Free Billy and the Birdfrogs by B.B. Wurge Page B

apart. It only took fifteen minutes to get through the first layer, and about ten minutes to get through the second layer.
    In the end I had a jagged hole at floor level that was just big enough for me to fit through. It looked like a giant mouse had chewed it.
    I couldn’t see anything but darkness through the hole. When I shined in the flashlight, I could see the basement stairs sloping down, covered in dust and bits of plaster. I was excited, because I was looking at a part of my own house that I had never been in. I had never been allowed. I pushed in the bag of supplies, and then crawled in after it. I had to twist around carefully to get onto the stairs, because the hole in the wall didn’t line up with the steps. Once I was inside, I held the bag in one hand, the flashlight in the other, and went down the steps to the damp cement floor of the basement.
    I shined the flashlight around the room. It looked like any old basement room. It had a washer and dryer against the wall, and some old furniture, and a rusty bicycle. Nothing looked unusual. I checked the floor carefully, but I didn’t see any tiny white footprints. I saw a movement and a flash out of the corner of my eye and almost dropped the flashlight in fright, but then I realized that there was a small window high up on the wall, and the headlights of a car had sparkled in the glass for a moment. The room was completely ordinary. There was no hole in the floor.
    I felt like my stomach was sinking down into my legs. I guess I should have known. The whole story of the birdfrogs was too silly. How could it be true? I walked over to the washing machine and looked inside, and there was an old dried-up load of laundry from years ago.
    My adventure was over. Mr. Earpicker was right. Mr. and Mrs. Whingle were right. I sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and put my head in my hands. I felt awful again, and very tired. I also felt cold. My feet in particular felt cold, as if there was a draft of air on them. I put my hand down on the floor, and there was a draft of air. I thought that was odd. The air must be blowing from somewhere.
    Right away, all my tiredness disappeared. I felt around on the floor, crawling and following the blowing air, and traced it to a wooden bookcase that was set against the wall. The air was blowing from the gap under the bookcase. It was a very tall bookcase that rose almost to the ceiling, and it was empty. It had been dragged to that spot and never used. I peered around the back of it, shining the flashlight into the crack, and saw a door. The bookcase was blocking a wooden door in the wall. Now all my excitement came back, and I felt a tingle all over. Of course, my grandmother must have placed the bookcase against the door as an extra precaution, just before sealing off the basement.
    It took me half a minute to drag aside the bookcase and pull open the wooden door. I stepped into a cold, damp room and shined the flashlight around. This was it. This was the room. I knew right away. It was a big room, and had a huge, mechanical winch with a rusty cable wound onto it. Four or five wooden crates filled with tools lay scattered around on the floor, as if they had been left there anyhow. In the corner, a tattered old plastic tarp lay in a heap. And next to the tarp was the hole. It had a cement rim built up around it, so that it looked like an old-fashioned well. A horrible, musty, damp smell was coming from it.
    When I shined the flashlight on the floor, I saw little white footprints of paint everywhere, just like my grandmother had said. They were three-footed prints. They really were. Everything was exactly the way she had said. I even found the small round hole in the basement wall where the pipes went through, and when I looked more closely I saw little footprints in the dust around the pipes. Whatever made those footprints had crawled through the pipe conduit and gotten into the neighbor’s house.
    A thrill of horror went through