by E. R. Whyte
All is as I left it.
Anticipation building, I climb out and walk on silent feet to the door, skirting the step that likes to creak. I want to surprise her. I like watching them when they don’t know I’m there. They are always authentic in those moments, sometimes just sitting and staring into space, sometimes crying and talking to themselves. I could turn my phone on and look at my surveillance app, but I want to see her in the flesh.
Careful to make no noise, I unlock the door and slip inside. The cabin is dark inside, the shuttered windows not allowing even a sliver of moonlight to shine in. I enter the kitchen and after turning on the dim light over the stove, open a cabinet. Retrieving a bottle of water and a pack of peanut-butter cheese crackers, I carry them to the living room area. I stop at the edge of the faded oriental carpet in front of the sagging plaid sofa. Bending, I flip the corner of the carpet back, revealing the faint lines of a trap door.
Hooking my fingers in a cut out designed to resemble a natural groove in the rough-cut floor planks, I lift it open. Waiting, I cock my ear to the space below and listen.
The faint light from the kitchen doesn’t penetrate. The darkness is like a throat, swallowing all, draping every sound, all definition in shadows. I squat beside the black hole in the floor, waiting.
I’m rewarded soon with a faint whimper. “Hello?”
I smile to myself, but do not reply.
“Please. Oh my God, I’m so hungry.” The sound of a choked sob echoes up. The chain clanks against the wall as she moves. “It’s so dark… please. Let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” She continues, the sound of her pleading a lovely sound in my ears.
I speak. “Are you a good girl, Madison?”
“Yes, yes, I promise I’m good—” She sobs.
“Show yourself to me,” I tell her. The clink of the chain comes again and after several moments I see her, just outside the faint square of light thrown by the opening in the floor.
She was an attractive girl when she latched on to my arm and came willingly with me several days ago. Now she’s filthy, her face streaked with tear stains and dried blood, her near naked form thin and scuffed with dirt from the floor.
She is pathetic.
I don’t think she’ll be holding my interest for much longer. She was always only meant to be a placeholder, anyway, a substitute until the genuine article comes along.
And I’ve finally found her. Shiloh.
“I’m going to lower the steps, Madison. If you promise to be a good girl, you may come upstairs for a little while.”
She nods tearfully and after drawing the moment out a touch longer, simply because I can, I reach just inside the opening for the trapdoor and click the button for the retractable steps, allowing them to descend with a controlled motion to the floor. I designed the steps myself to insure I would have exactly what I needed. When unneeded, the stairs are affixed to the ceiling supports just inside the trapdoor, but a push of the button allows them to lower and raise at my will.
Madison waits for the steps eagerly, then climbs up, her movements jerky and uncoordinated from being confined for the past several days. When she rises through the trapdoor, her gaze darts everywhere, quick and full of nerves. I know what she’s doing. She’s hunting for freedom, but she won’t discover it.
She’s not cunning enough.
“You are a dirty girl, Madison.” Her eyes cut to me and flicker away and she hugs herself with bony arms. I tsk, making my contempt obvious. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” I haul her up the last step and push her toward the back bedroom. There’s a bathroom there; I’ll have her shower.
I lead Madison into the bathroom and push her into the shower stall. There’s no curtain, and holding her gaze, I reach past her to turn the water on, observing as she flinches away from the cold stream.
“Soap.” I toss a bar onto the tiled floor. “Strip and clean yourself.”
I lean against the sink and slip my phone from my pocket, splitting my attention between the quaking bitch in the shower and my surveillance app. I don’t bother to look at her nakedness. There are far more fascinating things to watch.
On the screen in my hand, I navigate through each room until I locate my subject: Shiloh. Cameras installed at various points show me a sleeping house, rooms dark and void of movement. I find Shiloh tucked into her bed like a good girl. She lies on her side, one leg sticking out from the covers and her arm curled under her pillow. I zoom with a pinch of my fingers, focusing first on the gentle rise and fall of her chest and then on her face, slack in slumber. Her dark lashes are crescent moons on her pale cheeks, freckles standing out upon them like stars littering the night sky in an inverse photograph.
I trace the lines of her face, holding my finger just above the screen. Beyond it, a flicker of movement catches my attention. One arm curled around her waist and clutching the bar of soap to her stomach, Madison reaches for the hot water knob with her free hand.
“Did I give you permission to do that?”
She jerks her hand swiftly to her chest and trains her eyes on the floor as I’ve taught her. “I’m s-sorry — ” she starts.
“Sorry is not an acceptable response to unacceptable behavior. Kneel.” She starts to drop to her knees, face turned toward me, but I point to the back wall of the shower enclosure. “You are not permitted to look at me and I have no desire to see your hideous face.” Once she is kneeling appropriately, I grunt. “Show me.”
It took me exactly sixteen hours to break Madison. She knows exactly what I am asking, and obediently rises slightly and reaches behind her with both hands, parting her cheeks and tilting forward slightly. I look at her cunt clinically, then back down to Shiloh’s sleeping form. Soon.
“You’re not clean,” I pronounce, and pick up a wash rag from the sink. I throw it at her. “Scrub until you’re clean and I might let you eat tonight.” Hiccupping a sob, the girl picks up the wash rag and begins to rub it back and forth along her seam. “Not like that. Soap.”
She is shaking, and I can see the goosebumps rigid on her flesh, but she picks up the bar of soap and slides it through her legs. I sigh and shake my head. Really, if she’d just done what was expected to begin with, she wouldn’t be in this position. I’m not making her do anything I haven’t done myself. Different equipment, granted, but still.
Finally, I’m satisfied. “Out.”
She stands and turns the water off, then turns downcast eyes to me. “May I have a towel, please?”
“No towel. Put your clothes on.”
She looks at the pile of clothing in the shower, dirty and soaking wet. “T-they’re wet.”
I tsk. “That won’t do. Come along.”
She follows me back through the house until I pause beside the trap door, still standing open. “In you go.”
For the first time since I’ve arrived, I see an expression other than abject fear cross her face. It’s fleeting, but it’s angry, and fierce. “I’ll freeze with no clothes,” she bites out through lips that chatter.
“Maybe.” I motion to the steps. “I guess we’ll find out.” Reaching into my pocket, I toss the pack of crackers I pulled from the cabinet to the maw below. “Ration those. I may not be back tomorrow.” I shove her toward the steps. “Now walk down or I’ll throw you. It makes no difference to me.”
As quickly as it came, her spark of defiance is extinguished. With excruciating slowness, she descends the stairs. She wails the entire way, and with a sigh, I toss a bottle of water to the floor below, listening as she scrambles to find both items while there’s still some illumination.
I’m tiring of this one. She can’t compare to my sweet Shiloh.
I close the trap, shutting out the wails that gain in volume immediately.
“No, please! I’ll be good! Nononononono…”
12
Shiloh
The bleat of my alarm is obnoxious after struggling to sleep most of the night. The events
at the club kept cycling behind my eyelids, keeping me awake even through my exhaustion. One thing is certain. The club is off the table for now. I’m off tonight but scheduled tomorrow, and I honestly don’t think I can do it.
I extend my arm from the covers and reach for my clock without moving any other part of my body. The top is lined with buttons, but if I hit the right one, I can snooze another nine minutes.
Blessed silence.
Why nine minutes and not ten? What’s the deal with that one extra minute? Once the random thought enters my mind, I can’t stop thinking about it. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. This is my problem with snoozing. No matter how exhausted I am, I can’t ever manage to fall back asleep. My brain just keeps going.
And if I did manage to fall back asleep, it would only be for nine—not ten—minutes. It’s not even worth the nine minutes it would shave off my getting ready time. Maybe it’s this subconscious awareness of the futility of it that prevents me from snoozing. Which is ridiculous, because I really want to snooze.
My phone chirps a notification and I take it as a karmic nudge to get up before I achieve the impossible and fall back asleep. Then I’d feel even more sluggish upon awakening.
Snoozing officially sucks.
Reaching out once again, I pick my phone up from where it’s charging on the table, and flop over, thumbing the display until I reach my texts. There are two new ones awaiting.
The first is from Twiggy Gentry, I see with relief. Finally.
Twiggy: Hi, this is Twiggy. Sorry so late, busy weekend. I can help.
Me: Thank you! I was starting to worry. When is convenient?
Twiggy: This afternoon?
Me: You are awesome. Do you need my address?
Twiggy responds that she knows where I live, and we arrange for her to arrive around lunchtime. I’ll be at school still but promise to leave a key under a pot on the porch. That settled, I click over to the next text.
Unknown: Good morning.
This is awkward. I don’t recognize the number, but I guess I could have simply forgotten to save the contact information.
Me: Who is this? I must have dropped your contact.
Unknown: Did you like my gift?
Me: What gift? Who is this?
As soon as I type the words, it hits me. The bracelet.
My brow furrows. I understand now what people mean when they say their blood chilled. It’s like the temperature around me drops several degrees and even tucked under a cozy nest of blankets, I can’t help the goosebumps that break out on my arms. I force myself to remain calm.
Unknown: Such a short memory.
Me: Stop playing games. I know you’re the man from the club. NOW WHO ARE YOU?
Unknown: Don’t you think it’s time you got up and got ready for work? That tee shirt is cute, but all those young minds. . .
He ends with a winky face emoji and my gut lurches.
Not again. I drop the phone on the bed and scramble from the covers. This is not a coincidence, and I can’t think of a single other way to interpret his message. He can see me. Darting to the windows, I pull the blinds and then move room to room and repeat for every window in the house until it is dim and closed off from the outside. And then I go back and check the locks on every single one, cursing as I do. “Shit. You’re okay. Shit.” Finally, I stop in the center of my bedroom and run my hands through my hair.
I send Twiggy a quick text, letting her know that he contacted me.
I’m not sure what to do next. Gradually I grow aware of a steady, high-pitched beeping, and I look at the clock beside the bed to discover my snooze has long since elapsed. I’m in danger of being late if I don’t get it together, and now. With a final curse, I yank the clock from the wall, throwing it to the floor.
I hustle to make myself presentable, tossing on a pair of dark jeans that can pass for slacks at a distance and a school T-shirt so I can pretend I’m just being spirited if I’m caught wearing the jeans. Casual wear is frowned upon for faculty, especially, I’ve learned, young faculty, as it does nothing to help distinguish us from the student population. I frown. My principal will just have to deal with it today because I am out of time.
I wrap a hair tie around my wrist, give my teeth a quick rinse and spit, and I’m done, running out the door without even a morning caffeine hit to counter the coming day. I grind my teeth together as I battle traffic on my way to school, taking pleasure in thoughts of what I would do to this creep if I had him in front of me.
“Man, Miss Brookings, you look hung over. Did you lose power or something?” I raise a brow as I open my classroom for the students who have lined up outside to wait. I barely managed to make it as the last bell was sounding.
This is asked by a perky blonde named Stacy who drawls her words loudly and with the mildest edge of insincerity. I remember the Stacies from when I was a student. Every other girl is competition, even when they are clearly not competing. I head to the board and start writing, having no patience for Stacy today.
“No, Stacy. I do not have a hangover. I didn’t lose power. I just look hideous today. Thanks for noticing.” Stacy flushes and I feel a small twinge at my sharp words. Another reason I shouldn’t be teaching seniors.
Gunner looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
“What? I was in a hurry,” I reply, strangely defensive. “Overslept.” I wait until I have everyone’s attention. “Quiet, please.”
“I have a splitting headache today, so I’m going to go over there, sit down, and pretend to teach without actually speaking, while you guys are going to put yourselves in groups, refer to the assignment on the board, and pretend to be productive. Don’t bother me and I won’t bother you. Deal?”
There is a ripple of agreement and the scrape of desks as students group themselves and relocate their seats. With a sigh of relief, I head for my desk. Removing the hair tie from my wrist, I pull my mass of hair around one shoulder and begin braiding it loosely from the base of one ear into a long tail that drapes over my breast. It’s unkempt and far from perfect, and as I attempt to wrangle it into submission, I can tell that strands are escaping everywhere, but it’s at least somewhat contained.
Feeling more myself, I glance out over the class and stall when I find Gunner’s eyes focused intently on me. Blinking, he gives his head a shake and returns his attention to his phone. I ignore his small act of rebellion, flipping open a folder on my desk and sighing as I start to read the first of many student essays.
My attention keeps wandering. I’m half-asleep from lack of caffeine and that, combined with less than scintillating content, has my head drooping into the palm of my hand and my eyes skating around the room in a feeble attempt to stay engaged. I’ve read the same sentence three times when a knock comes on the door and it opens a crack.
The office attendant pokes her face through the opening. “Miss Brookings, you have a delivery.” I gesture for her to come in and watch, bemused, as she places a white paper bag and a steaming cup of coffee on the desk in front of me. “Enjoy.”
“Where did this come from?” I ask, but she shrugs and leaves as quickly as she arrived. I open the bag to find several doughnuts that I recognize from a nearby bakery. My mouth waters and I pull one out carefully with the enclosed wax paper. They’re one of my favorites, Boston cream. And coffee. I raise the doughnut to my lips but then lower it. What if it’s from the creep that texted me this morning, though? What if he did something to it, especially the coffee? He would know, after all, how little time I had this morning after screwing around with those messages — would know just how much I need this coffee.
I’m grumpier than ever before when a notebook lands on the desk beside the coffee and Gunner pulls a chair alongside the desk so he’s facing me. “Can I get some help, teach?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
“Sure.” I pull his notebook closer and attempt to focus on what he’s written.
“Are you on on
e of those caffeine or sugar detoxes, or something?” He asks, his voice pitched so it can be heard by the two of us alone. I look at him in question and he nods at the cup between us.
“No?” I’m not sure what his point is.
“Then why aren’t you drinking your coffee?”
“I just don’t know who sent it to me.” His expression is blank. “Girl safety, Gunner. Don’t drink things you can’t see being prepared?” Even as I say the words, I recognize my own paranoia, but I’m not about to tell a student personal details of how I have a possible stalker. Even admitting it to myself sounds dramatic.
“Never hurts to be cautious, I guess,” he replies. “Did something happen to make you nervous?”
“Of course not.” I don’t know why I lie. The words trip off my tongue quickly, without thought.
“Would you tell me if it had?”
“No.” At least I’m honest there, I think.
He tilts his head to the side, considering. “Why not?”
“Because you’re a student, Gunner. I’m your teacher. It’s none of your business.”
“You’re more than my teacher, and you know it.”
“Lower your voice!” I lean closer to him. “Just because we kissed years ago does not mean you have some kind of claim on me.”
He tilts his head. “I was referring to the fact that I was your brother’s best friend for years, Miss Brookings. But if your first thought was that kiss…” A smirk dances on his mouth. “That’s fine, too.”
Kinda walked into that one.
“What if I could help?”
“You don’t need to be involved.” The conversation is starting to make me uneasy. His persistence wears at me, making me question absolutes.
Absolutes such as teachers not getting involved with students.
“So, there’s something to be involved with?”
“That’s not what I said, Gunner. Look, just drop it, okay.”