Page 29 of Jacob Michaels Is Not Jacob Michaels

Stone walls, lots of cobwebs, the kitchen floor overhead, a stack of boxes in the corner, a bare bulb mounted to one of the studs overhead. It was dank and dark and musty but otherwise looked like a fairly organized cellar. Save the dust and cobwebs, it was reasonably clean as well. Oma stepped down onto the dirt floor as well and looked at me, waving her hands around dramatically. Her grand gesture of “what did I tell you” made me want to flip her off. I controlled my instincts and just looked around the cellar at the absolute lack of anything.

In one of my dreams, there had been a well that had been waist high with green light beaming up from wherever the bottom of it was. Reality was a different story—just a solid dirt floor from wall to wall with very few things of interest scattered around. Oma appeared impressively organized in her storage skills. Someone easily could have converted the basement into a den, a family room, or even an apartment. It wasn’t huge—but it was bigger than most apartments you’d get in New York City on a budget. Probably got more natural light, too.

“Find what you was lookin’ for?” She snorted.

“You’re a real peach, Oma,” I stated blandly as I turned, looking around at…nothing.

“I can go get you a shovel if you want to dig up the floor.” She added. “Just in case you ain’t yet satisfied.”

“If there’s nothing down here…why were you so against me coming down here?” I turned to her, lacing my arms over my chest.

“All this damn nonsense you’ve gotten into your head—I don’t want you to keep feeding it!”

“I’m sorry?” I laughed bitterly. “I think the Ernst, Lena and…the others whose names I can’t remember right now—”

“Hans, Felix, and Oskar.”

“Yeah.” I waved her off. “Them. They prove that not everything my brain comes up with is just nonsense. You lied to me about them. You said I was crazy. Well, lady, I think we proved that I was not crazy. So it’s gonna take a shit more than an empty cellar for me to believe everything is peachy keen in Fuckville, Ohio.”

“Fuckville?” She turned her nose up.

“I don’t know!” I threw my hands up. “I’m not really on top of my game today, all right?”

“Obviously.” She mimicked my hands-over-chest pose and stared impassively back at me.

“I’ve had dreams about this cellar.” I jabbed my finger down at the floor in a childish display of stubbornness.

Should’ve stomped my foot as well.

“There is something about this cellar.”

“Well,” Oma clucked, “since I have no idea what you’re talking about, I guess you’re just going to have to find it. Dig your way to China for all I fuckin’ care. But everything better be back the way I had it before you brought your arrogant ass down here!”

Oma waggled her head and turned towards the stairs. She laid her hand upon the handrail, and her foot landed on the first step.

“Where’s the well, Oma?”

Anyone who didn’t know my grandmother wouldn’t have caught it, but I saw the slight pause she took, the uncertain look on her face before she turned to me with a scowl.

“Who has a well in their goddamn basement?”

“There was one here in a dream I had.”

“Then it must be true.” She rolled her eyes. “Just like the other night when I dreamed that Sam Elliott had come to make sweet love to me years back.”

“Gross.” I turned my nose up.

“He’s a fine lookin’ man.” She whispered conspiratorially. “And that voice. Oh, my.”

“Well the voice is one thing, but he’s too old for me and—stop changing the goddamn subject, Oma.”

“I ain’t changin’ the subject! You’re the one getting all hot and bothered!” She reached up to lay a hand at the front of her neck. “I’m just makin’ a point that dreams ain’t real!”

“Oh, you’re not real!” I snapped back.

“What?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well,” She rolled her eyes, “I’m glad to see your mental health is in a grand state. Why don’t you go lay down? Obviously, you need some rest.”

“Blow it out your ass, Oma.” I snarled.

Oma rolled her eyes as I stormed across the cellar, rounded her, and stomped up the steps. I didn’t even wait to see if she followed. Once I was out of the cellar, I made my way through the house and upstairs to my room. Making sure my door was shut and locked, I threw myself on the bed. Moments later, Ernst appeared from the corner behind the dresser and tiptoed towards the bed. My eyes landed on him, and he looked up at me with a disconcerted frown. Sighing, I patted the other side of the bed. Ernst crawled up and sat down in the Lotus position, his hands in his lap. Together, we both used the bed as our place to go over our concerns and worries.