The Bogeyman in My Basement

Every house has skeletons in the closest and boogeymen in the basement. My house is not so different. We have plenty of skeletons in closets, in wardrobes, under the bed, this house could be a graveyard if we so wished it all to be known. However, what I find more important than the dead secrets that creep around in the dark behind closed doors, is the bogeyman in the basement.

He’s tall, short, fat and skinny. He is aware of all things, but has no idea of the world outside his home. Sometimes when I am alone and I know he is too, I visit him. He is not a nice person; perhaps I should say this now. He has destroyed many lives and gleefully watched as families fade to dust in their despair. He has organised crimes against and beyond humanity, yet has never been touched by the law. He has been examined many times by organisations and they have tried to cure him, but, and here is where both the bogeyman and I agree, mortal man cannot heal what is not ours to heal. He is the bogeyman that lives in everyone’s basement. Not the usual basement you find under a house, but the other basement. The one that is usually out of bounds, no one is allowed entry. The door usually has a big warning sign on it and tape across it.

Yet, when I am alone, and I know he is too, I ignore that sign, that tape, that dank smell coming from his room and pop by to say hello.

He does not usually say much, but I can always tell he is happy to see me. Happy to have a friend visit. He has no special set of china to set out for tea and biscuits; he has no need for food or drink. His appetite for nothing is one of his invading qualities. When you have been in his company for a little while, you also begin to lose interest in food and drink, even though your stomach tells you to eat and drink.

He still does not say much, or anything of a sort, but you always find yourself answering his questions. Questions that you are sure are not your own, and questions so unrepeatable he should never have asked them in the first place. But if you ask him to stop, he will look at you and smile, shake his head as if he does not understand, and, here, for the first time you will hear him verbally speak, ‘I don’t understand. I said nothing. You asked the questions, not me. But please, tell me the answers. Perhaps I can help?’

Of course, I never believe him. I would never have asked those questions to myself. Horrible, horrible things that make you question yourself, family, friends, and your very existence. After a while in his company, however, you begin to answer the questions and this is where things begin to truly go sour.

My bogeyman friend is not a friend. He is cruel and violent, yet he never raises a finger. He is always welcoming me into his home and despairs when I leave. Sometimes when I stand up to go, all I wish is to be out of his home and to never visit again. Yet he is sweet. When all the world fails and leaves you alone, he is there waiting with open arms. I do not want to say friend, for he is not the sort of person I wish to be friends with, maybe more of an acquaintance. But, sadly, one who knows me too well.

Together we sit in his room, with the blinking light overhead, the cold concrete that never warms no matter how long you sit on it. The walls are always so close but you can never touch them when you reach out. They are always just outside of your reach no matter where you stand.

‘Perhaps I can help?’ he asks again. He does not have a powerful voice; it is quiet, and somehow kind, despite appearances. Or not kind, I can never remember. It depends whether I am walking into his room or running away.

His asks his questions again, or convinces you that you asked them, and then you begin to answer the questions, you begin to think of answers to them and repeat them to him so he can give advice. I tell you now, never seek the advice of a bogeyman. The world they live in is built up of only the things he is aware of; he has no idea of the workings of a human soul and mind. He does not understand how the world works and how it should work. His opinions are biased and one-sided. I have said before, the bogeyman is not a nice person.

Yet he is gentle, and there when the world leaves. He waits patiently for you to come and will always be there unless you choose to pay attention to the sign on the door and the tape covering it. In his company, you begin to lose your grasp of the world outside and accept his answers to your questions as ones knowledgeable and acceptable.

Because he is your closest friend, and the door remains out of your reach, you believe him. After all, why would he lie to you? You asked him advice in the first place, if you asked, why should you not accept his words? However, as you accept him, the world outside really does begin to fall away and the people that really do love you lose you as you refuse to accept them. The bogeyman is your real friend, not them. He will not abandon you. This is not something you should believe. There is better company out of the basement.

My friend the bogeyman is not my friend. Not really. And he does not live in the basement; he lives in my head.