The Sinkhole Inventory

The Sinkhole Inventory is a quiet modern horror story by Elias Vance about a sinkhole that keeps growing behind a house, and the running list its owner keeps of everything it has taken.

The basement stairs still had the same creak, fourth one down, that they’d had the day we moved in. I counted them without meaning to. Nineteen steps, a landing, then the floor drain by the water heater and the sump pump’s black basin set into the concrete. I was down there on a Tuesday, the Tuesday after the first frost, because the pump had been cycling more than it should. I had the flashlight in my left hand and my right hand on the cold rail, and when I reached the bottom I swept the beam across the floor the way I always did, left to right, slow, checking for water.

The hole was just past the basin, near the support post. It was the size of a quarter. I almost didn’t see it, but the flashlight caught the edge of it and the shadow it threw was deeper than it should have been. I knelt. The concrete around it was dry. I touched the rim with my index finger, and it came away dusty, not damp. I put the flashlight on the floor and leaned closer. The hole went straight down, clean through the slab, and the dirt below it looked packed and old. I could smell the sump basin, the wet iron smell of the pump, but nothing else.

I stayed there for a while. I don’t know how long. The furnace kicked on and the vent above my head rattled, and I stood up and brushed the dust from my knees. I told myself it was a chip in the concrete, maybe from when the house settled, maybe from a dropped tool. I checked the pump, found the float switch clear, and went back upstairs.

In the kitchen I filled the kettle and set it on the stove. I keep a small notebook in the drawer by the phone, the one with the blue cover and the graph paper inside. I wrote the date at the top of a new page. Then I wrote, Basement floor, hole near post, quarter-size. I put the pen down and watched the steam from the kettle rise until it fogged the window above the sink. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t know who I would call. The house had been quiet for two years, and I had learned to file its sounds away, one by one, in the ledger of things I could not explain.

The next morning I went down before breakfast. I don’t know why. I had the flashlight again, and I stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long moment before I turned it on. The hole was the size of a dinner plate. The edges were smooth, not rough like broken concrete, but polished, as if someone had drawn a circle and the floor had simply let go along the line. I set the flashlight on the floor and measured it with the tape measure from the junk drawer. Eleven and a half inches across. The concrete at the rim was still dry. I put my hand flat on the floor beside it, and the slab was cool, but the air coming up from the hole was warmer. It smelled faintly of turned earth, the way the garden smells after a deep rain, but there had been no rain for a week.

I mixed quick-set concrete in a bucket, the same bucket I’d used when I patched the driveway two summers ago. I poured it into the hole and smoothed it with a trowel until it was level with the floor. The concrete was the color of wet ash, and it filled the circle completely. I washed my hands in the utility sink and went to work at the library. I filed returns for four hours. I did not think about the basement.

When I came home, the house was dark. I turned on the kitchen light and put my bag on the chair and stood in the doorway to the basement stairs. The door was closed. I had closed it. I opened it and went down, and I didn’t bother with the light at the top because I knew the bulb was still out. I used the flashlight. The patch was gone. Not broken, not cracked. Gone. The hole was there again, and when I measured it, it was twelve inches across. Exactly half an inch larger than the morning. I wrote the number on a scrap of paper from my pocket and went upstairs and copied it into the notebook. My hand was steady. I made a note about the smell, which I had noticed only when I stood up to leave. It was faint, sweet, like apples left too long in a bowl.

That night I lay in bed and listened to the house. The furnace ran and stopped. The refrigerator hummed. I heard the floorboards in the hallway settle, the way they do when the temperature drops. I did not hear anything from the basement. I told myself the concrete had been bad, maybe old, maybe mixed wrong. I told myself the house was settling. I told myself a lot of things, and after a while I slept.

Three days later, the hole was the size of a manhole cover. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked at it, and I did not go closer for a long time. The floor around it was clean. No dust, no dirt, no chips of concrete. The edge was a perfect circle, and the darkness inside it was flat, the way a hole in paper looks when you hold it up to the light. I brought the big flashlight, the one with the new batteries, and I knelt at the rim and aimed the beam straight down. It went maybe ten feet before the light gave out, swallowed by the dark. I could not see the bottom. I dropped a pebble, a piece of gravel from the driveway, and I waited. I did not hear it land. I waited longer. The silence from the hole was not like ordinary silence. It was like a held breath.

Then the smell came. It rose up from the hole in a slow wave, not the turned-earth smell from before but something sweeter, cloying, and I recognized it. It was the cologne my husband wore, the one in the brown bottle he kept on the dresser, the one I had thrown away six months after he disappeared because I could not stand to open the drawer and smell it. I sat back on my heels. The flashlight beam wavered on the far wall. I could taste the sweetness in the back of my throat, and my eyes watered, and I stood up and climbed the stairs without looking back. I closed the basement door. I took the braided rug from the hall closet and laid it over the threshold, and I did not go down again that day.

That night, the hum began. It was low, almost below hearing, a vibration that seemed to come from the floorboards themselves. I was in the kitchen, drying a plate, and I felt it through the soles of my socks before I heard it. I set the plate down. The hum was steady, rhythmic, like a pulse. I put my hand on the kitchen floor, and the wood was warm. Not hot, but warm, the way a floor feels above a furnace vent. I sat on the floor with my palm flat against the boards, and the hum matched my own heartbeat. I counted. It was exactly the same. When I held my breath, the hum slowed. When I breathed faster, it sped up. I pulled my hand away and the floor stayed warm, and I went to bed with the lights on and the bedroom door closed.

I did not sleep. I lay in the dark and listened to the hum, and I thought about the hole in the basement, and I thought about the clipboard. I had not thought about the clipboard in a long time. It was a white plastic clipboard with a metal clip, the kind you can buy at any hardware store. He used it for work orders, for the lists he made, for the measurements he wrote down. He had it with him the day he disappeared. I knew that because it was gone from the hook by the back door, the hook where he kept it. I had looked for it, in the days after, in the weeks, in the months. I had looked everywhere except the basement, because the basement was empty and I had already checked it a hundred times.

I got up at three in the morning. The house was warm, warmer than it should have been, and the hum was louder in the hallway. I took the flashlight and my notebook and I went down the basement stairs. The fourth step creaked, and the sound was swallowed by the hum. I reached the bottom and turned on the flashlight.

The hole was now the width of the room. Not the width of a manhole cover, not the width of a doorway. The width of the entire foundation. The concrete floor was gone, all of it, from the base of the stairs to the far wall, and in its place was a circle of perfect darkness. The edges were clean, like a cut in paper. The support post stood at the edge, its base exposed, and I could see the dirt packed around the footing, dry and crumbling. The water heater was gone. The sump basin was gone. The hole had taken them, or the floor had opened up around them, and they had fallen into the dark. I could not see the bottom. The flashlight beam disappeared into the blackness, swallowed whole.

The hum was all around me now, not from the hole but from the walls, from the air, from inside my own chest. I stepped to the edge. The air rising from the hole was cold now, not warm, and it carried the cologne smell, stronger than before, and something else, something like old paper. I aimed the flashlight down, and there, at the edge of the light, I saw it. A clipboard. White, with a metal clip. It was lying flat on a ledge of dirt about six feet down, just at the limit of the beam. It was clean. No dust, no dirt, no sign that it had fallen. The clip held a single sheet of paper.

I knew it was his. I knew it the way I know the sound of the fourth step. I did not climb down. I knelt at the edge, and the concrete was cold under my knees, and I reached in. The air inside the hole was cold enough to make my skin prickle. My arm went in up to the shoulder, and my fingers closed around the clipboard. I pulled it out. The hum stopped. The silence that followed was so sudden it felt like pressure, like a door closing in my ears.

I sat on the edge of the hole with the clipboard in my lap. The paper was white and dry. The handwriting was his, the small block letters he used on work orders. The date at the top was the day he disappeared. The note read: Check foundation. Fill void. That was all. I turned the clipboard over. The back was clean. I held it up to the light and there was nothing else, no smudge, no mark, no sign of how it had come to be in the hole. The air from the basement was still. The cold was gone. The smell was gone. The house was quiet, the way it had been quiet for two years, except now the quiet felt different. It felt like something waiting.

I did not call anyone. I took the clipboard upstairs. I sat at the kitchen table with the blue notebook open in front of me, and I began a new page. I wrote the date and the time. I wrote the diameter of the hole, or my best estimate, because I could not measure it now. I wrote about the smell, the cologne, and the cold air, and the way the hum had matched my heartbeat. I wrote about the clipboard, the work order, the handwriting. I wrote it all down in my small, careful script, every detail I could name. When I finished, I set the pen down and looked at the page. The words were orderly. The numbers were precise. It was the only thing in the house that made sense.

I did not look at the basement door. I sat at the table with the clipboard beside the notebook, and I waited. The floor was cool under my feet. The house was silent. I listened for the hum, for the creak of the fourth step, for anything at all. There was nothing. But I knew the hole was still there, patient and dry, and I knew it would grow again. I picked up the pen and wrote one more line at the bottom of the page. Floor responded: no sound. Then I set the pen down and waited for the floor to tell me what it wanted next.

The pen left a small dent in the pad of my index finger. I pressed the spot against my thumb, feeling the groove, the slight sting where the plastic had bitten in. Upstairs the kitchen clock ticked against the wall. The refrigerator cycled off. I sat at the table with the notebook open in front of me and the clipboard beside it, and I listened to the house the way I used to listen for the sound of Paul's key in the lock, the particular scrape of his boot on the porch boards. There was nothing to hear. The silence had a texture, like felt pressed against the eardrum.

I made myself a cup of tea. The water in the kettle took a long time, and I stood at the counter watching the window above the sink go dark. My reflection stood in the glass, a thin woman in a gray cardigan, hair pulled back with a clip. The reflection's hands moved when mine moved. I poured the water over the bag and the steam rose and fogged the window and the woman disappeared. I drank the tea standing up. It was chamomile, stale from the back of the cupboard. It tasted like dust and honey, and I did not finish it.

The basement door was at the end of the hall, past the bathroom, past the closet where Paul's coats used to hang. I had not closed it since the morning. It stood open a hand's width, and the dark inside the gap was the dark of a room with no windows, a dark that seemed to press outward against the light from the hall. I walked past it on my way to the bedroom. I did not look at it. But I felt it there, the way you feel a tooth with your tongue, the way you feel the edge of a scab under a bandage. The floorboards in the hall were cool under my feet, and each one gave its small, familiar creak. The fourth step, the one that always moaned, was quiet. I stopped with my hand on the bedroom door. I listened. The house listened back.

I slept in my clothes. I had been doing that for two years, since the first week after Paul left, when I found I could not stand the ritual of pajamas, the folding back of the quilt on his side, the emptiness of the pillow in the lamplight. Now I lay on top of the covers with the cardigan still buttoned and the lamp on, and I watched the ceiling. The ceiling had a crack running from the light fixture to the corner, a hairline fissure that had been there since the winter of 2019. I knew its length. I had measured it once, standing on a chair with Paul's tape measure, and written the number in the back of the notebook. Three and seven-eighths inches. I knew the water stain on the closet ceiling, shaped like a hand with too many fingers. I knew the loose tile in the bathroom, the one that shifted when you stepped on it, the one Paul had promised to fix. I knew every inch of this house, every flaw, every seam. That was the job I had given myself after he left. Inventory. Record. File. The house was a ledger, and I was the clerk who kept it.

Sometime in the night I heard the hum. It came up through the mattress, through the box spring, through the floorboards and the carpet and the bones of my legs. A low vibration, not a sound exactly, more like the feeling of a truck idling at the end of the driveway, the engine's thrum traveling through the frozen ground. I opened my eyes. The lamp was still on. The ceiling was still there. The hum was steady, rhythmic, and after a moment I realized it was matching the pulse in my throat. I put two fingers to the side of my neck. The hum and the heartbeat ran together, one beat, then the next, perfectly aligned. I pulled my hand away. The hum continued, patient, and I lay very still with my arms at my sides and waited for it to stop. It did not stop. It went on until the sky outside the window went gray, and then it faded, or I stopped hearing it, and the birds began in the maple tree by the fence.

In the morning I went down the basement stairs. I did not let myself hesitate at the top. I turned the knob, pulled the door wide, and walked down the steps with my hand on the railing and my eyes on the floor below. The air at the bottom was cooler than the hall, and it carried the faint sweet smell I had first noticed three days before, the smell of apples left too long in the fruit bowl, the smell of Paul's aftershave on the collar of a shirt I had not washed. I breathed through my mouth. The concrete floor was gray under the bare bulb, and the hole was in the center of the room, and it was larger.

I stood on the bottom step and looked at it. The edges were perfect, a circle drawn by a compass, smooth as a cut in paper. The diameter had grown another half inch. I could see it without measuring, the way I could see the crack in the ceiling had not changed, the way I knew the exact width of the water stain. The hole was now the size of a dinner plate, then a hubcap, then something larger, something I did not have a name for. I stepped onto the floor. The concrete was cool under my feet. I walked to the workbench and took down the tape measure from the pegboard. The metal was cold and the yellow case was nicked on one corner, and I pulled the tape out to its full length and knelt at the edge of the hole. The smell was stronger here. I held my breath and measured across the widest point. Sixteen and three-quarters inches. I said the number aloud, once, in the quiet room. My voice did not echo. The hole swallowed it.

I went upstairs and wrote the measurement in the notebook. The entry took up one line. I wrote the date, the time, the diameter. I wrote the temperature of the air at the bottom of the stairs, which I had taken with the thermometer from the kitchen drawer. Sixty-one degrees. I wrote the smell, which I described as sweet, overripe, with a chemical undernote. I did not write the word aftershave. I closed the notebook and put it in the drawer with the rubber bands and the spare keys and the small flashlight that no longer worked. Then I went to the garage and brought in the bag of quick-set concrete.

The bag weighed fifty pounds. I dragged it down the basement stairs, one step at a time, the paper scraping against the wood, and I mixed the concrete in the old wheelbarrow that Paul had used for the patio. I worked with my back to the hole. The water from the spigot was cold, and the concrete dust rose in a fine gray cloud, and I mixed until the texture was right, not too wet, not too dry. I carried the mix across the floor in a bucket and poured it into the hole. It filled the space and spread over the edges, and I smoothed it with a trowel, working quickly, the way I had seen Paul do it. The concrete was gray and wet and it looked like a scab over a wound. I stood back and waited for it to set. The smell was gone, buried under the wet concrete and the dust. I washed the trowel in the utility sink and went upstairs.

The house was quiet all afternoon. I vacuumed the living room. I dusted the baseboards. I sorted the mail into piles on the kitchen table, bills and flyers and a postcard from a realtor who wanted to sell the house. The postcard showed a smiling woman with white teeth and a blue blazer. I put it in the recycling. At four o'clock I made a pot of coffee and drank it black at the table, and the sun came through the window and made a parallelogram on the floor, and I watched it move across the linoleum, slow as a minute hand. The phone did not ring. No one knocked. The neighborhood was quiet, the way it always was on a Tuesday, and I sat in the quiet and listened to the house settle, the creak of the beams, the tick of the water heater in the garage. The basement door stayed closed.

At dusk I went back down. The concrete had set. It was smooth and dry and gray, and it covered the hole completely, and I stood looking at it for a long time. Then I saw the crack. A hairline fissure running around the edge of the patch, a perfect circle, as if the concrete had pulled away from the original floor. I knelt and touched it. The crack was cool, and the air coming up through it was cool, and I could smell it again, the sweet smell, fainter now, but there. I put my palm flat on the patch. It was warm. The floor around it was cool. The patch was warm, like a stone that had been lying in the sun, except there was no sun in the basement, and there never had been.

I went upstairs and got the hammer from the drawer under the microwave. It was a small hammer, a tack hammer with a wooden handle, and I went back down the basement stairs and knelt beside the patch. I hit the concrete once, in the center. The sound was hollow. I hit it again, harder, and the crack widened, and a piece of the patch broke away and fell into the hole. I heard it fall. I heard it land, a soft clink, far below. Then I heard something else. A shifting sound, like sand sliding down a slope, like the sound of something settling deeper into the earth. I sat back on my heels. The hole was there, black and round, and the concrete was gone from the center, and the edges were smooth again, and I could see the faint line where my patch had been, a ring of paler gray around the darkness. The hole had not filled. It had not been filled. It had simply waited.

That night I did not sleep. I sat at the kitchen table with the notebook open and the clipboard beside me, and I wrote down everything. The diameter. The temperature. The smell. The sound of the falling concrete. The warmth of the patch. I wrote in my small, neat hand, the hand I had learned in the records office, every letter formed, every line straight. I wrote until my wrist ached, and then I kept writing. The house was silent around me. The clock ticked. The refrigerator cycled. The hum did not come. But I could feel it waiting, the way a held breath waits, the way a word waits on the tip of the tongue. I wrote one more line at the bottom of the page. Patch failed at 7:14 p.m. Then I set the pen down and pressed my thumb to the dent in my finger, and I waited for the floor to tell me what it wanted next.

The floor did not speak. But the smell came again, faint and sweet, drifting up from the basement, under the door, through the seams of the house, and I breathed it in, and I did not move. The kitchen light hummed above the table. A moth tapped at the window screen. Outside, a car passed on the street, its headlights sweeping across the wall, and for a moment the room was full of moving shadows, and then the car was gone, and the shadows were still, and the smell was still, and I was still. The notebook lay open on the table. The pen lay beside it. The clipboard with Paul's work order sat at my elbow, the handwriting fading in the lamplight, and I did not touch it. I did not need to. I knew what it said. Check foundation. Fill void. I had filled the void. The void had not filled. The void had grown.

I closed the notebook and put it in the drawer. I turned off the kitchen light and stood in the dark hall, and I could feel the house around me, the walls and the floors and the beams, all of it resting on the ground, all of it waiting. The basement door was closed. I put my hand on the wood. It was cool. I leaned my forehead against it and closed my eyes, and I listened. There was nothing. No hum. No shift. No sound at all. But I knew the hole was there, patient and dry, and I knew it would grow again, and I knew I would measure it. I would measure it every day. I would write it down. I would keep the record. That was the job I had given myself, and I would do it until the floor told me to stop. I opened my eyes and went to bed, and the house settled around me, and the hole waited below, and the silence was the only answer I received.

The next morning I woke at 6:14, the same time I had woken for twenty-two years, and for a moment the bedroom was ordinary. Gray light through the curtain. The clock radio silent on the nightstand. The pillow beside me smooth and cool, the pillowcase still creased from the last time I had washed and folded it, two years ago in May. I lay there and listened to the house. The furnace had cycled off. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Somewhere below, faint but present, I heard the hole. It was not a sound I could describe to another person. It was more like a pressure in the floorboards, a vibration that traveled up through the joists and into the box spring, and I felt it in my back teeth before I heard it in my ears. I got up. I put on my slippers. I went downstairs and opened the basement door and stood at the top of the steps, and the air that came up from below was cold and smelled of wet concrete dust and something else underneath, something with a sweetness to it, like fruit left too long in a bowl. I did not turn on the light. I stood there in my nightgown with my hand on the doorframe and I listened to the hole breathing, and then I closed the door and went to make coffee.

The kitchen was the same as it had always been. The percolator on the stove, the chipped mug with the municipal seal on it, the spoon with the bent handle that I had used every morning since before he left. I made the coffee and I drank it standing at the counter, and I did not look at the basement door. I had a routine. I had kept it for two years, and the routine was the thing that held me together, the small repeated motions that filled the hours and made the days pass. I washed the mug. I dried it with the dish towel. I hung the towel on the hook by the stove. And then I went to the front closet and took out my coat and my purse and my keys, and I left for the library, because it was Tuesday, and on Tuesdays I shelved the returns from nine until noon.

The library was quiet the way libraries are quiet in the morning, before the children come. Mrs. Halpern was at the front desk, and she nodded at me as I came in, and I nodded back, and neither of us spoke. I went to the cart of returned books and I began to shelve them, fiction first, then biography, then the large-print section by the window. The books were heavy in my hands. Their plastic covers were cool and smooth. I slid each one into its place on the shelf, and I checked the call numbers twice, and I did not think about the hole. I did not think about the clipboard. I did not think about the work order in his handwriting, the words I had read over and over until they had lost their meaning: Check foundation. Fill void. I shelved a novel by a woman whose name I did not recognize, and then a book about the Civil War, and then a cookbook with a cracked spine, and the whole time the hole was there, below the library, below the street, below the foundation of every building in town, patient and dry and growing by half an inch each day, and I knew it was growing, and I knew I would measure it, and the knowing was a weight in my chest that made it hard to breathe.

I left the library at noon. I walked home the long way, past the hardware store and the post office and the empty lot where the old theater had burned down in 1998. The sky was white and flat. The sidewalk was cracked in places, and I stepped over the cracks without thinking, the way I had done as a girl, and I did not look down. At the corner of Elm and Fourth I stopped. There was a woman there with a stroller, and she was looking at the ground, and I looked where she was looking, and there was a hole in the sidewalk, small and round, the size of a quarter. The woman looked up at me. She had a tired face, a young face, and she said, "Would you look at that," and I said, "Yes," and then I walked on. I did not tell her about my basement. I did not tell her about the clipboard or the smell or the hum that matched my heartbeat. I walked home with my purse over my shoulder and my keys in my hand, and when I reached the house I stood on the front step for a long moment before I put the key in the lock. The house looked the same. The porch boards were gray and splintered. The gutter dripped. The front window reflected the white sky, and I could not see inside.

I went in. I hung my coat in the closet. I put my keys in the bowl on the hall table. And then I went to the basement door and opened it, and I went down the stairs, and the hole was there, and I measured it.

The tape measure was where I had left it, on the third step from the bottom. I picked it up and I knelt at the edge of the hole, and I extended the blade across the opening, and I read the number. Thirty-four and three-quarters inches. The day before it had been thirty-four and one-quarter. I wrote the number in the notebook I kept on the shelf by the water heater, and I wrote the date, and I wrote the time, and I wrote the temperature, which I read from the thermometer I had hung on a nail by the stairs. Sixty-one degrees. The air in the basement was cold, and the hole was cold, and the smell was stronger now, and it was the smell of his aftershave, the one he had worn on Sundays, the one that came in a green bottle and smelled like bay rum and cloves. I sat back on my heels. I looked at the hole. The edges were smooth and clean, as if the concrete had been cut with a tool, and the darkness below was absolute, and the hum was there, low and steady, and it matched my heartbeat exactly, and I put my hand on my chest and I felt the two rhythms, one inside and one below, and they were the same.

I did not try to fill the hole. I had stopped trying to fill the hole. The concrete had not worked. The dirt had not worked. The plywood I had laid over it had been gone by morning, and the hole had been half an inch larger, and I had understood then that the hole did not want to be filled. The hole wanted to be measured. The hole wanted to be recorded. The hole wanted a witness, and I was the witness, and I had been the witness for two years, ever since the day he had walked out the back door with his toolbox and his clipboard and had not come back. I had waited. I had called the police. I had filed the missing person report, and I had answered the questions, and I had waited some more, and then I had stopped waiting and started keeping records, because the records were the only thing I could control. I kept records of the weather. I kept records of the mail. I kept records of the house, the repairs, the small failures that accumulated over time. And now I kept records of the hole, and the hole kept records of me, and we were bound together, the hole and I, in a way I could not explain and did not try to.

That night I sat at the kitchen table with the notebook open in front of me. The clipboard was on the table, next to the notebook. The work order was still clipped to it, and the handwriting was still his, and the words were still the same. Check foundation. Fill void. I read them again. I read them the way I read every night, and then I turned to a new page in the notebook, and I wrote the date, and I wrote the time, and I wrote the diameter, and I wrote the smell, and I wrote the sound, and I wrote the temperature. I wrote it all down, every detail, every number, every observation. I wrote until my hand ached, and then I put the pen down, and I looked at the page, and the page looked back at me, and the hole was in the page, and the hole was in the house, and the hole was in me, and I did not know where one ended and the others began.

The hum stopped.

I sat very still. The kitchen was silent. The refrigerator had stopped. The clock on the wall had stopped. The house was silent the way a house is silent when the power goes out, and I waited, and the silence went on, and then the floorboards creaked, once, in the hallway, and I did not turn around. I did not look at the basement door. I looked at the clipboard, and I looked at the notebook, and I waited for the floor to tell me what it wanted next.

The floor creaked again, closer, and then it was still, and the silence came back, and the silence was the answer, and I understood. The measuring was not for me. The measuring was for him. The records were not mine. They were his. I was keeping them for him, the way I had kept his shirts folded in the drawer, the way I had kept his razor in the medicine cabinet, the way I had kept the house exactly as he had left it, because if I kept the house, and kept the records, and kept the hole, then he was not gone. He was only below. He was only waiting. And I was the one who would wait with him, and measure, and record, and the floor would tell me when it was enough, and the floor was silent now, and the silence was the instruction.

I closed the notebook. I put the pen in the drawer. I left the clipboard on the table, and I went to bed, and the house settled around me, and the hole was below, and the hum did not return, and I lay in the dark with my eyes open, and I waited for the morning, when I would go down the stairs and kneel at the edge and measure the hole again, and write the number in the book, and the hole would be half an inch larger, and I would write that down too, and the record would grow, and the void would grow, and I would be there, at the edge, with the tape measure and the notebook and the silence, and I would not fall in. I would not climb down. I would only watch, and measure, and wait, and the floor would hold me, and the hole would know me, and the darkness below would be patient, and so would I.

In the morning, the hole was thirty-five and one-quarter inches. I wrote it down. The air was cold. The smell was stronger. I sat on the basement steps with the notebook in my lap and the tape measure in my hand, and I looked at the hole for a long time, and the hole looked back, and neither of us spoke. The silence was complete. And then, from somewhere far below, a sound came up out of the darkness, a single soft knock, like a knuckle on wood, and I wrote that down too.

— The End · The Sinkhole Inventory, from The Dark Threshold by Elias Vance