Bank Owned

by J. Joseph Wright

  Upstairs in the kitchen, he found a flashlight, and tore back down once he did, ready to confront the pitch black beyond the hidden door. Penetrating the murkiness, he made out another wooden staircase, leading down, further into the unknown. He gagged when the musty odor of stale, century-old air hit him, and had to cover his face with his shirt for the first few breaths as he descended, one rickety, shaky step at a time. No handrail, and it seemed the staircase hung freely, swaying with each stride, anchored to an unseen floor. Now a male’s voice joined Angie’s in a lustful duet. The words were unintelligible, the tone quite clear. Unmitigated pleasure. Unbridled sexual heights.

  The rigorous fits of desire grew louder and louder the further down Brian got. He pointed his light, attempting to catch the scandalous pair in the act, aiming this way and that. All he saw was darkness. And when he reached the end of the steps, he was greeted by a keen silence. The exuberant cries, the soulful moans begging for more, all stopped the second he set foot on the floor. So silent, the ringing in his ears became deafening.

  He made out features now, shadows and silhouettes cast by his wholly inadequate flashlight. He bumped into something, but wasn’t afraid. He knew it wasn’t a person by its flimsiness, and when he examined with his light, saw it was an artist’s easel of some sort. Then, upon further inspection, his suspicion grew about this thing, this device.

  It stood on multiple legs and had numerous long appendages like the arms of Vishnu. He thought, or hoped, it was a Bowflex or something. Workout equipment. But it wasn’t. Long, steel hooks on the ends of hanging wires. Leather straps with heavy-duty buckles. Nylon cords, just to make sure the ‘victim’ stayed perfectly in place. It was a torture device, no ifs, ands, or buts. What it was doing in his house, or under his house, was the question.

  As his eyes adjusted, slowly but surely, he began to take in the entirety of what could only be described as a room of horrors, of pain—a torture chamber. A large area, with all kinds of gadgets and contraptions scattered about, lining the walls, arraigned in no particular order. Placed in a prominent setting, was the original contraption, the artist’s easel, so to speak. Only this art was one of torment, of bloodletting and depraved lust. He shuddered at the thought of what pain was inflicted on each device. He saw an old fashioned stretching machine, a viselike thing that must have been a knee and knuckle smasher, and a host of various dangling hooks. Not just hooks, but razors and blunt balls and leather whips. He found more whips on a tabletop covered with a plethora of instruments. Shiny metal and dull wood and even ancient mallets made of stone. He saw what looked like a police flashlight, and almost picked it up, then recoiled in disgust when he realized what it was—a vibrator shaped like a large penis. Several of them, different thicknesses and lengths, enough to send a wave of nausea through his intestines so severe, he actually hurled, but nothing came out.

  He backed off and bumped into yet another machine, a gurney that spun upside down. It looked innocent enough, until he saw the cage of tiny blades encircling the perimeter. The razors reflected in his eyes and blinded him. He stumbled again into a different contraption, this one a box, with bars…a prison for one, designed to make the occupant crouch in an uncomfortable position. Every corner, every square inch of that place was littered with things with one purpose and one purpose alone—to inflict suffering, to maim and cut and degrade. And for what? All in the hopes of getting off?

  Again, his mind raced with questions and worries. Why was this stuff here? Could it have been left by the previous owners? That had to be it. But the more he looked, the more evidence he saw of recent use. Dust had been removed. Things were clean and appeared like they’d just been put there yesterday. No cobwebs. No sediment or signs of age. He held his head with one hand and his rolling stomach with the other. He couldn’t shake the questions. Why was this here? Who did this belong to? Who was using this, and when? Images of his wife strapped into one of these…things roiled to the surface and his gut felt like it would explode. He dry-heaved again and again on his way up the stairs. Once back in the basement, he forced the secret door closed, rebuilt the cinderblock shelves, and decided to forget what he’d seen. Close it away like the hidden passage. Close it off and block it with bricks and forget.

  9.

  “Aren’t you gonna help me?” Angie leaned from the kitchen. She caught Brian’s attention for a fraction of a second, then he went back to watching the Seahawks drive downfield. “O-kay,” she gave up on him and continued stirring the pasta sauce. She’d prepared the entire meal all by herself. Steamed the clams. Cooked the linguini. Tossed the Caesar salad. And she did it all with a pep in her step, wearing a gigantic smile, and humming a song her mother used to sing to her when she was very, very little.

  She took his silence through the main course. Even let His Highness watch the game while she ate at her computer. Needed to get caught up on Facebook, anyway. And, to show her generous and patient maturity, she went so far as to collect his dirty dishes. She didn’t mind his cold shoulder treatment. She knew that would all end soon. He was a man, and men could be, well, manipulated.

  “Here,” she presented him with a slice of chocolate-chocolate chip cake. He looked at it for a long moment, then took it.

  “Thanks,” he offered a reluctant grin. A crack in the ice. She was in. Now, to show him what he would be getting. She bent over, just a little, to hit the mute button on the remote. He took notice of her skintight leggings, the curvature of her rear. She saw him noticing her and stood quickly, faking a bout of shyness. Rocking up and down on her tiptoes, she blurted it out.

  “I have some good news,” her ear-to-ear smile forced him to respond.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she affirmed. “I’m ovulating,” her spine tickled. She was so scared. So, so scared. But she was ready. The house, her job, their new life together. She was ready. “Let’s have a baby.”

  He kicked the recliner upright and stood straight, dropping the cake and clutching her waist. “Are you sure?” he hovered his hand an inch away from her stomach. “You’re ready now? One hundred percent positive?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  With that, he whisked her off her feet and carried her up one flight of stairs. That was it, though. In his zealousness, he’d neglected to calculate just how much energy it would take to carry his wife to the bedroom. She didn’t mind when he put her down on the second floor, and led him the rest of the way, giggling at his sudden and wonderful turn from grumpiness. He was happy about it, too, and shoved aside all those dark, dirty thoughts. The stuff he’d found belonged to someone else. Or maybe it was all a dream. Whatever it was, with the help of his beautiful wife and her incredible news, news they’d both been waiting on for a long, long time, he mustered the will to push it out of his mind.

  But it wouldn’t last.

  She loved his eagerness, the way he undressed her breathlessly, and how he reacted to her naked form. Even his roughness she loved, though normally she would have wanted it to be a little slower, a little gentler. He loved her, heartily, deeply, and it showed in the way he nibbled on her nipples, each one eagerly, greedily. He felt her tummy, rubbing and caressing. There, he was gentle. Soft. Slow. His demeanor slowed markedly after that. They locked eyes, and, for the first time, locked lips, enraptured in the love the two of them shared. She was flowing with moisture, wet for him, and full of desire. Long gone were the fears, the terrible, paralyzing idea that any attempt at creating another life would end like it had the first time. She’d dealt with the fear. She’d confronted it. She’d conquered it. And she’d learned to get beyond it.

  But it wouldn’t last.

  They danced with each other’s tongues. Then he slid his hands down her sides as she swept hers along his shoulders to the small of his back. Each of them exploring the other. Enjoying the other. Enjoying the thought of bringing another life into their loving home. Confident, happy, lost in their love, and lust, for one another.

  Then, it
all changed.

  It happened to Brian first, when he slid his tongue along the side of her hip, tasting every inch of her. As he rolled her over, he saw, on her right buttock, what looked like a clear handprint, reddish and raised. Instantly, his mind coursed with a thousand images all at once, a mental cluster bomb jarring him from his confidence. Now, all became empty, and made him want to curl up in a corner and forget. But he couldn’t forget. He’d heard what he’d heard, and saw what he saw. Something strange was going on, and he just knew Angie was involved. He could picture her, could see them together, another pair of hands on her, and he could hear her depraved hunger as she begged for more.

  Instinctively and quite barbarically, he slapped her, hitting the very same place as the handprint, placing his own mark. She winced and coursed with pain, but didn’t hate it. A side of him she hadn’t seen before. Then he slapped her again, this time harder. It hurt, and she frowned at him, hoping that would be enough to get him to stop. It wasn’t. He couldn’t get the images out of his head. The torturous interplay between his wife and the mystery man. The pain for pleasure taken to extremes until she exploded in orgasm. He wanted to do the same with her, wanted her to experience just as much pleasure with him. So he slapped, and scratched, and bit, until she shrieked at him to stop and recoiled in the sheets to get away from him.

  “What’re you doing?” she wanted to slip out of bed. “Why’d you do that shit to me?”

  “Isn’t it what you want?” he still felt her skin, hot against his throbbing palm. “To be dominated? Isn’t that how you get off?”

  “What?” she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “No. Of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”

  He had to look away. “I-I don’t know,” he shook off the disturbing visions, terrified he’d caused her this torment. “I’m sorry, I-I guess I’ve been a little stressed out lately. With the move and the money and everything.”

  She wanted to trust his word. But the look in his eyes. The forcefulness in his swing. He scared her.

  “Forgive me?” he slid next to her, giving her nowhere to go. To her relief, and soon her comfort, he touched her with the utmost gentleness. She showed him her forgiveness by lying down and accepting him on top of her. He made love to her, just the way she wanted him to. Deliberate. Slow. Romantic. Still, his sudden break from character brought back some feelings she’d tried so hard to repress, and thought she’d gotten a grip on, until that moment. That’s when she felt the soreness in her stomach again. The hollow, dead feeling in her womb. The same feeling she’d had when their baby died inside of her.

  She’d spent the last year swearing she’d never try again. Why, when it could end in the same tragic way again? She couldn’t put herself, or another innocent baby, through such heartbreak. Brian had stayed patient. He’d been wonderful, thoughtful, waiting tolerantly for her to get over the feeling of inadequacy. But most of all, she had to overcome the feeling that someone, or something, had cursed her womanhood, stripped her barren of any sort of life-giving, nurturing, motherly ability. And she’d done it. She’d faced the demon. Until Brian’s sudden and surprising bout of violence. After that, she felt the void again, and a deep-seated pain in her gut, pain she knew had no source. She was fine. Her doctor had assured her a hundred times. Still, she felt it. Like the baby was in there again, struggling with the cord around her neck. The whole time Brian made love to her, she had that feeling. But she denied it, convinced it wasn’t real. All that existed was she and Brian and their love for each other. And, out of that love, they’d create a child. She had hope.

  It was that hope that had her, two days later, in the shower, checking the pregnancy test strip before she’d even finished shaving her legs. She had to know. So, with hot water running and steam filling the bathroom, she picked it up off the counter. Negative. She collapsed against the tiled wall, sobbing.

  10.

  It took her twice as long as usual to get ready for work that day. In the spare bedroom where she kept her clothes, she got dressed in her best power skirt suit and studied the dark spots under her eyes, considering going back to bed one more time. Then she heard laughter. High and fast and melodic. Like a song.

  A child’s laughter.

  A flutter in her heart. She dropped the hairbrush and her feet moved without even thinking about where she was going. She just followed the sound of that musical, joyous giggling. She pictured a girl. She didn’t know why. It just sounded like a girl. And she was somewhere downstairs.

  In the kitchen, the laughter got louder, but she found no baby. More giggling pointed her to the basement, and down she went. The lone light bulb was harsh in her eyes and showed the basement for what it was—an empty, cold, damp place. No babies. Yet she heard one, babbling and cooing. It took only another second or two until she was standing before the cinderblock shelves, certain the baby was behind the concealed door.

  She had the blocks moved in no time. Worry for the baby’s wellbeing drove her, giving her almost supernatural speed and strength. Must have been supernatural, because, once the shelves were disassembled and moved aside, she got the secret door open with no troubles. The very same door Brian couldn’t dislodge. Her breath abandoned her at the sight of the blackness beyond. But the baby’s laughter became even louder, perfectly distinct. It was in there, and that knowledge urged her forward, into the darkness. A step down took her by surprise, and she stumbled the next three. Then she caught her balance, thankfully, since there were at least twenty more steps down, further into the underground abyss.

  When she reached bottom, what she beheld stunned her into silent awe. The room, not small, yet not large, either, had every inch crammed with children’s things. A mobile hung from the ceiling. All sorts of birds, different colors and sizes, spinning and dancing on strings. A lamp with lions and tigers and bears on the shade provided enough light to see a chest of toys, dollhouses and dump trucks and building blocks and bouncing balls. A shelf packed with books and stuffed animals and a table adorned with even more—elephants and giraffes and silly monkeys with cymbals in their hands. She found herself touching a monkey, just to make sure it was real. She handled it all, the toys and the lamp and a small tabletop with washcloths and bibs and diapers and little outfits with adorable flower prints.

  She realized the laughing that had brought her down there had ceased. The twinkling sound of a music box took its place, bringing her to a state of calm. All those terrible thoughts of losing her child were replaced by optimism, a genuine feeling of compassion and, most of all, of love.

  The crib had blended in with the satiny, soft wall coverings, which is why she must not have seen it right away. When she did, though, she rushed to its side, wasting not a second. She didn’t know why she was disappointed to discover only a bundle of cotton blankets, clean and neat. To find a baby in such a state of abandonment would have meant some horrible evil was afoot. So it came as a relief nothing was in the bassinet. Still, the laughter she’d heard seemed authentic, so genuinely joyous. Joyous. That’s what she felt as she took another mental inventory of what only could be described as a nursery. A wonderfully and thoughtfully arraigned and stocked child’s room, designed with love in mind. Pure. Unconditional.

  After the original shock of finding such a meticulously outfitted space, the reality of the situation began to wear down her euphoria. How could such a room exist, deep below their house? And why would someone build this place, in such a subterranean dungeon, with such a thorough eye for detail and obvious care? Though it didn’t look like a dungeon. It looked like any other room. Finished walls, soft carpet, whimsical paint with a rainbow and bunnies and a sunny spring scene. The only things missing were windows, a view of the outside world.

  She wondered if, in all of his sneaking around when she was asleep, Brian had built this room. It was just the sort of thing he would do. Maybe that was why he was acting so distant lately. Maybe he was doing that on purpose, just to throw her off. However, she began to s
ee signs of age. Tattered and yellowed paper in the Doctor Seuss books, and heavy dust on the stuffed animals. This place had been here a long time. Way before she and Brian had moved in. She decided to cast aside questions and motives. Far be it for her to question, or even criticize. One truth demanded to be heard above all others, and that was whoever built this room, they loved a child very, very much.

  That residual compassion moved her to tears for the second time that day. Suddenly she wasn’t so depressed about the negative pregnancy test. They’d make another baby. And another, and another. These were her thoughts as she hurried up the rickety staircase again. So excited was she that the absence of handrails, and light for that matter, phased her not even a little.

  “Brian! BRIAN!” she ran up to the real basement, or what she’d thought was the real basement. She kept running and shouting for her husband, desperate for him to come see.