Locked in the Basement – And What I Did Next?
I should have just said no from the start. Not just when Ethan brought up the idea of his friends coming over for dinner. I mean way before that—when I first realized how awful they were. I never outright said that I didn’t hate them, but let’s be honest: I think I made it pretty clear.
But my husband, Ethan? He’s so different from these guys. At 35, he’s a successful manager at a tech company. For reasons I will never understand, he’s still best friends with the same guys he went to high school with. They’re loud, crude, and completely unlike Ethan—the very picture of what he left behind when he built a better life.
Except, apparently, his loyalty to them.
“Dani, it’s just one game,” he said that night, sitting in the kitchen with a hopeful grin. “The guys really want to watch it here. They’re dying to see our new TV setup. It’ll be fun!”
I sighed, trying to keep calm. I could already see the night unfolding like a bad rerun. They’d take over our home, beer bottles on the counters, their inappropriate comments filling every conversation.
“Ethan, you know how I feel about them. Every single time they come over, it’s like our house turns into a frat house. I’m not cleaning up after them again. It’s not happening.”
My husband’s face dropped. A flicker of wounded pride crossed his eyes.
“It’s just one night, Danielle. I don’t get to see them very often because of work. Come on, you can hang out upstairs or something. Don’t be like this.”
“No,” I said firmly. “They’re not coming here.”
“Please?” he asked, pouting. “I promise I’ll do all the cleaning before and after. You won’t have to do a thing. Why don’t you invite your girls over? You guys can use the hot tub and catch up.”
I didn’t say anything. And Ethan didn’t push it. He just turned back to his pasta, chewing in silence.
I should have seen what was coming.
A few days later, it happened.
It was Saturday, the night of the big game, but Ethan hadn’t mentioned it once. In fact, he was the perfect husband—he came grocery shopping with me, even stopped to get me flowers.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” he asked as we drove home.
“Anything that doesn’t involve me cooking,” I said.
“Deal,” Ethan chuckled. “I ordered fried chicken and fries for us.”
“Sounds incredible,” I smiled.
“Do you think you could grab the six-pack of beer from the basement fridge?” he asked later.
“Sure,” I said, blowing on my freshly painted nails.
I called out to him as I walked down the stairs. “Pay attention for the delivery guy!”
He waved me off, barely glancing at me.
The basement was dim and cold, as usual. I grabbed the six-pack from the fridge, already thinking about how cozy our evening would be. Then, the door slammed.
“Ethan?” I called, confused.
I tried the handle. It didn’t budge.
“Ethan! This isn’t funny!”
No answer.
I could hear muffled voices upstairs—laughter, cheering, the unmistakable sound of basketball commentary on the TV. My stomach turned. His friends were here. He’d brought them over after I told him no.
And he had locked me in the basement.
Minutes stretched into an hour. I banged on the door, screamed his name, tried everything. Nothing. He was up there, with his buddies, drinking beer and watching the game while I sat in the dark.
When the door finally opened, Ethan stood there with a fake laugh. “Oh, Dani! There you are! I didn’t know you were down here. Must have locked it by accident. You know, it’s a habit to keep the basement door locked.”
“An accident?” I repeated, my voice cold.
“Yeah, I didn’t hear you,” he grinned, stepping aside.
Beer bottles littered the living room. Empty chip packets on the table. The fried chicken gone. The game over. His friends still lounging on our couch.
“Sorry, babe,” Ethan said. “The chicken’s finished. But I can make you a toasted cheese sandwich?”
I brushed past him and went upstairs. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a fight. Not yet.
A few nights later, after Ethan had passed out in bed, I crept downstairs. Quietly, I pulled out the small tank my brother had given me earlier. Inside were two harmless snakes—Ethan’s biggest phobia.
When I told my brother what Ethan had done, he hadn’t hesitated. “My babies will get the job done, Sis,” he said.
I cracked open the bedroom door and slipped the snakes inside. They slithered across the carpet, disappearing into the dark. Then, I locked the door from the outside.
Poetic.
I settled on the couch downstairs with a blanket and called Ethan’s phone.
“What?” he muttered, groggy.
“You might want to wake up,” I said calmly.
“What are you talking about? Where are you?”
“There’s something in the room with you. A couple of things, actually.”
“What did you do?” Ethan’s voice cracked.
I heard a thud, then a sharp gasp. “Oh my God! Danielle! Get me out of here! Danielle, what the hell is in here?”
He was thrashing around, terrified.
“Danielle!” he screamed. “Please! I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that! Please get me out!”
I let him sweat. For two full hours, I listened to him beg.
Finally, I went upstairs and opened the door. Ethan stood in the middle of the bed, pale, trembling.
“Try a move like that again,” I said, “and you’ll be out of my house and my life before you know it.”
And then I turned and walked away.
