Voice from the basement

⏱ ~4 min reading

Grandma and Grandpa had a small house on the outskirts of town. It had a porch with grapes attached to it, and under the house was a cellar with an oak door.

Maryanka came to her grandmother for the holidays. She brought a suitcase, a stuffed bunny and three books. The first two days everything was wonderful: Maryanka picked gooseberries, baked a pie with her grandmother, drew cats. And on the third evening this happened.

She was sitting on the stairs in the hallway, waiting for her grandmother to finish washing the dishes. The house was quiet, except for the clock ticking. And suddenly, from below, from under the floor, very quietly, she heard:

— …oh, in the cherry orchard…

Maryanka froze. Someone was singing in the basement. Softly, breathily, like a very old grandmother.

The girl listened. The voice disappeared. Only the clock continued to tick.

"Grandma," Maryanka called cautiously. "Is there anyone in the basement?"

Grandma looked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands with a towel.

"What are you doing, child? Who could be there? Only jars of jam.".

— And I heard someone singing.

"You're dreaming. You'd better go and drink some tea.".

But the next evening, Maryanka heard it again. This time it was:

— …tiri-ri-ram… shurh-shurh… oh, and it’s good…

The voice grew clearer and then faded, as if someone was speaking through a pillow. Somewhere in the same direction, something was softly stomping—like small footsteps.

Maryanka ran to her grandfather, who was sitting on the porch.

"Grandpa, there's definitely someone living in your basement! He's singing!"

Grandpa adjusted his glasses and smiled slyly.

"Really, you say? Well, okay. Let's go take a look together.".

He took the flashlight and his old stick. Maryanka grabbed her grandfather's hand tightly. Her heart was beating fast, fast, like a pea in a tin.

Grandfather opened the oak door. The stairs down were cool, stone. They smelled of apples, hay, and a little bit of earth. On the third step, Maryanka suddenly heard clearly:

— …only you, only me…

The girl froze.

“Grandpa,” she whispered. “Do you hear me?”

"I hear, I hear. Let's go lower.".

The basement was warm and cozy, not as she had imagined. On the shelves stood a row of jars: cherry jam, berry compote, pickled cucumbers. In the corner was a sack of potatoes. And on the very top shelf...

Maryanka looked up and gasped.

There was an old, very old radio. Wooden, with a rounded top, with a round window in which a yellowish light bulb was faintly shining. The radio wheezed softly and sang:

— …oh, in the cherry orchard…

“Here he is, your singer,” Grandpa smiled.

— Why does it turn on by itself?

"I don't know. It's old, this radio is older than I am. I thought it was broken a long time ago. But it turns out it comes to life in the evenings. Maybe the lamps in it are heated by the heat from the kitchen.".

And then a small gray face peeked out from behind the radio. Two black bead eyes, a pink nose, and trembling whiskers.

"Oh!" Maryanka squeaked. "A mouse!"

The mouse was not scared. It calmly climbed onto the shelf, sat down next to the radio and twitched its ears. It looked as if it was listening to a song and was very happy.

Grandpa laughed softly.

"That's how it is. It turns out that our radio station has a friend. He sings here every night, and she comes to listen to him. No one offends anyone.".

Maryanka cautiously approached. Myshka looked at her calmly - and did not even run away. Her little body swayed slightly to the beat of the song, as if she were swaying.

“I’ll call her Tail,” the girl whispered. “Can I?”

"Let Tails be," Grandpa nodded.

They stood there a little longer, listening. The radio was singing an old song about kindergarten. Tails was nodding their whiskers. The light bulb was glowing warmly, like a little sun.

When they went upstairs, grandma was already pouring tea.

— So, did you find a terrible singer?

"We found it," said Maryanka seriously. "It's a radio. And a mouse. They're friends.".

Grandma raised her eyebrows, but said nothing, only putting an extra piece of bread and butter on the plate for Tails.

That night, Maryanka was no longer afraid of the voice from the basement. She lay there, listening to the distant, thin song - and smiled. Down below, among the jars of jam, the second heart of the little house sang its lullaby. And next to her sat a little gray mouse, nodding in time.