Chapter 6: Crying in the Basement

Chapter 6 Cries from the Basement

Grandfather's hand came to rest upon Karen's shoulder.

And with it, Karen's body gave a sudden tremble.

"Then... let us go home."

"Oh, alright."

Karen knew with absolute, chilling certainty what he had just experienced; he did not believe it was merely his imagination running wild given the circumstances. It had been, pure and simple, a brush with death.

Reaching out,

Pushing open the courtyard gate,

Karen took a step forward,

And then, his legs below the knees instantly turned to jelly, causing his entire frame to lurch forward.

Fortunately, his other hand had been gripping the golden retriever's leash, dragging the dog forward with him until he finally collapsed right over it.

"Whimper..."

The retriever let out a low cry of distress.

Karen immediately pushed himself up from the ground, unable to resist casting a glance back at his grandfather standing there.

Grandfather was watching him, his face utterly devoid of expression.

Karen gathered the leash of the thick-skinned, unharmed retriever once more and continued toward the house.

In the living room, Aunt Mary was sitting with several middle-aged men and women discussing business; they were likely the children of the elderly man from the nursing home, here to arrange the funeral.

Aunt Mary called out to Karen, but he did not respond, letting go of the leash as he reached the stairs.

He walked all the way up to the third floor, pushed open the door to his room, stepped inside, and locked it behind him. Then, with his back against the door, he slowly slid down until he was slumped on the floor.

"Huff... huff... huff..."

Karen began to gasp for breath uncontrollably,

Tears, snot, and cold sweat spilling from him without restraint.

He clenched his fists tightly,

Suppressing his voice to the barest whisper, a ceaseless torrent of curses spilling from his lips.

At this very moment,

Only mindless, instinctive profanity could help vent some of the pressure.

But,

Before long,

Mina's voice drifted through the door:

"Brother, lunch is in the kitchen. Shall I warm it up for you to eat a little?"

Karen took a deep breath, wiping his tears with his palm and his nose with the back of his hand,

And said:

"No, I am not hungry."

"Alright, brother."

Mina left.

Karen leaned against the door, his head tilted back.

Mr. Hoffen saw through who I am, and Grandfather just now at the gate, clearly... he wanted to kill me!

He actually wanted to kill him!

The "identity crisis" he had previously assumed was barely worth worrying about had, at this moment, presented a stark and imminent danger. No, it had already marched him straight to the gallows.

Just then, his cousin Lunt's voice rang out from outside the door:

"Brother, Grandfather is calling you to have lunch with him."

Karen gritted his teeth, flailing his fists in the air,

Damn it, damn it, damn it!!!

Right now, the person he feared facing most was his grandfather—was Dis!

But,

What was even more damnable was that Karen realized he did not even dare to refuse.

After a brief moment of hollow staring,

"Heh..."

Karen suddenly burst into laughter.

He buried his face in his hands,

Unable to suppress the mirth, his shoulders shaking along with it.

He was acutely aware of the shift in his own psychology,

Plunging from one extreme straight into another,

To put it simply:

A total breakdown of restraint.

When a person's mind experiences a massive shock, it is incredibly easy to develop such impulses. For instance, a traditionally thrifty homemaker might suddenly go on a wild spending spree, or a perfectly chaste individual might abruptly dive into debauchery;

Once their emotions stabilize, they will most likely regret it.

Yet that does not stop them from immersing themselves in that period of indulgence;

Humans, after all, are creatures of flesh, blood, and soul. Even a machine needs to be shut down for inspection and maintenance after being overloaded.

Karen slowly stood up.

He looked at himself in the bedroom mirror,

And he felt no regret or shame for his previous display of weakness. When a normal person is suddenly thrust into a life-or-death situation out of nowhere, who could truly remain calm?

But,

He was sick of it.

...

It was now three in the afternoon, long past lunchtime.

Karen walked over to the dining table and sat down.

Dis looked up, glancing at Karen, and found his expression entirely natural. Combined with his damp hair slicked back, he looked quite refreshed.

Set before him was a plate of pasta laced with tomato sauce, with a plate of meat pies sitting in the middle.

He picked up his fork, swirled the noodles, and brought them to his mouth.

Sour, sweet, soft, and gummy... God, it was awful.

He speared a meat pie next and took a bite, the cloying sweetness nearly sending Karen straight to his grave.

Resigned, Karen set his fork down with a quiet sigh.

Dis, eating with measured deliberation, asked without looking up,

"What is it?"

Noticing that both Aunt Mary and Aunt Winny were absent from the second floor, Karen answered with blunt honesty,

"It tastes terrible."

Mina, who was bringing over a glass of water nearby, flinched visibly at such directness; everyone in the household, including her own parents, always treated Grandfather with absolute reverence.

To criticize the food or display such willful caprice was simply unheard of.

Dis took a bite of his meat pie and inquired,

"What would you prefer to eat?"

Karen shook his head. "I will prepare lunch tomorrow."

Wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin, Dis said softly,

"Very well."

Then, gesturing toward the food remaining before Karen, Dis added, "Do not waste it."

"I won't."

Karen resumed his meal.

Dis lifted a glass of water from his side, took a sip, his gaze remaining fixed entirely on Karen.

Karen, meanwhile, made no effort to mask his distaste, frowning and sighing with every single bite.

"Food demands a basic level of respect," Dis reminded him.

Karen took a glass of water from Mina, using it to wash down the sickly sweet pie coating his throat, and replied,

"To ruin good ingredients is the true disrespect."

Dis nodded thoughtfully.

"Then I shall look forward to tomorrow's lunch."

Just then, Aunt Mary ascended from downstairs. Karen noticed the tempest of rage shifting across her face, vanishing the instant she stepped into Grandfather's presence.

"Have the guests departed?" Dis asked.

"Yes, they chose the cheapest package," Aunt Mary replied.

"I see." Dis showed no reaction.

The cheapest package meant merely renting the first floor of the Inmeles residence as a place of mourning, stripping away all superfluous arrangements and decor; it was a simple wake where friends and family could glance at the deceased during specific hours of the morning or afternoon.

They would not even provide... refreshments or beverages.

"What is more ridiculous is that they intend to cremate Mr. Mosan just to save on a burial plot. To justify the thrift, the siblings went so far as to claim he was a devout follower of the Berry faith.

Yet, while preparing Mr. Mosan's body, I distinctly saw an angel tattooed across his back."

While a few sects prescribed cremation, decreeing that the dissolution of the flesh was both an end and a new beginning, the vast majority of faiths—and indeed, most people—shunned it.

Of course, the pivotal detail was that cremation cost far less than a proper, intact burial.

What infuriated Aunt Mary was that Mr. Mosan’s children had concocted such a flimsy lie purely to save money... which, naturally, hacked away the lion's share of her anticipated profits.

The real money lay in the coffins, the plots, and the services of a priest.

"Mm," Mr. Dis grunted in quiet acknowledgment. "Fulfill the guests' requests exactly."

"Yes, Father."

"As Mr. Mosan's family has requested no catering, it is just as well. Karen will prepare tomorrow's lunch."

"Yes, Father." Aunt Mary shot an instinctive glance at Karen.

"I am somewhat weary today and shall retire to my room. Tomorrow morning will be busy, so do not stay up late."

"Yes, Father."

"Goodnight, Grandfather."

Dis rose from the dining table and climbed toward the third floor.

"Mina, take Lunt and help me arrange the drapes downstairs. Oh, and call Kriss down to join us as well."

"Yes, Mother."

Aunt Mary turned her gaze back to Karen, an arch smile touching her lips.

"My chef of a nephew, do you require me to purchase any ingredients for you in advance?"

"There is no need, Aunt Mary. The kitchen is well-stocked; there is more than enough."

"Then I shall eagerly await tomorrow's lunch."

Aunt Mary led Mina and the others downstairs. Though Paul and Ron would arrive in the morning to set up the mourning hall, she needed to organize the basic elements tonight.

Having finished, Karen began clearing the plates.

At that moment, the door to his uncle and aunt's second-floor bedroom creaked open from within.

"Karen, Karen."

"Uncle Mason?" Karen called out, turning toward the voice.

"Is there any food left?" Uncle Mason asked.

"A few meat pies remain."

"Splendid, splendid. Pass them here."

Karen carried the platter of pies over to the threshold. Uncle Mason, clad in his nightshirt, snatched the plate and instantly bit off a massive chunk of pie, wolfing it down as though driven by a desperate hunger.

"Uncle, whatever happened to you?"

Uncle Mason sighed in resignation. "I took a spill while walking. My backside is still throbbing fiercely, and I cannot tell if the bone is fractured. I must lie down, but it will not delay tomorrow's household duties."

"You really must be more careful, Uncle."

"Ah, for a family to enjoy good fortune, there must always be one unfortunate soul to bear the brunt of it. As long as the rest of you remain hale and healthy, I am content."

Though well aware that Uncle Mason was talking utter nonsense,

Karen offered a polite, deeply moved smile.

Holding his plate, Uncle Mason limped back into the bedroom, not forgetting to call back over his shoulder:

"Close the door behind you."

"Of course, Uncle."

Cullen closed the door behind him. Piecing together Uncle Mason's reactions from this morning, he deduced that his uncle had likely taken a beating from his father.

Well,

it was only natural, wasn't it?

Even if his uncle was well into fatherhood himself, being disciplined by his own sire was hardly beyond the pale. After all, Dis had nearly put an end to his own "flesh-and-blood grandson" today.

Out of habit, Cullen raised his right hand to adjust the space before his right eye—a lingering tic from his past life—only to grasp empty air.

"Cullen" possessed excellent vision and had no need for spectacles.

Self-derisively, Cullen murmured to himself:

"Grandson..."

Then,

inflecting the word with a heavier, sharper bite:

"Grand-son."

...

Cullen did not venture downstairs to proffer his assistance. Having cleared away the dinner trays, he washed up and retired to bed.

Groggily, he drifted in and out of sleep, waking repeatedly, each bout of slumber lasting a mere half-hour.

By the time the deep night dragged on, whatever drowsiness he possessed had been thoroughly ground away.

He cast a glance toward the opposite spring bed, where his cousin Lunt lay sleeping.

Ever since Cullen had awakened and recovered, his cousin—who had previously shared a room with their grandfather—had immediately moved back in with him. It was easy to fathom the sheer weight of oppression the boy must have felt sharing quarters with the old man.

Sitting up in bed, Cullen switched on the small desk lamp, slid open the drawer according to memory, and withdrew a book.

The title read, *Money, a Meaningless Thing*—the autobiography of a financial magnate from the Kingdom of Vienna, the very land Cullen now inhabited.

Leafing through the pages, he revealed notes of hundred-loob currency tucked tightly within.

This was the hoard of the previous "Cullen," whose allowance had been remarkably generous. Cullen drew them all out and counted them; it amounted to six thousand loobs.

Presently, an average laborer earned just upwards of two thousand loobs a month, while workers in prosperous factories might pull in twenty-five hundred.

The family’s two hands, Paul and Ron, each earned three thousand loobs monthly. Paul had even received a raise today, bringing his wage to four thousand—not unexpected, given that handling the dead naturally commanded a steeper premium.

Thus, this six thousand loobs was roughly equivalent to three months of an ordinary worker's wages. In truth, factoring in household expenses, an average laborer would struggle to amass such a sum even over half a year.

Upon first waking, Cullen had retrieved from memory the revelation that "Cullen" had been plotting to run away from home, harboring a long-standing distaste for this household.

Yet, while six thousand loobs was undeniably a handsome sum, what exactly could he achieve out there even with this coin in hand?

"Oh, 'Cullen,' 'Cullen,' why did you have to drop out of school? You could have at least left me a high school diploma."

But on second thought, the boy had at least left him a countenance resembling a young DiCaprio—and not the one brandishing a water gun;

perhaps he had little right to grumble about "Cullen" after all.

Now,

he had inherited the choice:

"Run away?"

"Or stay?"

These two notions flickered incessantly in Cullen's mind. Yet, recalling the scenes of the day, he could not help but harbor doubts. Would running away really be so simple?

It was hardly a matter of a child pocketing some cash and boarding a train out of town.

Instead, it entangled a strain of mysticism—a mysticism that somewhat overreached his established understanding of the world.

And,

that very mysticism resided within his own home!

"Woof... woof..."

From the courtyard below, two canine barks drifted up.

They had likely barked before, but Cullen had paid no heed.

Slipping the money back between the pages and returning the book to the drawer, Cullen stood, pushed open the bedroom door, and caught sight of Puer perched on the corridor windowsill.

The black house cat was observing the "exiled" golden retriever in the courtyard below with a distinctly humanlike posture;

it seemed almost a display of vanity, a silent boast of being inside while the other was cast out.

Cullen glanced down at the solitary retriever in the yard. The nocturnal temperature was quite low; he doubted the dog would freeze to death, but a pet long accustomed to its master’s company would find the loneliness hardest to bear.

Aunt Mary and the others had likely overlooked the retriever, or perhaps they simply couldn't be bothered to keep it indoors overnight, reasoning it was better left outside to relieve itself in the morning without the need for a walk.

Descending from the third floor to the first-floor parlor, Cullen unbolted the door. The retriever immediately padded over, its face rubbing incessantly against his pajama trousers.

Stooping down, Cullen patted the dog's head, intending to lead it to the second-floor kitchen to forage for food.

But just as he reached the foot of the stairs,

a muffled, unfamiliar sound of a grown man sobbing and whimpering echoed from below.

In the stillness of the night, the sound resonated with terrifying clarity.

Cullen retreated two steps, cast a wary look at the ramp leading to the basement, and tentatively ventured down a couple of paces. The sound grew sharper, conjuring the vivid image of an old man huddled in a corner, weeping from sheer grievance.

Yet Cullen retreated immediately, refusing to delve deeper.

"Only the extras who die within the first three minutes of a horror film would venture alone into a basement at this hour out of ridiculous curiosity."

Cullen did not shriek, nor did he call for anyone; instead, he ascended to the kitchen.

He poured a glass of milk, placed the glass into a large bowl filled with hot water to warm it,

and picked up two slices of bread. Biting into one himself, he casually tossed the other before the retriever.

The dog lowered its snout, sniffed the bread, and pushed it away in disdain, refusing to eat.

It appeared it had already been fed.

Cullen retrieved the bread from the floor, discarded it into the bin, and bore the warm milk up to the third floor.

Halting outside his own bedroom door, Cullen hesitated, forewent entering, and instead turned toward his grandfather’s bedchamber.

Reaching out, he knocked;

*Knock, knock... knock, knock...*

There was no response from within.

Just as Cullen prepared to knock again,

the adjacent door to his grandfather’s private study swung open, and the old man stood on the threshold, clad in a black dressing gown.

"What is it?"

"Brought you a glass of warm milk, Grandfather."

Cullen proffered the glass of warm milk to Dis.

Dis reached out, accepted it, and took a sip right before Cullen’s eyes.

"Goodnight, Grandfather."

"Goodnight."

Dis closed the study door.

Karen noticed that the light within the room flickered slightly, meaning his grandfather hadn't turned on the lamp, but had instead... lit a candle.

After standing outside the door for nearly three minutes,

Karen turned around. Instead of returning to his own room, he went straight down the stairs, descending once more from the third floor to the first.

As he stood yet again at the entrance of the ramp leading to the basement,

that "weeping" sound echoed out once more.

"Heheh..."

Karen couldn't help but let out a low chuckle,

then, interlacing his fingers and rising onto his toes, he began doing warm-up stretches like those before a physical education class,

"Alright, let's see what you are."