Not everyone is lucky enough to experience the wonder of time travel. But I get to – every time I visit my parents. First of all, they still live in my childhood home and second of all – my old bedroom walls are the way I left them more than 20 years ago: covered in Teen Beat posters of Corey Haim, River Phoenix and Chris Young (Who? Exactly).

Then there’s the basement.

Not only a place of mystery and intrigue – but a virtual cavalcade of nostalgia – that I shall get to in a moment. This particular basement rivals the catacombs of Egypt. Seriously, you could easily film the entire Saw movie franchise down there and not need much in the way of set design.

Dubbed the “Jon Benet Ramsay Basement” by a good friend of mine, the reasons for that will soon become apparent. Incidentally, this same friend calls my parent’s backyard the “Martha Moxley Backyard” – but that’s a blog post for another time.

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The basement is huge – the entirety of my parents’ house to be exact. And it’s never been properly finished. It’s eerily lit by a few bare bulbs scattered throughout. The stairs are raw wood – the kind you can get a splinter from if you venture down barefoot. And there’s no banister – but not to worry, you can clutch at the mildewed concrete wall to your right as you teeter downward into the depths below.

There’s a smell down there – not necessarily bad – just strange. And always the sound of dripping water. There are many a shadowed cove and darkened recess – filled with damp clothing most likely never to be worn again, old suitcases, discarded toys, piled up boxes.

There’s an apple cellar. Yes – a freaking apple cellar – but with no apples mind you. There are barrels and vats and a basket of potatoes and onions – again I stress: no apples. There may also be a propped up plastic baby pool in there – just in case we ever feel like filling up a cracked and dirty baby pool with water.

This basement is the kind of place where you’ll walk around enthralled by what you see – and before you know it 2 hours have passed. Sort of like the New York Museum of Natural History – only dustier . . . and way more interesting.

This is the basement where we hung out as kids. It’s where my brother’s band practiced in the far corner on a weekly basis – and where said band performed during many a soiree. There is still DIY egg carton sound proofing scattered about as reminder – not to mention a tacked up nudie calendar.

When company arrived on Saturday nights, all us kids dispersed into the cold and dark basement to congregate around the ping pong table and dart board and pool table. They’re probably still down there beneath the detritus – I haven’t actually checked.

The basement still possesses the allure it always has. There’s a thrilling sense of foreboding emanating from below – especially when my mother tells my kids they are not to go down there unaccompanied. Unless they’re looking to contract a good, old-fashioned case of tetanus. Or because they require 34 rolls of Bounty brand paper towels.

It was this past summer that I happened to be digging around down there – looking for clothing á la The Breakfast Club – when I began unearthing strange and wonderful items. An absolute treasure trove of things from a childhood gone by.

Continue reading in order to follow me down my personal rabbit hole of nostalgia.

I’m happy to report that this bag no longer causes the intense shame it was once capable of producing.
Part of the Dolls That Kill series: it blinks and shuffles . . . bloody knife not included.
For some reason, this Masturbating Ernie prototype never took off.
Perhaps the most terrifying baby rattle on earth. That’s not a cartoon happy face . . . it’s your reflection!
A Donny Osmond barbie in the basement means a little girl lives there. A headless Donny Osmond barbie in the basement -that means a little boy lives there too.
This is one of those dolls used by the pedophile police: “Show Officer Smith where he touched you.”
Apparently Spiderman and Slenderman had a baby – and this is it.
Chuckie – Ground Zero.
Finally – something a bit less macabre. My actual school lunch box – circa Grade 1.
Another plastic bag of yesteryear.
For those chilly evenings you have a hankering to drape dead vermin across your milky white shoulders.
Lazy-Eye Suzie . . . another instalment in the Dolls That Kill series.
This Hussy-Horsey is giving some sassy CFM side-eye.
Kewpies beget kewpies – left unchecked, the kewpie population will overtake the basement’s delicately balanced eco-system.
This thing is a tad unsettling. Don’t expose to sunlight or water.
Plastic bag didn’t work. Next time I’ll try a silver bullet.
You think I’m scared of Pennywise, the clown from It? Please. I was routinely tucked in with this l’il horror. Turn its nose for some creepy-ass music.
Hug Elmo. Or suffer the consequences.
Looking for a portal to hell that easily fits into a baby’s crib? Look no further.
Yet another addition to the Plastic Bags of Yesteryear series.
This couple is eagerly hoping to become a thrupple.
She refused Raggedy Andy’s advances. And she paid dearly.
Part of the limited Lady Boy doll collection.
On the other side of Grandma’s head is the Big Bad Wolf.
This delightful couple is in need of a) hair b) pants and c) eyeballs . . . in that order.
Step 1: Insert fingers into arms and legs Step 2: Insert thumb in head Step 3: Strangle yourself
This once hung in my kitchen – now it’s been relegated to the basement where it silently plots its revenge.
Feel like making the most horrifying doll in the history of the universe? Here’s the perfect head.
Some parents deliberately expose their children to the Chicken Pox virus. Others deliberately expose them to PTSD.
Ahhhh – Big V – the one-stop-shop for film development and Precious Moments figurine-browsing.


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