entry extended like a 16 feet coffin before opening up into darkness. That’s not normal. It’s no great wonder that Carter panicked. I stood up and told Palmer to get into his coveralls. We were going under the house to do a thorough inspection and we were going to be moving through a long tunnel. A few minutes later, we were ready to go. I went first, and Palmer was close behind me.”
“We made it through the long tunnel and the crawlspace became fairly normal. Well, almost normal. The foundation, unfortunately, but not totally unexpected, was not concrete. Old foundations can be made from unreinforced masonry like hollow blocks, or bricks. They can also be made from mortared rocks, and this was the case with the Oakley house. The entire foundation consisted of mortared local stones. Such a foundation can’t really withstand aging; a lot of work was ahead of us.”
“We continued to crawl around beneath the house, and it became apparent that although we would be doing some foundation work, the wood underneath the structure didn’t really need to be replaced. We didn’t see any active water leaks. We didn’t see any evidence of past water leaks.”
“We approached the approximate middle of the structure. It was then that Palmer said, ‘Wally, gas.’ In case you’re wondering, we use safety-rated flashlights, so we were never in any danger of setting off an explosion with our lights. ‘Let’s find that leak,’ I said, ‘and we’ll fix it first.’”
“We continued toward the smell of propane. Palmer had taken the path that seemed to lead to the source of the smell, and I followed close behind. From that point forward I mostly heard and smelled rather than witnessed with the eye.”
“Whatever we were approaching—other than the propane—emitted smells that can only be described as rancid and rot. I assumed that perhaps the carcass of an animal lay ahead of us. That’s not an unheard of occurrence, but soon this scent became almost unbearable. Still, I followed Palmer toward the source.”
“The next thing we heard, we thought, was something like the consistent beating of a drum along with a chant, similar to what occurs during an indigenous religious gathering. I was just about to tell Palmer to turn around, when he said, “It’s right ahead.” In moments we arrived at a good-sized hole in the ground. I supposed that it might have been an indoor well at one time. They’re not uncommon, though it’s rare to find one without a cap, usually concrete. It was then that I told Palmer to turn around, and it was then that fate struck. “I see stairs!” Palmer exclaimed as he held his light forward. “There’s stairs here leading beneath the house. Maybe an old basement? But what’s with the drum? Wally, the propane scent is strongest down here. I’m just going to have a quick look.”
“The smell of death of death is strong down here, too,” I said. “Make it a quick look and let’s get out of here. We need to see if we can find some plans for the house.”
At this, the world as I knew it collapsed. Palmer Lewis spoke from somewhere within that hole, perhaps on the stairway. “Wally, there’s something down here with me! I...um...it’s, oh God, it’s a thing! Good heavens, they’re bowing down to that thing! Abby! Mrs. Oakley is here. They see me! They see me, Wally! Oh God it’s got me. Wally, get out! Get out of here!”
“I could hear the sounds of a ruckus as I rolled over and belly-crawled back toward the crawlspace entry. I also heard strange growls and vocalizations that I did not understand, combined with Palmer’s unmistakable voice as he threatened and fought against whatever had seized him. I couldn’t understand much but I did distinctly hear Palmer say something like ‘will blow us all up.’ That’s when I knew what was going to happen. See, Palmer smoked hand rolled cigarettes, and he always had a lighter. He also had the torch that we used to work on copper pipes. Torches and lighters and propane leaks don’t go together.”
“I was crawling for my very life when I heard the voice of Abby Oakley, sounding as mean as ever: ‘Roar! Welcome, Wallace Harrison! Come back here! Come join me for dinner, for eternity! Come with me and you might even be reunited with little Ella! Wouldn’t you like to see her again?! Bahaha!’ Horrified, I attempted to crawl even faster when I felt the dead thing’s claw-like hands dig into my right ankle. I’ve never felt a sharper pain and I was afraid I might pass out, but I dared not slow down. I approached the open entryway and the sunlight, and thankfully the hag would not or could not proceed.”
“I crawled to the Oakley’s above-ground storm cellar, and hid myself on one side of it, the side that faced away from the house. I don’t know if you believe in luck or fortune, but that move on my part is why I’m alive. As I sat, breathing heavily and going into shock, the house exploded into matchsticks and burned. It was Palmer’s doing, of course. He lit his lighter or the torch, causing an explosion. I like to think that he was trying to light a cigarette when he was taken out of the game, but naturally I don’t know that to be a fact. Hopefully he got to take one last drag.”
“I was in the hospital for almost a month, and I left with a cane and a portion of a new right leg. My doctor says I’m really lucky to be alive, as a propane explosion isn’t usually that kind to people. I can’t tell him the truth. I would’ve escaped unscathed if Abby hadn’t chewed and torn my ankle off of my leg.”
“I spent a month in Mackenson Memorial, and I was in a coma for five days. Thank goodness it was a dreamless affair. When I did wake up I practiced selective memory, meaning that I told them that I didn’t know what happened. You know the rest of the story—I have a new leg and a walking cane. I just thought Abby had a mean streak when she was alive: That meanness was far worse when she was dead.”
“Anyway, I don’t ask Carter to go into crawlspaces, and now I don’t go into them either. It’s easy for me to beg off because of my injury. I doubt I’ll ever do it again. Moreover, I’ve got professionals working for me that can do the jobs as good as or maybe better than I can.”
“Well Doc...what do you think?”
Doctor Williamson paused momentarily and typed something into his phone. He then signaled Kallie and got her attention. “Kallie, check, please.”
“Right away, sir,” she nodded. She brought a tray out to a couple of diners, and then left the bill at Williamson’s table. “This one’s on me,” said Dr. Williamson, and both men left the young lady a handsome gratuity.
“Now, what do I think? Your misadventure definitely fits into my line of work, and you were right to come to me. Here’s a hint: If you’re ever called to work on anything that features local stone, beware. Those areas are often the home to things that most of the public doesn’t know about.”
“We’ll get the area declared ‘off-limits,’ and then we’ll send someone in to take a look at that hole. We’ve seen things like this before. We’ve seen it many times. And we have...certain individuals...on our staff who are more than capable of dealing with things like Abby Oakley—and whatever else may be with her. My advice to you is to not worry about it from this point forward.”
“Thanks Robert. And thank you for the meal.”
You’re welcome. Now, let me settle up here with Sam’s bill and then I want you to walk across the street with me to my office. I want to practice a whiskey sour recipe, and this seems like a good time to do it. I sent Dr. Wilson a text message a few minutes ago, and she’ll be joining us. She doesn’t drink at all, so she’s a good designated driver.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Mr. Harrison.
“We haven’t seen each other in so long. It won’t hurt to catch up. And if I have a bit of whiskey, you might even be able to talk me into telling you about the time I fought Santa Claus. Well, a manifestation of him. Or I might tell you about the ley line that runs through the county. It’s the reason Mackenson Institute has its mandate.”
Harrison laughed. “Doc, I’m ready to try that whiskey sour, but as much as I’ve been through, let’s stick to talking about boring things like sports, school, and politics!”
The End.
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