There had been stories about it before. The kind that kids tell each other under the darkness of a thunderstorm or a late night camp; the stories that are passed down, year by year, generation by generation. The kind of stories that are laughed off in the day, but at night they echo in your head as you try to fall asleep.

The story about the basement is one such tale.

Forty years ago, when the town was still new, an enormous mansion was built at the top of the hill by the mayor and founder of the township. It had been a mining town at first, before he came, many, many years ago but as the ore ran out, so did the settlers, many of whom had been holding out, hoping beyond hope for that last strike of new metal. But it never came, and the townsfolk left. But some never left at all, choosing to die in the place they had called home all their life.

There was one such group, a family of eight who had been the descendants of the very first settlers of the town, the first who struck gold and never left. The head of the family, his wife, his brother and brother’s wife, and the head’s four young children kept on going, even after the prayers had stopped. The head of the family’s younger brother, however, was not so set in his ways, and for a while, had been making plans to head out to another new mining town in another state, where he was sure that they would have need of his skills and experience.

The younger brother told the head of his plan, and tried to convince the head to bring his family and migrate together, to a better land. But the head of the family became enraged. So consumed with anger he was that he struck his beloved brother in the face. The younger brother too, had a quick temper, and he retaliated. And so it descended into a brawl between the brothers, when suddenly, from a careless shove, the younger brother fell backwards, and hit his head hard on a corner of the mantelpiece. Shocked into sobriety, the head of the family apologized, and stretched his hand out for his brother to grasp and stand up. But alas, for his younger brother was not moving, and never would of his own will move again, for the young man was dead!

The head of the family was suddenly shaking, in fear and in grief. What should he do now? He had to keep his brother’s wife from finding out what had happened. Just then, his wife entered the room, concerned about the noise. Seeing her dead brother in law on the floor, she was about to scream, but her husband silenced her with his hand over her mouth. She didn’t stop struggling however, and the head of the family got angrier and angrier. Finally he could take it no more, throwing her upon the ground and crushing her throat to make her stop. The woman kept struggling and struggling, and then stopped moving. Relieved, the head of the family let go of his dead wife.

The man told his sister in law that his brother and wife had run away together and that she had to stay to help him raise the children. He told her that they would never return, and good riddance to them, the lazy rotters. Some time passed, and his children grew.

One day, his eldest son and daughter went out fishing at one of the mining lakes. Their father let them go, for there was little else to do in the empty old town.

The two children never came home.

Their father went to the lake to look for them, but found no sign that anything had ever been near the lake. He left, shaken, and continued to wait in vain.

Next to vanish was his youngest daughter, his favorite of all his children. The man had forbidden his family from ever going near any of the lakes. Only he could go, and no others. For the lake was where his brother and wife now rested, along with his two children, together forever with their mother.

The child, a somewhat spoiled little girl of seven, felt stifled. One morning, as her father lay asleep from a tired day of digging, put on her pretty pink ribbon and ran out into the clear morning dew. She was never seen again.

Stricken with grief, the man gathered his remaining family – his sister in law and his youngest son – and told them that they were leaving for good. They bundled up their few remaining possessions and left for the station, never to be heard from again.

Finally, all that was left was huge mining pools scattered about the town. Then one day, a bright young entrepreneur, passing by on a train, spotted the ruins of the town. Later on he returned with a team of experts and found, deep underground, a vast supply of oil close by the hills. The enterpreneur decided to revitalize the town, filling up all the mining lakes and building over them houses to support the workers sure to come.

This was my hometown as a child. There has been estimates that at least a quarter of homes and other buildings in the town were built over these filled up mining lakes. And I am quite sure of the fact that I know where the location of the lake where the old settlers died was.

When I was a boy of about nine, I was a cub scout in school. I used to be a very active child, bright and talkative and helpful; basically I was full of leadership qualities. Which was why I was selected to be the leader of my team of six boys. One day it was decided that we would hold an overnighter at my school, only four doors down from my house. We had much fun setting up campsites and a fire, and cooking our own meals and such. Later that night we were to go through a treasure hunt armed with only two flashlights and our own guts.

After dinner, our camp leader sat us around the fire and told us the story of the settlers.

“And beware, my boys, for it has been known for a young man and a lady to appear some nights, calling for her final son to join her in her watery tomb for all eternity.” I still remember that sentence to this very day. Right after the story we were given our torches and our clues, and told to return by midnight or be disqualified.

My team was the best cubs team in the entire district. We breezed through the treasure hunt easily, until we reached the final clue. This one we puzzled over for a while, because we figured that we would have to go down to the school basement to get to the treasure, but the camp master had mentioned that there wasn’t any treasure inside the school building itself. But we were young, foolhardy boys, and we decided to just go on and check it out. If there was nothing we could just try another place; we were in no hurry.

We snuck into the school building by climbing through an open window. We made our way to the entrance of the school basement. It felt darker and more foreboding than usual. Being the team leader, it was clear that I was the one who should go first. The others followed closely behind me.

We reached the area where we thought the treasure was – an old unused classroom at the end of the hallway.

Behind the door there was a constant sound that chilled us to the bone when we realized what it was.

Drip, drip, drip.

“Open the door,” Mikey whispered to me. “We need to get to the treasure before everyone else does.”

“I know,” I whispered back. “But…”

“Oh come on,” Paul whispered back. “It’s just a silly drip. Open the door. Or are you chicken?”

I had to open the door now. So that was what I did.

The classroom was completely empty, except for a white curtain by the window flapping in the wind.

But I knew that we were in the basement – there weren’t any windows in the basement.

Then there was a soft, murmuring voice of a woman.

“Rickie, Rickie, is that you?”

That was it. We all ran for our lives, stumbling over ourselves to be the first to get out. I was the one in front, so I was also the last to leave, and to this day I still swear that I felt an ice cold, wet, hand trying to wrap around my ankle and the woman’s voice at my ear -

“Don’t worry my dear, it’s only a little swim.”

As you might expect, all six of us got quite the tongue lashing from the master for our efforts. We tried to tell him that we had been down in the basement and there had been a ghost – but he didn’t believe us, because he said:

“Don’t you dare lie to me, young men. That basement has been flooded full for the past seven years!”

For some strange reason I have always had a way with women. My third wife said I was charming. My sixth said I am a bastard (hence the pun-like blog name). My present, seventh wife is altogether too wonderful to be human. Though I am still conducting experiments for that. Someone very dear to me once told me I am a narcissistic asshole who doesn’t deserve the happiness that I have. Indeed, I agree completely. Perhaps that is why I am constantly unhappy.

I have a hawk. A real hawk whom I like to call Nik.

That’s enough about me though. Now I would like to tell a story. All the tales here may (or may not) be a true story, or completely made up, or a little bit of both. Perhaps I might reveal it. Perhaps I will take it to my grave. You don’t know, because I am an asshole.

On to the story.

A long time ago, there was once a young man, aged thirteen, who did many unsavory things. And one of those things he did was to make a girl nearly as young pregnant. His father, being a naturally moral and upstanding man of public society, disowned him the very same day after taking into deep consideration the fact that the young lady in question was the daughter of an equally upstanding man of even higher public society. This action greatly pleased the girl’s father, who prepared his shotgun and signed the boy’s father up to be his deputy in a certain important organization to which they both belonged.

Upon discovering that his knees were about to grow holes involuntarily, the young man decided to elope with the young lady. She, being brought up on a diet of trashy romance pieces secreted about her maids, promptly agreed and they left – of course, not before the young man temporarily purveyed a moderate amount of funds (without the knowledge of his father) that he called, most dramatically, the price of his life.

Being a lad of thirteen with a picky, picky maiden, the duo soon ran out of what would have been the young man’s next ten years, had he spent his time nicely without sowing things in others’ children. Forced to make a living, the lad did all sorts of menial things, forgetting that since he could read, write and count (a privilege, back in the day) he could have gotten a decent job doing accounts in any kind of store. No matter. Children are foolish.

The months passed, and soon it was time for the lady to be a mother. Wisely the lad found an able midwife, and his son came into the world. Alas, for the lad, the pair had neglected to officialize their wedding, and no sooner than when the young lady had recovered her health and good spirits did the handsome farmer’s boy down the street whisk her away on his draft horse and cart. Heartbroken, the young man consoled himself with his son, and soon regretted that, for the baby’s cries could certainly wake the dead, let alone the living.

Thirteen years passed, and the boy became a respectable young man, finally realizing that one should always capitalize on one’s skills. The baby on the other hand, had run wild most of his life, and was at best, a young brute. Naturally (as karma is a bitch) the young man’s son found a willing wench, and as fate would have it, the young man now had a granddaughter. After giving his son multiple kicks in the head, the young man began to raise his granddaughter as his son’s sister. The men doted on the girl, and the father raised her as best as he could. The years passed, and the children grew into wonderful, well adjusted adults who married and had piles of children, and for a time, the father was content.

But it seemed the kicks wore off, and karma again reared her indescribable head.  The handsome farmer’s boy, now grown older but none the wiser, was jealous of the father’s wealth – for the man had invested wisely and now owned much and was as wealthy as his father had been, if not more so. The farmer threatened to reveal everything to the town unless he was paid a stipend every month to his death.  The merchant glanced at the paper, and without a word, handed it to his son.

The son had grown into a fine man (it must have been the force applied to his head) who was deeply ashamed of what he had been as a boy and had always wanted to make good to his dear mother, whom he had heard of but never met.

Deeply remorseful, he asked of his father to spare him some capital that he may endow his mother’s family with a trust that would help his half-family with their struggles of life.

The father, forever a prudent genius, replied in his slow, ponderous and sonorous voice.

“Alle the village knows of our lineage. Thus, waste not thy time with wastrels and scoundrels and let it be known that when it comes thusly to alle things, we are the scoundrels most rightly wronged.”