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The Trapdoor in the Basement of My Building

It wasn’t fair that Michelle got to keep the house. I was the one who made the mortgage payments. I mowed the lawn, I shoveled the walk, I fixed the leaky faucets. Hell, I didn’t even want the divorce. That was all her idea, but she got the kids, the car, the dog, and the house. I got this crappy, third floor studio apartment in a rundown building on the southside, with seafoam green shag carpet, furniture straight out of a ‘70s era motor lodge, and a gorgeous view of the dumpster in the back alley. After having alimony and child support deducted from my paycheck, it was all I could afford.
I’m getting sidetracked. The point is, my new apartment was too small, even for the few things Michelle and the lawyers let me keep. That’s why I was in the basement. Each apartment has an assigned storage space there. I was hauling down boxes of books when I found the trapdoor.
It was way in the back, in an unlit corner behind the boiler room. I was just looking for a place to sit down for a minute and catch my breath. Lugging all those boxes down from the third floor was more work than I had realized. It didn’t take long before my tee shirt was plastered to my back and I was gasping for breath. Heat radiating from the boiler made the atmosphere oppressive and dust seemed to crowd all the oxygen out of the air. Being out of shape didn’t help. That was one of the reasons Michelle gave for splitting up with me; I got fat. The way she put it was, she couldn’t stand watching me eat myself to death anymore, but I know what she really meant. I was too fat to love.
Instead of finding a chair or a bench where I could take a break for a few minutes, I found the trapdoor. It was maybe three feet wide by five long. It looked to be made of banded iron, its surface flaked with rust. The door was secured with an old-fashioned padlock, the kind with a swinging gate that covers the keyhole. On the wall beside, hanging from a nail set into the mortar between foundation blocks, was a key that looked like it just might fit. I took it down. There was a yellowed paper tag attached to it with a bit of twisted wire. I wiped the grime from the paper with my thumb and stepped back into the light spilling from the boiler room. “DO NOT USE” it read in faded red ink.
“Oh, yeah?” I muttered. “Watch me.”
It was stupid, I know. More stupid than I could have ever imagined. My only excuse is that I had spent the last eight months being ordered around by lawyers, judges, and my ex-wife. I wasn’t about to let a little piece of paper on an old key tell me what to do.
It took some effort, sweat, and some of my favorite cuss words to force the gate off the keyhole, and more effort, sweating, and cussing to get the key to turn. Finally, the lock popped open and I set it aside. At first, the door refused to budge. I gripped the handle with both hands, lifting with my legs as much as I could manage. The hinges groaned and squealed in protests. I felt the muscles in my thighs beginning to cramp. I’m not sure why I was so determined to open that door, but I redoubled my effort, snorting with the strain. All at once, the rusty hinges gave up. The door swung up and over, clanging against the cellar wall. Flakes of rust clouded the air, coating my damp and clammy skin. Dizziness washed over me. I tottered on the edge of the hole I had just uncovered, almost tumbling in.
It was too dark to see what was below the door, so I fumbled my cell phone out of my pocket and swiped the flashlight app. It took me a couple of tries to turn it on, because my arm was numb and shaking. I figured I must’ve pulled a muscle or something, wrenching the door open.
Maybe Michelle had a point. I made a mental note to look into a gym membership. If nothing else, it would give me an excuse to get out of that crappy apartment for a couple hours a week.
With the light on, I saw a steep stairway leading straight down. The walls and steps were constructed of rough hewn stone. It kind of reminded me of those first person dungeon crawler computer games I used to play in college, or better yet, the stairs on that Mayan pyramid Michelle and I climbed on our honeymoon in Mexico. Maybe that’s why I went down. Maybe it made me think of happier times. Maybe I would find some valuable antique that would put some much needed cash in my pocket, cash that Michelle never needed to know about. Maybe I was just looking for an adventure of sorts, something to break up the crushing banality of my life since the divorce. Those were all thoughts that went through my head, but I’d be hard pressed to pick which one was the clincher. Whatever the reason, I decided to go exploring. It turned out to be the worst decision I’ve ever made.
I remember reading somewhere that there are twelve steps to each story of a building. If that held true for this stone stairway, I made it somewhere between eight and ten stories underground. That’s a rough estimate, of course, but a pretty conservative one, I think. The stairs did not turn or curve, there were no landings or niches in the walls, just that rough hewn stone leading straight down, and the more I descended, the more determined I became to find the bottom and see what was down there. That was another of my character flaws that Michelle liked to point out; I’m stubborn. The only reason I stopped when I did was that I really wasn’t feeling very well. That, and the scratch marks I found on the wall.
It was the first break in the dull, gray stone that I had seen so far. Four long, white gashes in the stone’s surface, halfway up the wall. They were spaced about five inches apart and were maybe a quarter inch deep. The image that popped into my mind was that of a huge claw, with talons sharp and hard enough to carve stone. It really creeped me out.
A chill skittered down my spine. Goose flesh stood the hair on my arms and the back of my neck on end. My stubbornness evaporated along with my sense of adventure. Suddenly, I didn’t want to find out what was at the bottom. I turned around and started working my way back up.
Then I heard it; a rustling, scraping noise. A leather bag of old bones being dragged over stone is the best way I can think of to describe it. There were sniffs and snorts, too, the noises a predator makes when it catches its first whiff of prey. The sounds were faint, still far below me, and I had to strain to hear them, but I could hear them. I tried to tell myself it was just some air current whistling over the rough and irregular surface of the stairs, or my own labored breathing, echoing back to me by some weird acoustic of the stone. Maybe it was just a rat. Those were all lies and I knew it, but I clung to them anyway, even as I pushed myself back up the stairs.
Going down had been a lot easier than coming up. Gravity was working against me. My legs felt like molten lead, burning with lactic acid and heavy beyond belief. Charlie horses threatened to knot the muscles of my thighs into useless bundles of ground meat with every step. The air became tepid syrup. It took effort to push it in and out of my lungs. Still, I forced myself upward, grasping at the wall with my free hand, cell phone flashlight jittering all around in the other. The sounds below grew louder. Whatever was coming up those stairs behind me was gaining.
I’m not sure how long or how far I pushed myself, before I had to stop. Just for a second, I told myself, just long enough to catch my breath. Leaning back against the stone wall, sweat pouring off my skin and puddling around my shoes, I shined the light of my cell phone down the stairs. That’s when I saw them, maybe three or four stories still below, but much closer than I expected. Two glowing red orbs hung in the darkness. They were eyes.
I turned and stumbled upwards, my breath becominging a ragged mewling. It wasn’t wind or echoes or even rats. Whatever it was, it was big, and it was coming after me. I had no doubt in my mind that its intentions were less than friendly. Why else would the key be marked “DO NOT USE”?
I had made it far enough that I could just make out a dim rectangle above me, the diffused light from the boiler room weakly glowing through the trap door, when it hit me. A bolt of pain, jagged and brittle, arced from my jaw down my left arm. At first, I thought the creature had caught up to me and raked me with those claws that could gouge stone, but there was no blood. The pain continued, white hot in its intensity. I had brushed off the shortness of breath, the dizziness, and the numbness, but there was no denying this pain. I was having a heart attack.
My strength washed out of me. My knees buckled and I banged my shins painfully against the edge of the stone steps. Behind me, the sounds of leather and bone scraping across rock, of hungry sniffing and snorting, grew louder. I was so close. The dim outline of the trapdoor was only a dozen or so steps above, but I was still going to die. Either my heart would stop, or I’d be torn to shreds by a monster. It wasn’t fair.
No. Just, no, I thought. I might die, but I wasn’t going to do it on these damned stone steps. Whether my body tapped into some as yet unused adrenaline reserve, by sheer willpower alone, or some combination of the two, I threw myself upwards, pulling myself over the steps on all fours. My breath came in little shrieks as fire burned in my lungs and electric arcs of agony shot across my chest and down my arm. I reached forward and felt the lip of the trapdoor. With every ounce of energy I had left, I pulled myself up into the basement. As I did so, I glanced behind me. Those red eyes were right there, almost close enough to touch. A claw, black and skeletal, swiped out of the darkness, slashing through the space my body had occupied less than half a second ago, striking sparks off the stone.
That’s the last thing I remember, until I awoke in the hospital. The doctor told me that a neighbor had found me lying unconscious in the first floor hallway of my building, just outside of the basement door. I'd had a what he called a myocardial infarction, which was pretty serious, but he expected me to make a full recovery. Michelle actually visited me while I was there. After five or ten minutes of awkward small talk, she cut to the chase. She wanted to know if I still had a life insurance policy. Yeah, right. Like I can afford life insurance these days.
I chose not to mention anything about the trapdoor, the stone steps, or the creature to anyone. I wanted to go back to my apartment, not a psych ward. After three days, I was discharged. It’s pretty amazing the advances they’ve made in angioplasty. They sent me home with a script for medication, an appointment with a physical therapist, and some stern warnings about changing my lifestyle.
I made one more trip to the basement after I got back. Believe me, I didn’t want to, but it had to be done. I would have liked to have had a gun, but it’s expensive and almost impossible to get one legally in the city. It’s even more expensive to get one illegally. Instead, I settled for an aluminum bat that I still had from my days on the company softball team. Armed with that and a heavy duty flashlight, I headed downstairs.
The trap door was just like I had left it; open and leaning against the wall, the lock with the key poking out of the keyhole still lying beside. I shuffled forward, shining the bright, white beam of the flashlight into the opening with one hand while the other held the bat, ready to strike. The stone stairs were there, steep, straight and, much to my relief, empty. I jumped forward, grabbed the corner of the door, and slammed it shut. Before it clanged into the frame set in the concrete of the basement floor, I noticed the four, white gashes, maybe five inches apart and a quarter inch deep, on the top step. With the lock secured in the hasp again, I took the key into the boiler room instead of hanging it back on the wall, and dropped it down a floor drain. No sense in leaving it there for the next dimwitted divorcee with a sense of adventure that comes along.
As much as I would like to move to another building, I can’t afford a different apartment, let alone what it would cost me to break the lease on this one. If I was going to be stuck here, I had to make sure that trapdoor was closed and locked, just for my own peace of mind. But now I’m not so sure that was the right thing to do. These last few nights I’ve lain awake in bed, staring at the cracked and water stained ceiling, wondering; did I lock the creature in, or lock it out?
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Will riot ever make "cursed items"?

Support items needs to be cheap, but cant make it so cost effective that non supports start buying them. AP on supports tend to give bigger shields/heal/move speed as a scaling stat, %heal/shiled is like a support version of a deathcap. To stop other laners from buying them, what if support items had a "cursed" or negative effect? For example "gain 100ap but all attacks do x% less damage to champs" or "gain spell haste but all abilities will cost more mana" Its quite common in other RPGs where the cursed effect hurts some roles more than others. A "gain CDR but at higher mana cost" item works on a support since supports have higher base mana and sup items tend to have mana regen, while mid mages would run out of mana too fast if they brought it. If enough "cursed items" exist then its possible make cost effective stats/effects that supports want but would be hard inting if other roles brought it.
  • Gain AP, do less damage to champs
  • Gain spellhaste, all abilities will cost more mana
  • Passively gain gold/exp, lane minions and jungle minions will give less gold
to stop tanks from buying them, you can add negative Armohp into the stat line. For support tanks make minon/jungle monsters give greatly reduced gold. Or rather than many cursed items make a "support guild membership card cursed item" with many negative stats but gives you the right to buy certain items from the shop.
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