From the large, round hole in the floor of the Library, the narrow, iron spiral staircase descends down to the Basement. The main room of the Basement is long and dimly-lit, ten degrees cooler than the House above. An old television is the only source of light, and it flickers pale in a distant corner, projecting only static onto the walls which are alternately brick and wallpaper torn and peeling from sheetrock, decaying and bruised with divots. This place is haunted.
The Ghost Boy is a nuisance of biblical proportions. The things he's left for us in the basement suggest he's arrogant and quick-witted. Writes decent poetry and has an unhealthy obsession with Rosie. Little else is known about the spectre who haunts the underground of Gray House. He's prone to turning on the most obnoxious television shows in the middle of a dramatic moment between Gray Family members and playing DJ every couple of weeks with a string of songs certainly meant to rattle our paranoia and cut us deep. Watch for digital rifts in time and interdimensional storm warnings. This could even be him talking to you right now and you wouldn't know it. Would you?
The main room is glumly illuminated from bedside lamps under fabric shades, Christmas lights leading to the workbench from the back door seem miles away from the staircase. The back door is heavy and metal under dark paint that appears green under the bare bulbs hanging in an uneven trail from the storage room and back to the staircase. And under the stairs, the set of old French doors close off a darkened office space. Their windowpanes are filmy and the white paint of them is distressed. All shadows are chased by the movement of light and in seconds, any who enter could be immersed in the dark house of a black box theater, all eyes made to watch the stage set with the iron stairs, the antique doors, and the sense of a paper moon above them.
There are two beds of different sizes sheathed in mismatched and tossed bedding, and clutter spills from every nook and cranny of the place. A bathtub in the middle of the main room is filled to the brim with old books. The furniture is mismatched and easily a hundred years newer than those pieces upstairs that pre-date the civil war. However, the relative modernity of the Basement doesn't lend it a feeling of being any less lived-in, the dust throughout the House blanketed equally thick, no matter the floor.
The Basement is the place all of us have learned the most about our internal workings. The atmosphere is lived-in and yet unfinished like us. As this area of the House looks into you, you'll have no choice but to look with it. Explore the many facets of your identity with us by creating art that separates one of them from another and then mixes them again. Answer the questions in the forms below to help the Family understand you better.