I wash my hands in the sink and notice a small, dazed housefly on the edge of the basin. Most flies fly away when your hand goes near them. I wave my hand. Nothing. I lightly brush the insect’s wing with my finger. It moves slightly but doesn’t attempt to fly.

If it can’t fly anymore, there’s no way it’s getting out. It can’t climb out. It’s stuck in there. Does it understand? Of course not. I use my thumb and crush it against the side of the bowl. I’m not sure why. Not something I normally do. I guess I’m helping it. This way is fast. It seems better than the alternative, whirling the thing down the drain in a slow, spiraling death. Or just leaving it in the sink. It’s just one of so many others.

I’m still looking at the squished fly when I get a feeling that someone has followed me to the bathroom. That I’m not alone. There’s no noise outside the door. No knock. I didn’t hear any footsteps. It’s just a feeling. But it’s strong. I think someone’s right outside the door. Are they listening?

I don’t move. I don’t hear anything. I step closer to the door and slowly put my hand on the door handle. I wait another moment, the handle in my hand, and then I fling the door open. There’s no one there. Only my slippers, which I left outside before entering. I’m not sure why.

I should say Jake’s slippers. The ones he lent me. I thought I’d left them facing toward the bathroom. But now they’re facing out, toward the hall. I can’t be sure. I must have left them like that. It must have been me.

I leave the door open but step back toward the sink. I run the tap to wash the bits of dead fly away. A drop of red blood lands in the sink. And another. I catch sight of my nose upside down in the reflection of the faucet. It’s bleeding. I grab a piece of tissue, ball it up, and press it to my face. Why is my nose bleeding?

I haven’t had a nosebleed in years.

I LEAVE THE BATHROOM AND head down the hall. I pass a door that must be for the basement. It’s open. A narrow, steep staircase leads down. I stop and put my hand against the open door. The slightest movement, in either direction, causes it to creak. The hinges need grease. On the landing is a small frayed carpet leading to the wooden steps.

From the kitchen, I hear the sound of dishes being washed and conversation. Jake is in there with his parents. I don’t feel the need to rush back. I’ll give him some time alone with them.

I can’t see much from the top of the stairs. It’s dark down there. I can hear something coming from the basement, though. I walk forward. I see a white string hanging to my right as I pass through the door. I pull it and a single bulb buzzes on. I hear the sound from below more clearly now. A dull creak, sharper, higher pitched than the hinges. A hushed, whiny, repetitive grind.

I’m curious to see the basement. Jake said his parents don’t use it. So what’s down there? What’s making that sound? The water heater?

The stairs are uneven and precarious. There’s no banister. I see a trapdoor made of floorboards is held open on the right side with a metal clip. The stairs would be hidden under the trapdoor when it’s closed. There are scratches, like the scratches on the door in the living room, all over the trapdoor. I run my fingers over them. They aren’t very deep. But they look frantic.

I start down. I feel like I’m entering a sailboat’s lower deck. Without a banister, I use the wall as a guide.

At the bottom I step onto a large slab of concrete. It’s atop the gravel floor. There isn’t much room down here. The beamed ceiling is low. Ahead of me are several shelves holding brown cardboard boxes. Old, damp, stained, and fragile. Lots of dust, dirt. Rows and rows of boxes on shelves. There’s so much locked away down here, under the trapdoor. Buried. “We don’t use it” is what Jake said. “There’s nothing down there.” Not totally true. Not true at all.

I turn around. Behind me, past the stairs, I see the furnace, a hot water tank, and an electrical panel. There’s something else, a piece of equipment. It’s old, rusty, not operational. I’m not sure what it is or was.

This room really is little more than a hole in the ground. Probably normal for such an old farmhouse. I imagine it floods in spring. The walls are made of dirt and large hunks of bedrock. They aren’t really walls the same way the floor isn’t really a floor. No bar or pool table. No table tennis. A few seconds here alone would terrify any kid. There’s a smell, too. I don’t know what it is. Dank. Uncirculated air. Mold. Rot. What am I doing down here?

I’m about to head back up when, at the far end of the room, just beyond the water tank, I notice what is making the sound. A small white oscillating fan sitting on a shelf. It’s so dark I can barely see it. I should really get back upstairs, back to the table.

I don’t think Jake wants me to see this. The thought only makes me want to stay here longer, though. I won’t take long. I carefully step off the slab and toward the fan. It turns back and forth. Why is there a fan running in winter? It’s cold enough as it is.

Near the furnace is a painting on an easel. Is that why the fan is on? To dry the paint? I can’t imagine being down here for long stretches, painting. I don’t see any paint or brushes. No other art supplies. No chair. Does the painter stand? I’m assuming it’s Jake’s mom. But she’s taller than I am, and I almost have to bend over so as not to hit my head on the ceiling beams. And why paint all the way down here?

I get closer to the painting. The piece is full of wild, heavy brushstrokes and some very specific detail. It’s a portrait of a space, a room. It might be this room, this basement. It is. It’s dark, the painting, but I can see the stairs, the concrete slab, the shelves. The only thing that’s missing is the furnace. In its place is a woman. Or maybe a man. It’s an entity, an individual with long hair. Standing, slightly bent over, with long arms. Long fingernails, really long, almost like claws. They aren’t growing longer, sharper. But they look like they are. At the bottom corner of the painting, there’s a second person, much smaller; a child?

Staring at this picture, I’m reminded of something Jake mentioned on the drive tonight. I’d been only half listening when he said it, so I’m surprised by how clearly I’m recalling his words now. He talked about why examples are used in philosophy, how most understanding and truth combines certainty and rational deduction, but also abstraction. “It’s the integration of both,” he said, “that matters.” I was looking out my window at the passing fields, watching the bare trees fly by.

“This integration reflects the way our minds work, the way we function and interact; our split between logic, reason, and something else,” he said, “something closer to feeling, or spirit. There’s a word that will probably make you bristle. But we can’t, even the most practical-minded of us, understand the world through rationality, not entirely. We depend on symbols for meaning.”

I glanced at him without saying anything.

“And I’m not just talking about the Greeks. This is a pretty common thread, West and East. It’s universal.”

“When you say symbols, you mean . . . ?”

“Allegory,” he said, “elaborate metaphor. We don’t just understand or recognize significance and validity through experience. We accept, reject, and discern through symbols. These are as important to our understanding of life, our understanding of existence and what has value, what’s worthwhile, as math and science. And I’m saying this as a scientist. It’s all part of how we work through things, how we make decisions. See, as I’m saying it I hear how it sounds, which is very obvious and trite, but it’s interesting.”

I look at the painting again. The plain face of the person. Nondescript. The long nails pointing down, wet, almost dripping. The fan creaks back and forth.

There is a small, dirty bookcase beside the painting. It’s full of old papers. Pages and pages. Drawings. I pick one up. The paper is thick. And another. They’re all of this room. They’re all of the basement. And in each drawing there’s a different person in place of the furnace. Some with short hair, some with long. One has horns. Some have breasts, some penises, some both. All have the long nails and a similar knowing, paralyzed expression.

In each picture there’s the child, too. Usually in the corner. Sometimes in other places—on the ground, looking up at the larger figure. In one, the child is in the stomach of the woman. In another, the woman has two heads, and one of the heads is the child’s.

I hear footsteps upstairs. Delicate, soft. Jake’s mother? Why did I assume she does the painting and drawing down here? I hear more footsteps upstairs, heavier.

I can hear someone. Talking. Two people. I can. From where? It’s Jake’s mom and dad, upstairs. They’re arguing again.

Arguing might be too strong, but the conversation is not cordial. It’s heated. Something’s wrong. They’re upset. I need to get closer to the vent. There’s a rusty paint can by the far wall. I move it directly under the vent. I stand on it, balancing myself against the wall. They are talking in the kitchen.

“He can’t keep doing this.”