The door leading to the “Lo Shia” was no different than any other door in the house.  It was a standard-sized door, colored in an off-white with a battered and scraped pseudobrass doorknob.  The door was not unique, but behind it lay a dark, gloomy place, which was the abode of numerous alien horrors.

An impenetrable darkness greets anyone who is foolish enough to open the door.  A set of greyish nondescript concrete stairs leads down into the depths.  Light from the upstairs faintly illuminates the staircase, and at the foot of the stairs, where light ends and darkness begins, is a misty-looking, greyish-black veil concealing the room behind it.  A faint click-click-click can be heard as the denizens scurry for cover.  I flick on the light switch mounted on the wall just beside me.  A single 40-watt incandescent bulb set in the ceiling flickers into existence.  The darkness fades, and the room comes into view.

The walls have been white, but in some places, where the paint is peeling and chipping, one can see the greyish bricks underneath.  Small paint chips lie on the floor in random piles scattered throughout the edge of the room.  A small sliding window set high in the wall is directly across from the stairs.  The window itself is dusty and dirty, forming a nearly transparent boundary between the night outside and the pseudo-day inside.  The ceiling is unfinished, consisting of wooden beams overlain by wooden slats.  In some places, the light fails to penetrate, creating dark corners where the native fauna lie in hiding.

A rickety, green-colored, rectangular table marked by thin white lines takes up half of the room in front of the stairs.  There seems to be some sort of wire-mesh net dividing the table in two at the midpoint.  To the right of the stairs comes a whirling, churning noise, which rises and drops in volume.  Upon closer inspection, the culprit of this cacophony is discovered.  An ancient, kelly-green refrigerator rests there, looking very much its age, from way back in the Stone Age.

The floor is made up of a smooth, dark-grey concrete, which retains the cold very well.  For reasons unknown, a thick, black, iron column, about a handspan in width, runs from the floor into the ceiling at the center of the room.  A ladder laid on its side, parallel to the green table, is set up against the wall.  Two rather beaten up picnic benches, which were obviously painted at some earlier time, have been placed in front of the ladder, facing the table.  An unsturdy grey, storage shelf, which is missing a few bolts here and there, lies supported against the iron column and the ladder.  This is the Shelf of Miscellany, with various knick-knacks scattered over the various levels.

The most abundant object in this room, however, is the Cardboard Box.  Tens and tens of these cheap, inexpensive storage devices lie scattered all over the left side of the room, so numerous, that the floor is hardly visible.  Stacked side-by0side and one-a-top-the-other, these contain various bound manuscripts and Things-to-be-Stored-Away-and-Sorted-At-Another-Time.  This side of the room has ibviously been neglected, and only the bold venture here.  A dingy white door leading to the Outside is set in the middle of the wall on the left.  A small chain is latched to prevent the unwanted from entering.  A work-table constructed by a carpenter-wannabe sags in the far left corner.  Useless broken tools hang on the wall above it, as well as being scattered on it.  A red dilapidated vice lies rusted onto the wood surface.  Boxes have been piled high around this table, creating a microcosm underneath where no human has tread for ages.  A yellow and white wooden dresser rests just beside the worktable, a storage bin for brand-new light bulbs.

In the left corner closest to the stairs is the only section of this half of the room that is semi-regularly frequented.  Another incandescent bulb has been set in the ceiling, from which dangles an old string used to turn the light on and off.  A concrete sink is attached to the wall, having seen decades of use, marked by various colors of dried paint.  A much newer washing machine and dryer also sit in this corner, the only evidence in this basement of modern civilization.  An old furnace rumbles to life in this corner, with heating ducts running up into the bowels of the house.  

The Lo-Shia, or translated, “The Downstairs,” was a place I feared to go by myself as a young lad.  A typical basement to any adult, but to a nine year old kid, a place of unspeakable horrors.  It was the hunting ground of the many species of creepy-crawlies which dwelled there.  They all lived in shadow, waiting for an unsuspecting fool (a child in this case) to stray into their lair.  Some of the multi-legged creatures were bold enough to venture into the Light, but these were usually slain by the Mighty Mom or the Daunting Dad.

One of the sentences I dreaded most to hear was, “Son, could you please go to the Lo Shia and get a new light bulb?”  This struck fear into my heart, and often left me paralyzed and speechless (which they took for a ‘yes’).  I gathered up my courage (what little I had), and timidly started my Quest for the New Light Bulb.  My goal:  the top drawer of the yellow dresser deep inside enemy territory.  Armed only with my wits and my quickness, I hoped to be in and out before the natives knew I was there.  For some unfathomable reason, my parents had to store the light bulbs in that particular place.  I would usually make it to the left side of the room alright.  Then I would see It.  The lone mutant multi-legged insectoid, which was as large as a dog, would be directly in my path.  “The sentry,” I thought, “as long as I can make it past it without alerting it.”  I would step over it, quickly and quietly.  At this point, I would be staring straight under the workbench, where the creepies lived.  They were there, somewhere in the darkness.  Then I would pull on the drawer, but it would emit the most horrendous and loudest squeak I ever heard, alerting the creatures to my presence.  I froze, hoping that they would not notice, but somewhere in the depths, a chirp could be heard, rallying the evil force.  I snatched out a light bulb as quick as I could, and made a run for the basement door.  I did not look back, knowing that the insect horde was right behind me, and if I stopped to look, I would perish under the millions of spiny legs.  

Up the steps I would dash, and then to my parents, holding the light bulb triumphantly, like a magical sword from a dragon’s horde.  I had escaped a narrow death, and was proud of myself.  I stood rigidly, expecting a commendation from my parents.  More often than not, my parents would say, “You got the wrong light bulb, you must go get another one.”  All my hopes sank as the realization hit me, “I must face THEM again.”