The lights are out, and the banging and crashing in the basement is getting louder. I can’t avoid it anymore. I have to go down there.

The flashlight gives halos of light around the periphery of my path; it’s old and giving out. Just like my vision. Just like my heart.

I slowly make my way down the stairs. This is asinine. I’m an old man. I can’t do anything about what I’d find. I need to call the police or animal control.

The stench of chemicals hits me first; I start to wheeze and cough. My vision waters. I reach the bottom of the stairs and use the railing to keep my balance.

“Whoever you are,” I call out, “I’ve already called the police,” I lie. “Just come out and you can leave and get away before they get here. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The banging gets louder as I get closer to the crawl space. “Hello? I’m not going to hurt you! Just come out.”

I perch over the lip of the crawl space. Something is moving in the dark. I shine my light on it and it starts coming toward me. I think it’s my flashlight going out; it’s all black, on a black background, racing towards me, reaching, knocking the light out of my hand.

I’m wrapped in fur and the chemical stench is all in my nose. My knees buckle and I fall to the floor. I don’t know what happens next.

When I wake, I slowly get to my feet. The lights have come back on in the house, and I don’t see any animal or anything in the crawlspace. I can still smell the stench, only faintly.

That’s when I notice it. My vision is crisp and clear. I can see again, like when I was younger. The floaters, white spots, and blind spots are gone. I pick up a magazine from the floor and read the cover, then open it to scan the text of an article.

I make my way back upstairs, feeling vigor and life like I haven’t known for years. What’s happened to me? I’m not out of breath from climbing the stairs, and my joints aren’t stiff like they have been.

In the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. My face is unlined and fresh. I can feel health where before I was exhausted and falling apart.

On the kitchen table, I find a paper plate scrawled with crayons, like a child would draw. There’s a heart there, and a smiley face. A clump of black hair rests on the plate.

I went to find my phone and tell my daughter the news. No one will ever believe me.