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"Stay behind me at all times and you will be perfectly secure. They fear the light." With grave trepidation I lifted my eyes to see what horrors Baxter wished to show me. The door creaked as he opened it. He seized me by the arms and shoved me inside the room. And then he closed the door and locked it from the other side. I panicked and began screaming and pounding my fists against the door. “You have to stay here. Maybe they will accept you as a sacrifice.” I heard him move away from the door. After a while when my screams brought no response, I slid to the floor, shaking violently from my fear. At first, I was afraid to look and encounter the demons. Finally, I could stand it no longer. Gradually, my eyes began to adjust to the darkness. It wasn’t total and I could see. And then after the shock, I finally understood. ******* "So you're back. Since you survived, I'll assume Baxter's not a cannibal. That's another little story circulating about him." Dave gave me a small, nasty smile; he was really enjoying himself. I wanted to curse him but I was brought up better than that. When I refused to rise to his remark, he continued talking. "I take it you got the interview?" I nodded my head. "Good, so tell me what goes on in the mind of the world's most popular horror fiction writer?" "I think there's something I ought to explain; Baxter doesn't write fiction." Dave gave me a questioning look. "From his point of view, it's not fiction. You see, he keeps this special room in the cellar locked up." "Why?" I licked my dry lips. "To stop the demons from escaping. He talks to them. He talks to them a lot. They make him suffer endlessly. They're also the inspiration for his work." My editor seemed to find amusement in this. "So why didn't you interview the demons?" He caught my look of disdain. "You don't appreciate a man of wit, do you?" Half-wit was more like it, but I refrained from saying so. "Baxter took me into the room. I was terrified. I've never been more frightened in my entire life. He locked me in the room." “Practical joke right?” “I don’t think so.” “He must have meant it as a joke.” “He’s a very sick man.” “A sick joke then.” “Try insane.” “But he let you out eventually, didn’t he?” “Not exactly. There was a small basement window. I smashed it open, crawled out and got away from there as fast as I could.” Dave no longer smiled. "What was in that room?” “You wouldn't believe me if I told you." "Try me." “You want to know, you visit Baxter yourself.” I met his gaze directly.
Somewhere I read that we create the things we fear. It sounds
good. I don’t know if it’s exactly true; although
I suppose what we imagine can be worse than anything that could
exist in reality—especially if the mind is full of guilt.
What was in Baxter’s basement room? No skeletons, no dead
bodies, no gruesome creatures dripping blood, only his conscience—stark
and tortured with primal terror. *******************
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