Don’t go in the basement.

While that phrase sounds like the beginning of a horror story, it was a household rule when I was growing up. I had no problem following it. Our basement gave me the creeps, beginning with its creaky wooden door and metal latch that clinked louder than the others in the house (or so it seemed). The door’s screaming hinges and latch served as an alarm, alerting the family that someone (Mom) dared to venture below.

Ignoring the warning screams of the door, this brave soul was met with a cold blast. A frozen moment on the threshold. A last chance. Turn away now. 

But sometimes there was no getting around it. Mom had to go in the basement.