“What’s happening? Please, ma’am, help me.
“Just stay calm, I’ll get you out of here,” she said, mostly to reassure herself. Beads of sweat rolled from her forehead like a faulty faucet, stinging her eyes. She rolled her shoulders and brushed the sweat away with her palm. Her hands trembled, slotting the third key into the keyhole—it fit like a glove. She twisted the key, but the lock wouldn’t budge even an inch. She fought battled with the key and the door handle, but it was a lost cause. None of the keys were right. She banged her head in frustration on the door frame.
“Listen to me, sweetie, I don’t have the right key. I’ll come back for you soon, I promise. Be strong. This will all end soon, and you’ll see your mommy.”
Abbie turned away from the door, covering her ears to smother the girls wailing as she headed for the staircase. She doubted either of them would survive the day.
CHAPTER 10
Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.
Abbie stood frozen at the foot of the staircase. He was coming, high heels clicking in rhythm like castanets at a flamenco dance. Each step sent shock waves through her body. She glanced back at the dingy tunnel. The only option was going back to the room, the torture chamber that was her home. Deep down, she knew that it would be her final enclave. She twisted her head back toward the stairs. At any second, the door would swing wide open, and she would be face to face with by far the most insane and dangerous individual she had ever encountered. She gripped the railings to steady the adrenaline-induced tremors coursing through her protruding veins.
Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.
He was a few steps from the door, the sound reverberating through the basement. Exhausted, she stood on the bottom stair and looked down at her pale, brittle feet. This was the end of the road and instead of light at the end of the tunnel, she would greet the devil. She realized her bitter fate, and it drained her adrenaline. She was now a mop, ready for his dirty work. There would be no fight, as she was too weak for that. Only the hope of escape had kept her on her feet. She dropped to her knees, thumping into the first timber staircase, lowering her elbows onto the stairs above.
Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.
She saw it, a black hole peeking through the broken timber. Her knees rested on the first stair and her elbows on the third. The second stair was broken, and it seemed like there might be a hollow space behind the staircase. Without a second thought, she pushed her feet through the opening right up to her waist. She exhaled, flattening her chest and wiggled to push her upper body through the splintered opening.
Da da da dada da da da da . . .
She watched him through the gaps in the timber, dust showering her hunched frame, the stairs vibrating with each step he took. The innocent children’s rhyme filled her with deathly terror. The worst was coming. A flickering light above alternated between light and pitch-black darkness. The steps stopped vibrating. For a long moment, there was no movement. He stood still, observing.
Abbie held her breath, lowering her gaze, afraid that somehow he would see her eyes through the timber.
Why’s he not moving?
A squeaking sound broke the deafening silence.
Darkness.
He had unscrewed the lightbulb. The black abyss was back with a monster lurking in its shadows.
Abbie pulled her knees toward her chest as high as possible, lowering her head into the brace position, arms gripping the back of her thighs like a rubber band. She wasn’t letting go, ever. It helped ease the uncontrollable shakes that ravaged her frail frame. In the fetal position, she was born, and if he found her, in that precise way, she would die. She pulled the collar of her gown over her mouth to stifle the sound of her whimpering. She imagined him holding a smooth dagger, his pale, veiny arm slashing through the gaps in the stairs, the blade piercing her back and upper torso like butchered meat. That creepy smile broadening with every strike, relishing the immense gratification from the slaughter.
Four sharp squeaks sent electric-like jolts through her body. If not for the light that flickered on again, she would have screamed out. The staircase continued to vibrate as he made his way down to the basement.
“Oh, my child, Fiona has got a delicious surprise for you today,” he said out loud in Fiona’s voice at the foot of the staircase.
“Don’t you dare harm her. We have instructions to keep Abigail alive. You’re so out of control that you forget to lock the basement door. Didn’t you notice that it was unlocked on the way in?” That was Dr. Falk’s voice. The way he alternated between Fiona and Freddy seemed natural, like both of them existed—one body, ruled by two dangerous people.
“I’m sick of your whining, Freddy. I’ll teach that bitch a lesson, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”
Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.
He waltzed down the corridor with renewed vigor, determined to inflict pain and get his revenge, or, more appropriately, her revenge. This was Fiona’s show now, and Freddy had front row tickets.
Abbie watched him stride past the girl’s cell. From there, it would take him only twelve steps to cover the thirty feet to her room. In seconds he would notice that she escaped. The moment was now. She dived headfirst through the gap, protecting her head with her elbows. A sharp splinter stabbed into her thigh, leaving on her back on the cold concrete floor, her legs stuck between the stairs, a pool of dark-red blood forming around her waist. There was no choice. She counted under her breath, panting in desperation . . .
One . . . Two . . . Three!
She ripped her legs out of the staircase with maximum force, the splinter slicing through her thigh like a blade.
“ARRRGGGGHHHH!”
A loud, guttural scream escaped her. She flipped on her stomach, facing the basement tunnel, blood spurting everywhere. She could make out his silhouette at the end of the tunnel.
“Abigail, where do you think you’re going?”
She turned toward the staircase and used the first two stairs to drag herself to her feet, like an Olympic sprinter on the starting line. She used the walls and the railing to haul herself forward, blood gushing down the length of her right leg. She felt nothing, the fear and adrenaline driving her into a fleeing frenzy.
Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.
The high heels clicked in her direction like triggered rat traps. She propelled herself upwards, panting from exertion. Physically she was depleted a long time ago, but mentally she would battle until either he caught her or she dropped dead from exhaustion.
Clang!
Something breezed past her head and smashed into the door. She glanced back and instantly averted her head, the long tip of the second high heel narrowly missing her face and slamming into the door with another loud clang.
She barged into the iron door with her shoulder, flinging it open. Instead of going around the maze of rolling racks, she cut straight through the clothing, flailing at everything in her path. The quick thumping sound of his bare feet on the timber staircase echoed in her ears. Without the high heels, he moved fast, a predator smelling the blood of the wounded. The rolling racks smashed into the concrete as he hurled them to the floor, groaning with exertion and intensity.
“I’ll slice you up, you fucking bitch!”
It was Fiona’s voice, and it carried a chilling yearning—to dismember her under the red neon lights.
Abbie kept up the pace, bursting out of the maze of clothing. The illuminated mirror of the dresser lay in front of her. In its reflection, she saw the mop of blonde hair above the rolling racks. He was less than five racks away, and mere seconds from the dresser. She glanced left and right; both routes ended in a rustic pine doorway.
When in doubt, go right!
She sprinted toward the door, panicking that it might be closed. There wasn’t enough time for her to turn around and try the other one. She slammed into t
he door, pausing her sprint with outstretched palms. Her hand gripped the rounded copper doorknob, and in one motion, she twisted it and smashed her shoulder into the heart of the door. It flung open, slamming into the adjacent wall.
Sunlight.
She had believed that she would never see the light of day again. She squinted, her eyes adjusting to the streaks of whitish sunlight streaming in through the wall-to-wall window on her left. Snowflakes covered the needles of the red pine trees, the earth a powdery white. If only she could get outside. Even if he captured her, she had gotten further than she ever imagined. Freedom was on the other side of the glass. She was standing in what seemed like the living room. It had a sophisticated design with clean, minimalist lines, recessed lighting, Italian furniture, and expensive hardwood. Abstract artwork adorned the walls with fine sculptures resting in strategic places. It was a shocking contrast to anything she had seen until now. She was like a disheveled camper entering a five-star residence. In her white hospital gown, with a deathly frail complexion, she was more like a ghost. Only the blood that spanned her entire lower body showed that she was still human—alive, but not for long.
“Help! Help me, please. Is there anybody here?”
Racing through the room, searching for the main doorway, she hoped that her pleas would fall on sane ears. To her right sparkled the ultramodern kitchen with contemporary teak cabinets and black granite countertops. In the center of the island, next to the gas hob, lay a stainless-steel storage block, complete with a full set of knives. It tempted her, mid-stride, to turn for the kitchen and grab one, but quickly dispelled the thought. In her frail state, she couldn’t hope to overpower a crazed maniac. She tripped on a beige nubuck leather ottoman, her upper torso and face thumping into the hardwood. A glass tray with a crystal cognac decanter, two crystal glasses, and a framed photograph flew off the ottoman. She shut her eyes as the crystal shattered on the floor.
“Stay down, Abigail. It’s over. I’m here to help you. She’s gone.”
He spoke in Dr. Falk’s steady tone, cold and calculated, and seemingly void of prejudice.
The bold wooden smell of cognac wafted into her nostrils, a puddle forming all around her head. A searing, burning pain jolted her to her feet. The alcohol was like a flaming torch melting her skin, seeping into her abrasions without mercy. She looked over her shoulder and saw the blonde wig in his hand, revealing a clean-shaven scalp. He wore a classic red one-shoulder evening dress with a lined padded bust and a free-flowing silhouette that cascaded over the lower half of the body.
“I can’t let you leave, Abigail. I have instructions to treat you well and help you get better.”
His azure eyes gleamed with compassion, his smile broad and sincere. There was no sarcasm in his words.
She was hurt, tired, and, most of all, she just wanted it to end. She looked down at the purple, brownish mix of blood and cognac. A photograph soaked under the thick fluid. She bent down and swooped it up, trembling; it was them. Robert was playing soccer with a boy in the park. Robert’s hair was shorter, and he had changed his glasses. She drew the photograph right to her eyes as the blood had tainted the boy’s face.
Oh my God . . . Jonah, my baby?
CHAPTER 11
The photograph dropped from Abbie’s hand, and she drew away from him, determined to survive. He was watching her family, and it gave her renewed hope that they were alive. Her baby needed her. She didn’t take her eyes off him, taking slow, deliberate backward steps. If he moved toward her, she would turn and run.
He groaned like a wild boar, veins protruding around his neck. The smile grew broader and more sinister. He twisted his head in quick circular motions, his face crimson, more veins popping out by his temples.
“Fuck you, Freddy, you can’t fight me. I’m protecting us, don’t you see. This bitch will pay for putting a wedge between us.” He placed the wig on his head, and Fiona was back.
Abbie ran for the doorway, rapid footsteps trailing behind her. The wide, solid oak door blocked her path out of the house. She tugged at the matte black metallic door handle with both hands. He had locked it. The oak stared back at her like a funeral casket, and in mere seconds her blood would adorn the fine craftsmanship. She glanced back and screamed, his charcoal black eyes hungry for blood. He charged at full pace for the door, the silhouette of the red evening dress flailing around his legs like a burning flame, a phoenix rising from the ashes, coming to burn everything in its path.
The knives!
She turned right and sprinted for the kitchen island, rounding it as she grabbed the stainless-steel storage block.
He stopped his chaotic pursuit opposite her on the other side of the island. A small, seductive grin replaced his typical creepy smile. He raised his right hand and glided it through the matted blonde hair, tilting his head, his every motion feminine.
“This is becoming so much fun, my child,” he said, lowering his hand toward his crotch. “You’ll have some fun today with this bitch, Freddy. You can thank me later.”
Abbie slid out a knife and threw it hard, aiming at his upper torso. He twisted and ducked like a jaguar, the blade spinning inches from his face. He dropped to the floor on all fours.
She watched the knife smash into the living room’s wall-to-wall window with a bone-chilling clatter. It was a surprise that the glass didn’t crack. But she noticed the profiling around the window. It was a multi-slide door leading to the snowy forest—a magnificent way to combine modern interior design with an expansive view of the outdoors.
Those things open with just a push of the finger!
She grabbed a few knives and leaned her upper body onto the island’s cold granite countertop, throwing knives in his direction. She had to make him circle left around the island and leave an opening for her to make a direct run for it. A series of knives rattled against the hardwood flooring, missing his back by a hairbreadth. He circled the island on all fours, his long fingernails scraping against the hardwood like a dog struggling to remain on its feet on a slippery surface. He was circling in her direction.
“HAWOO!”
A wolfish howl bounced off the kitchen cabinets. Every blade she threw made him lust after her more, unleashing his primal instincts. She took backward strides, the fear pushing her back. Moving clockwise around the island, she kept him within her sights. A few more steps and the living room would beckon—one final charge for the outdoors. Her fingers and palm wrapped tight around the wooden handle of the carving knife—the last one. Her bony, pale knuckles protruded like ridges around the blade’s handle. She remained still, waiting for his head to appear from behind the island’s edge. First, the strands of the matted blonde hair appeared, mopping the surface. He twisted his neck toward her and smiled, a devilish, inviting look.
“Wait, my child, let me make this easy for you.” He kneeled upright, spreading his arms out wide, a beaming human crucifix, the red evening dress spilling onto the floor like a waterfall of blood forming around his body.
“Go ahead, child. This game is so much fun, it’s gotten me all frisky. I’ll do despicable things to you.” Fiona’s deep voice rasped with passion. “I have strict orders to keep you safe. My lover wanted all the fun for himself! But it looks like our brief experiment has gone wrong.” He cackled, deep guttural tones emanating from within, intermittent by a distinctly feminine laugh. “You’re my problem now, not his. So I’ll enjoy you, then carve you up like butchered meat.”
“Please, Freddy. I know that you can hear me. Help me, please. Don’t let her do this,” Abbie begged, praying that she could get his personality to switch. His internal struggle was visible, and he switched second by second.
“Freddy is a fool. I wasn’t talking about him. He can’t help you. Nobody can. I’ll torture you until you wish you were dead. Then, a few seconds before I put an end to your miserable existence, I’ll tell you the truth.”
“Freddy, Fiona, please. I want to go home. I have a family. They need me.”
He burst out into boisterous, unrestrained laughter. “Looks like the truth will hurt like hell. You deserve this, you bitch. He told me how you treated him.”
Abbie took another step backward, the knife throbbing in her malnourished hand, the weight of the blade a constant reminder of the cost of her freedom. She knew precisely what she needed to do.
“Just do it!” he growled, urging her into his sick game. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, giving her easy access to his exposed throat.
She aimed the blade for his bowels. The distance between them was the length of the kitchen island. She contemplated running up and burying the knife in his heart. For her family, for the girl, for all the pain that he caused her. But she was no cold-blooded killer. Any hesitation, and he would overpower her at ease. She had to strike from a distance. She stretched her arm back and threw the knife with force. In a trancelike state, she watched it spin through the air. It hit him on the side of his neck and then clattered onto the hardwood.
“Argghhh!”
He drew his left palm to his neck. There was no blood, no wound, not even a scrape. Only the knife’s wooden handle made contact, the blade breezing by without a scratch. He grinned, eyes burning with desire, reaching for the carving knife.
This was her moment. She charged for the multi-slide door, hurdling over the ottoman and navigating past the L-shaped leather sofa. She clawed three fingers into the flush pull handle of the glass door, sliding it open with an effortless whoosh. A powerful gust of icy wind blew into her face with surprising intensity. It was as if she had dipped her head in an ice bucket, the result cold enough to take her breath away. Everything was white. Were it not for the reddish trunks of the pine trees, she would have thought she was back in the white abyss—the sky and the muddy earth were all blanketed by a pure white. In the glass’s reflection, she could see him dashing toward her. There was no looking or turning back. She placed her bare feet onto the packed-down snow and sprinted, pushed on by the gusty wind shoving the small of her back. The surface was stable and smooth, and not particularly cold since her feet weren’t sinking into the snow. She ran hard and tall, elevating her chest to a forty-five-degree angle and raising her chin, thus opening up her diaphragm and trachea and enabling herself to keep up a fast pace. Her arms swung in a forward-backward motion, close to her body, avoiding any lateral movement that would slow her down. Besides the gust of the wind, the only sound was that of her feet thumping against the icy surface. Each stride landing with the middle of her foot, she maintained a keen runner’s posture. The frosty needles of the pine trees brushed up against her face and arms. She hadn’t run in years, not since her college days, when she had excelled in track and field. She was never an elite athlete, but she was a strong runner. She envisioned her races, focusing solely on getting to the finish line first. However, this time, instead of a medal, the prize was her life. She always viewed the medals and trophies as frivolous, like all material things. What mattered to her most was the sacrifice and application required to succeed.
Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller Page 6