by Keri Lake
The air catches inside my chest, tears streaming down my cheeks as I stare, paralyzed with fear. It takes me back to when Oliver was just a baby and he got too close to the kiln while it was firing, accidentally burning his finger. I cried for days after, feeling like the worst mom on the planet. I can’t even think about him burning alive. I won’t.
“Your silence is concerning to me, Nola. Allow me to pose the questions separately. Would you choose to watch your son burn in the kiln?”
I shake my head, unable to stop shaking long after the question has been answered.
“Then, should I assume you accept my seed inside your body? Do you choose me?”
Feigning a smile that he likely can’t see for the tube, I nod and mumble the word, “Yes!”
“I’m so relieved.” He sets his hand against his chest and blows out a breath. “For a moment, I thought you were going to choose your son, and how sick would that have been, right?”
I don’t answer him, my body in spasms beneath the tight plastic.
My pulse settles, when he walks away from the kiln, making his way toward me.
Smiling, he kneels down in front of me, between my legs that have been propped spread-eagle by the latex. At the apex of my thighs, he leans in and breathes deeply, his hands gripping either side of the metal frame to steady me.
“I love the smell of your cunt beneath the latex. Would you like me to taste it?”
Tears leak from my eyes, as I lift my gaze, squeezing my lids shut to block all of this out, and nod.
Seconds later, I feel pressure where he’s buried his face between my thighs, sucking me through the plastic. It’s not erotic. It’s not enjoyable. It’s sickening, and the urge to ball my hands into tight fists has me scratching at the latex keeping them captive at my sides.
“Delicious.” The sucking sounds twist my stomach with the urge to wretch. “Why aren’t you moaning, Nola? I know you moan. I’ve heard you moan during your baths.”
The thought of that should mortify me, but it only adds to my disgust. Tightening my closed lids, I will myself somewhere else. To the night in the hotel room with Voss, while he buried himself in my thighs. I imagine it’s his lips on me right now and I fake a soft moan to appease Simon.
“It feels good, doesn’t it, Moonflower?”
Again, I nod my head and open my eyes to the kiln, where the lid still stands ajar. “Mmm-hmm,” I mumble through the tube. Not for his sake, but for Oliver’s.
In a moment of mercy, the sensation disappears, and Simon pushes to his feet, standing before me, eyes riveted on my breasts. I can’t tell if I’m naked, or wearing my lingerie, but he leans forward and takes one of my breasts in his mouth.
The way he suckles it is unnatural, in rhythms that mimic a baby’s feeding.
In seconds, his sucking turns fervent, excitable, and he squeezes too harshly, creating a flash of jagged light behind my tightly screwed lids.
The sucking stops, but he continues to massage my breasts and groans.
“Tell mother you’re sorry for wetting the bed, Simon,” he whispers in an odd feminine voice.
“I’m sorry, mother.”
“Come, lie in bed with me.” The voice changes are so distinct in him, I’d almost swear another woman was standing in the room with us. A sound so practiced, it sends a chill down my spine. “I know you’re upset over your spanking. Take my breast in your mouth.”
Once again, his mouth is on my nipple, harder than before. A pinch of pain makes me grunt into the tube, but he doesn’t relent.
“Harder. Suck me harder.” That voice wasn’t spoken with the feminine tone, but the one of the child. A slapping sound follows, and I don’t dare open my eyes, as I’m certain he’s stroking himself.
His mouth releases my breast, and he rests his cheek against it, his harsh breaths beating against the plastic in time to the slapping sounds that heighten. “That’s it. Harder.”
My whole body is trembling, while this sick fantasy, or flashback, or whatever the fuck it is, plays out in front of me like a nightmare.
For another minute, he masturbates against me, jerking and massaging my breast, until at last, his fingers dig into my flesh with a flash of pain, and he shudders on a long, drawn moan.
“You didn’t finish, Nola.”
I open my eyes to see his mouth curved into anger, his jaw tight and clenched.
“You always finish.”
He pushes off of me, and the way his shoulders are bunched is terrifying, like he might snap any second. “You lied to me when you said you chose me.”
Shaking my head, I squirm inside the plastic to get loose. “No,” I mumble through the tube.
Backing himself away, he gets closer and closer to the kiln, and my throat goes dry, my body numb. Through tears, I shake my head. “No! Please! No!”
He can’t understand the words.
He pushes down the lid to the kiln.
“No!” My whole body is in a panic as I claw against the plastic to get loose. “No! I’ll finish! Please!” I scream in futility. In an instant, Oliver’s entire life flashes before my eyes. Holding him in the hospital and stroking his fine, downy hair. Watching him take his first steps. Chasing him through the park. Watching him blow out his birthday candles. I see a brief glimpse of the man he would’ve become. Tall and handsome and caring and gentle. “No!” I sob into the tube.
“I never wanted to hurt you, Nola, but you betrayed me.”
He flips the switch on the kiln, and I can’t breathe. The air locks inside my chest.
My whole body is trembling in shock. I twist just enough to dislodge the tube from my mouth, and the latex instantly clings to my lips.
The world flicks to blackness.
23
Voss
I wondered if I’d find the pole barn on Adler, but with the street only about a block long, and the building ahead of me set off from the road, the only one within a mile I’ve seen, I gotta believe it’s the Michaels’, whoever the hell they are. I park along the road and hike across the field, with the moon high and beaming down on the building like a spotlight. Simon’s silver car sits on the approach, under a flickering floodlight.
Simon.
I cannot wait to have this bastard under my blade.
What looks like black garbage bags, shiny and impervious to the light, cover two windows on the north side of the building. I try to pry each one open, my jaw tight with the effort, but they’re sealed shut.
I lean back, catching sight of an exterior staircase snaking up the side of the building, and keeping to the shadows, I pad quietly up to an upper level deck. Another window doesn’t budge when I attempt to open it. Beside it, I check the door, but finding it locked as well, I keep on, rounding the deck to where an awning window stands vented. With a hard yank, I widen the opening enough to fit through, and climb inside. The clank of metal steels my muscles, and I pull my phone from my pocket, clicking on the flashlight. Its fluorescent beam slices through the dark and lands on Oliver, who’s huddled in the corner, knees to his chest. A chain extends from his ankle, to a pipe at the base of the wall beside him.
Running the beam of light over him, I notice dirt and grime clinging to his skin, but no obvious sign of bruises, or torture. The scent of piss assaults my nose, likely from the full bedpan beside him. Lips downturned and twitching, like he can’t decide whether to smile, or cry, he unravels his hands from his bent knees. Within seconds, though, I can see the shine in his eyes, and the bunching of his shoulders turning lax with what must be a relieved smile stretched across his face.
Finger pressed to my lips, I stride toward him and kneel on the floor. The chain connects to shackles at each of his ankles, bound by a padlock.
“I’ll show you a trick,” I whisper, tugging my push dagger from its sheath. Shoving it into the lock, I twist until the cylinder clicks and pops open. In less than a minute, he’s free. “Never fails,” I say, slipping the knife back into its holder at my belt.
Simons voice carries through the building, and I set my attention back to Oliver. “Some bad shit’s about to go down, Oliver. I don’t want you to see, understand?” Bad shit is an understatement. Somebody’s about to be castrated with a dull blade. “My car is parked on the road. I want you to wait there for me. I’m getting your mom out of here.”
Brows furrowed, he shakes his head and lurches toward the door, like he plans to go after his mom himself.
“Hey,” I say, arm pressed to his chest to keep him from going near that door. “I’m going to bring her back to you. I promise.”
His body twitches with what must be a rush of adrenaline, but seconds later, his shoulders sag, and he lowers his gaze, eyes blinking like he’s trying to hold back tears.
“’Sokay, kid. You’re gonna be okay.” Shoulders square with his, I give him an earnest, no-bullshit stare. “Go. And you don’t come back here for anything, got it?”
Another nod, and he pushes to his feet, adjusting his glasses. I cup my hands to give him a boost, and he climbs up through the window, out onto the deck.
Twisting around, I head toward the door and crack it just enough to hear some shuffling below. I peek over the railing to see the lower level is still, no one in sight. The hum of a fan echoes through the pole barn, offering just enough background noise for me to sneak down the staircase. Eyes constantly scanning, I don’t see any sign of Simon, as I make my way around the corner.
This is exactly why I don’t do this kind of thing, when I’m hunting prey. Better to stay in the shadows that give me the advantage. I might as well hold up a marquee, fumbling around with the massive disadvantage of not knowing where the hell he skittered off to.
Nola lies on a bed, and I realize the fan is actually a vacuum, shrink-wrapping latex to her body, which has been propped in a way that makes my fucking blood boil. Legs spread, she lies on her back, and a hole is cut where the white cotton of her panties shows through.
With a quick scan, I check to see her chest is moving up and down in the plastic and spot her feet squirming about.
Simon is probably banking on my momentary distraction of trying to figure out how to get her out of that contraption.
I’m done giving the little prick the upper hand.
Ignoring her for now, I keep on toward a room just past a utility sink, which stands adjacent to shelves of flowers, and a pot containing a single blooming Queen of the Night flower. I have to find him first, and Glock leading the way, I pass by what I recognize from Nola’s studio as a kiln. Waves of heat hit my face like a warm curtain, telling me something is inside of that thing. The scent on the air is greasy, like meat that hits the back of my throat. At this point, I don’t want to know. Whatever it is, or was, is dead now.
I crack the door open just enough to allow some light inside an adjacent room. A recliner is positioned before a wall of morbid pictures and jars, the second of which are filled with fluid-suspended eyeballs. As I step inside, a shine flickers from my left, where the shadows come to life, and a wet spray hits my face.
What starts as a tingling sensation over my eyes turns into a full-on burn, and I shoot blindly into the darkness. The bullet pings somewhere inside the room. Swinging my gun around, I open my eyes to search for him, but all I see is a blur. As if I’m viewing the world through too big of a lens, the objects stretch and soften.
“I read your shooting skills were unmatched in the military. Top of your class.”
At the sound of his voice, I aim again and listen carefully for any movement.
“So, naturally, I thought, should I ever meet this excellent marksman face to face, I’ll be sure to take out his eyesight first.”
Again, I shoot into the darkness, and the bullet ricochets off metal somewhere, while the room gets blurrier with each passing second.
A burn streaks across my back, and I twist around, firing another shot. The sound of shattered glass and splashing liquid tells me I nailed one of his eyeball jars.
“Fucking idiot!” The fury in his voice reverberates off the walls. “That’s my prized collection.”
“Who are you?” I grit out past clenched teeth, furious that I can’t find him. I back myself out of the room, in hopes of drawing him into the light. The brightness only adds to my irritation, though, as I stand aiming at nothing, while he remains concealed in the obscurity of that room.
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Who is the elusive Sandman?”
“Tell me.”
“I could. But then I’d have to kill you.” The sound of his chuckling grates on my spine, and I grit my teeth in frustration.
The burn intensifies, watering my eyes. “Why cut out their eyes and stuff them with bone meal?”
“You’re right. It’s not polite to take credit for something I didn’t think up on my own.”
“Who did?”
“It was something my father always did. Or so I was told.”
Of all the unholy fucking things in the world, my bastard uncle spawned a bastard son? “You never met him?”
“Never. My mother was one of the prostitutes he raped and discarded. Only, he made the mistake of getting her pregnant.”
The burn in my eyes feels as though it’s traveled into my sockets, producing more tears, which I can’t see past as I attempt to quell the stinging with the heel of my palm.
“Turns out, my father disappeared about seventeen years ago,” Simon prattles on from the other room, and I wait for him, backing myself behind a shelf, so I’m not some sitting duck. “There’s nothing on him.”
As far as I know, Carl’s body was never identified and found. Skeletal remains were discovered on the bank of the river not far from the estate, a few years after, but the degradation and loss of DNA made them impossible to identify. Worst of it was, my grandfather never bothered to report him missing.
“I decided to seek out his father, who happened to be dying. Your grandfather.”
After I left, I didn’t bother with the son of a bitch. Didn’t even know when, or why, he died. Didn’t care.
“It was while visiting him at the Jansen estate that I stumbled upon my father’s journal.”
I finally catch sight of a figure emerging from the room, but it’s nothing more than a shiny black blob, indiscernible through the tears gathered in my eyes. I lift my arm to fire a shot and realize the blob is wider than it should be, my sight distorted enough to see two of him.
“In the journal, he detailed his methods of taxidermy, skinning animals, studying their flesh, their insides. His technique for sewing and carving out the eyes from the skulls. He lamented about women like my mother, how sex with them was so unfulfilling, and that’s when he decided to taxidermy his very own sex slave. That’s when he set his sights on Nora, a local college student. So smitten with her, he wanted to immortalize her and keep her. I was moved by this gesture. Found it oddly romantic.”
You would, sick fuck.
“Eventually, grandpa passed away, followed by my mother, and I became a teenager on the streets. Penniless.”
“Welcome to the family.” Out here, I have to be attentive to Nola, where a stray bullet might easily hit her, so firing blindly isn’t an option.
He snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “Yes, well, it was while living in squalor that I found purpose, and when I learned that Nora had a sister, I thought it the perfect ode to my father.”
Swinging the gun around, I search through my failing eyesight, and when I turn, I can just make out an object pointed at me. Probably the barrel of a gun.
He must back away from me, because the object shrinks until it blends in with the blurred surroundings.
“As riveting as this conversation has been, I’m afraid I’m running out of time with Nola.”
“What’s in the kiln?” I’m trying to zero in on him, keep him talking.
“Just some … insig
nificant female that I picked up from the bar the other night.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the proximity of his voice. “Zelene.”
“Ah! You must watch the news. Good for you.”
“Why didn’t you dump her body somewhere, like the others?”
“She was … impure.”
“How so?” I aim my gun toward where I think he’s standing. Just shoot, my head tells me, but without a clear shot, I’m throwing away bullets and risking one of them hitting Nola.
“Only one Queen of the Night remains, and that is saved for my beloved.”
Across from me are the shelves of flowers I remember seeing earlier, including the pot that held the single Queen of the Night.
The lights cut out, and once again, I’m in total blackness. My pulse hammers as I fight the lingering residue in my eyes and crouch low to the ground, rounding the table in the center of the room toward those shelves. Flames streak across my arm, as a bullet hits my bicep. Fuck! Palm slapped to the wound, I slide along the wall. I curl my fingers around what I think is part of the shelf and heave at the metal, sending objects crashing to the floor.
“No! No!” Simon screams from somewhere in the room, the rage in his voice enough to peel the paint off the walls. “That was my last bloom! You’ve ruined it!”
Good.
Stepping over hazy debris below me, I knock a second shelf, and more items crack against the concrete.
“This was going to be a gift to my father. I was going to carry out his vision.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I continue to taunt. “I killed him.”
The burn in my bicep has me probing the wet skin around it, the angry flesh where the bullet is lodged inside.
“He hated you. His journal spoke about how much he loathed you. How he wished to hear you suffer. I’m going to take great pleasure in killing you,” he says, before a bullet pings off the steel shelving beside me.