#or danny devito

Nothing seemed to be amis around the other 8 units but a large door was situated in the middle of all their order. This door, battered and bruised, was the entrance to the storm cellar. Not usually the shape for a door serving this purpose but at the bottom of the steps leading down was a sharp turn towards protection and storage.

This night, the door was gone. Absent from its duty the door was broken in three long strips and stuck like stray hairs in a vacuum hose to the stairwell below. At the bottom, a hanging lightbulb was on and illuminated their backs, causing shadows leaning towards us as we peered into their own world.

I looked below and said aloud, "Is everyone alright?"

A shrill voice called back, "Oh yes, quite alright down here!"

We had no tenants, and as my first instinct was always curiosity I asked, "Any chance we could see you to check on you?"

"Sure, sure! I'll be right there." Said the voice that was presumably supposed to be there.

A short, bald, and pale man stepped from the basement and into the stairwell. He had a white shirt and black slacks torn and hanging from him like a dead squirrel on a powerline. Down most of his bare skin was a tan layer of mud. His arms were quenched and hands holding a mound of wet pale clay sopping between his finger tips. His expression was of bliss and his eyes seemed bored.

I was fairly uneasy but mustered the courage to quench my curiosity. In my desire for safety I told him, "Well, I'm glad you are alright. Feel free to go about your nightly business. We will just be off."