Chapter 4 - The Cellar of Ice
Two floors below, Nora was dying by inches.
The east wing cellar was an unfinished labyrinth of stone arches and dirt-packed floors, built over a century ago. The storm vents had failed during the afternoon, and freezing slush had poured in, pooling across the uneven flagstones.
The air was so cold that Nora’s breath plumed in thick clouds before her face. She was on her knees, the icy water soaking through her threadbare trousers and chilling her to the marrow of her bones. Her fingers were so swollen and numb she could barely squeeze the heavy sponge into the rusted zinc bucket beside her.
Every few minutes, a violent cramp seized her belly, forcing her to double over with her forehead pressed against the freezing stone.
“Please, God,” Nora sobbed into the dark, her teeth chattering so hard they ached. “Please don't take my baby. Please just let me finish.”
She had been down here for nearly four hours. The single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickered intermittently as the blizzard battered the estate’s power lines. The generator hummed somewhere in the distance, but no heat reached this forgotten tomb.
She remembered Mrs. Gable’s sneering face as the woman had locked the heavy wooden bulkhead door from the outside an hour ago.
*“You will stay down there until every puddle is dry, you lazy cow,”* the housekeeper had shouted through the iron grating. *“Don't bother knocking until the bucket is full.”*
Nora tried to stand, but her legs gave out beneath her. The cold had crept into her joints, paralyzing her muscles. A sudden, sharp pain tore through her lower back—a pain so intense and distinct from her usual aches that a gasp of genuine terror escaped her lips.
Early contractions.
She was only twenty-six weeks along. If the baby came now, in this freezing basement, with no medical help, neither of them would survive the night.
“Help!” Nora cried out, dragging herself toward the stone stairs leading up to the heavy door. “Someone help me! Please!”
She crawled, inch by agonizing inch, dragging her heavy belly across the flooded stones. The zinc bucket tipped over, the dark, icy water rushing back over the floor she had spent hours drying. She didn't care. Nothing mattered except getting out of the freezing air.
She reached the bottom of the wooden staircase and began to pull herself up the risers using her forearms.
One step. Two steps.
Her hands were covered in grime and blood where the sharp stone edges had sliced her frozen skin. With every breath, her lungs burned as though she were inhaling broken glass.
She reached the door and hammered her fist against the thick oak.
“Mrs. Gable! Please! The baby is coming! Please open the door!”
Her voice was swallowed by the subterranean darkness. Above her, the thick timber did not yield.
Exhaustion pulled at her consciousness like a heavy lead weight. Her vision began to blur at the edges, dark spots swimming before her eyes. She slumped against the wooden door, her cheek resting against the freezing wood.
In her fading mind, she didn't think of Brody, who had abandoned her. She didn't think of her debts, or her ruined life.
She thought of the silent old man in room 4B.
*I’m sorry, John,* she thought weakly, a single warm tear rolling down her cheek before freezing against her skin. *I won’t be able to bring your soup tomorrow...*
May you like
Her eyes fluttered shut, and she slipped into the dark.
***
