the cellar door

thick oak, set lower than its frame, bound by two flat iron bolts that the household checks before bed by long habit. there is no handle, only an iron ring on the inside and a hook on the outside. the wood is darker at the bottom where the cellar's damp has climbed up year by year.

not many pass: the housekeeper for jars and bottles, the cook for the salt and the dried things, the custodian twice a year with a candle for the stop-cock. children are forbidden but go anyway, two steps in, holding hands, until the stairs turn and they cannot.

opening it is a three-part sound — the upper bolt slid back, the lower bolt slid back, and then a long sigh as the wood un-pegs itself from the lintel. through the gap the air comes up: stone, apple, vinegar, the long answer to a question no one quite asked.

field-note · count seven steps before the lamp. the eighth gives, but only when stepped on quickly.