Slowly, he lowered his face to hers, touching his dry lips to her mouth and kissing her. She grunted and moved her head away from him, but he placed his hands on either side and held her head still, kissing her more firmly this time. As she tried to pull away from him, the pressure of his hands increased until he was squeezing her painfully, yet he continued to kiss her unyielding lips, probing her mouth with his still bloodied tongue. When she refused to open her lips, he brought a hand around to squeeze her jaw again. She resisted as long as she could, but her mouth was finally forced open.
He kept the hand on her jaw as he licked his way around her lips. The coppery flavor of blood filled her mouth as the fluid ran into it, and she gagged, which caused him to pull back and snap, “Not while we’re kissing.”
Still gripping her jaw painfully, he ran his tongue down her throat and chest, bringing it to the nipple he had pinched before. He teased it with the tip of his tongue, looking up at her as if for a sign of her pleasure. She jerked her gaze upward and stared at the ceiling, jaw set.
He stopped teasing long enough to snap, “Look at me,” but she ignored him.
A scream was jerked from her throat when he clamped his teeth over the nipple and bit it, hard. This time, when his tongue returned to its circles she moaned, the sound born of pain, not pleasure. It felt like he had bitten right through it, and she wondered if he’d severed it.
He groaned in a low voice. “Your blood tastes divine, just as I knew it would.”
A renegade tear trickled down her cheek, sliding along her jaw line and wetting the hair by her ear. She released a shaky breath, gaze locked on the beam above her head. Her thoughts drifted to Clark and her boys. What would happen to them if she never made it home? Would they ever know what had happened to her? Clark was a good dad to Ben and Isaac, but boys need a mom, too.
Bored by her lack of any further reaction, he once again pinched the nipple hard, this time creating a much sharper pain. She wondered again how badly damaged it was, but she was able to clamp her mouth shut before she could make a sound. He tried again with the same result, though her head felt foggy and the sharp pain was followed by a deep ache.
His movements became sharp and quick with his anger, and he grabbed the scalpel again, showing it to her with a jerk of his arm before placing it against her face again. This time, he sliced it down her cheek, splitting it open. Another line of fire, and she felt the warm rush of blood. She gasped a little, but made no further sound. Her body was a collage of pain.
His face moved into her upraised gaze, and she saw a wild rage in his eyes as he once again dragged the scalpel down her cheek. She felt the skin split before the pain hit, sharp and fierce, more blood running down to join the tear in her hair. When she still didn’t react, he brought the scalpel up to her, lowering it slowly, torturously, until it hovered just above her eyeball. She squeezed her eyes closed, the lid grazing the blade, it was so close. Tears squeezed out beneath her eyelids, dampening both sides of her face this time. The blood began to feel tacky, and she waited for the inevitable slice of the blade across her eyeball. She could feel the blade hovering there, as if it gave out some form of energy that mingled with her own.
The slice never came.
Instead, he made a sound of disgust, then she felt him slice her shorts and panties off, the blade briefly coming into contact with the skin covering her pubic bone. This sudden violent exposure of her most delicate parts terrified her, and she couldn’t help but react by trying to pull her knees up to cover herself. The straps at her ankles kept this from happening, but she was able to bend her knees inward until they touched.
“Scared now?”
She refused to answer until the cold metal touched her labia, causing her to choke out, “Yes! It scares me.”
The metal drew away, and she released a breath.
“See? I can play nice when you give me what I want.”
Sure he could. What the hell did he consider nice? Chomping off a part of her instead of slicing it with a scalpel? A sob rose from her chest and she choked on it, no longer able to keep her pain and fear to herself. She closed her eyes as he reached above her, but they popped open when he drew his arm back. In it, was a clamp, like the ones her husband used in his workshop in the garage. This one was smaller than those he usually used. She followed its progress down to the as yet unabused breast, and whimpered as he placed it on her nipple, slowly tightening the clamp.
Just as she felt it start to tighten, she heard the distant sound of a doorbell. The clamp’s progress stilled and she opened her eyes, which she hadn’t realized she’d even closed, to gauge his reaction. He stared up at the stairs as if he could see through the floor to the front door. When the doorbell sounded again, he released the clamp, leaving it where it was and slamming his hand into the metal at her side.
A third chime forced him into action, and he started for the stairs, his feet slapping the ground, practically stomping. He reached a hand for the banister and turned to her to say, “Don’t go anywhere, now. I’ll be right back, and we’ll continue with our business.”
Her eyes widened as he went up the stairs. He hadn’t gagged her! If she just waited for the right moment, she could scream and maybe the person at the door would hear her. Was it the police? How long had she been unconscious in this chamber of horrors before the torture had begun?
Ralph’s steps sounded across the floor above her, and light bled underneath the basement door. She heard the chime once again then a murmur that might have been voices. She summoned all the energy she had, took a big breath, and screamed.
“Help me! I’m down here! Please, help!” Her voice broke, but she forced her way past it and screamed, her voice raw, no words coming out, just a primal howl. Footsteps sounded back toward the basement door, but she was hysterical now and couldn’t stop screaming. Something had broken within her, and the sounds tore from her throat with no act of will on her part. She realized she was sobbing as she screamed, but she was beyond caring.
The door above her opened, but quickly slammed shut again. Sounds of a scuffle reached her, and something heavy hit the door, making it shudder in its frame. She started to yank at her wrist and ankle restraints, pulling as hard as she could. Her mind barely registered the pain of the leather cutting into her flesh as she continued to pull. She realized she was still screaming and made herself stop, focusing her energy on the restraints instead.
As she jerked on the table, the tray clattered down onto her head, spilling the instruments of torture over her. Something landed close to her hand, and she strained toward it. She couldn’t get her hand into a proper angle to grab it, but she worked at it with her thumb instead, every muscle in her body focusing on that one small area.
She panicked when it seemed to move farther away from her, but she was able to push her shoulder down just enough to extend her reach, and the cool metal finally slid against the tip of her thumb. She let out a sigh of relief, taking a moment to listen to the sounds above her. A battle still raged above, and she knew she had to work quickly.
She carefully moved the instrument with her thumb until it was situated against the lip of the metal table. Once it felt fairly solid, she worked her thumb underneath it until she was able to get enough of her hand under it to grasp it. One side felt smooth and square-shaped, but there was no sharp edge. She shifted it enough to feel that there was a second side, this one sporting teeth like a small hobby saw.
Hurriedly, she gripped the smooth side, turning her wrist up at an awkward angle until the blade reached something that stopped it. Hoping it was the leather strap and not her rapidly numbing hand, she tensed her hand and pushed, using her fingers to manipulate the saw in an up and down motion.
Above her, there were two loud thumps in a row then silence. She froze, straining her ears to pick up any motion. It was a moment before she heard a creak in the floorboards, a vague shifting of weight above her. This was followed by another creak then the return of footsteps. Unsu
re who might be on the way, she resumed sawing, frantic to make some progress. The steps sped across the floor above her, passing the door and heading toward the living room she’d glimpsed while sitting in the kitchen.
She worked at the saw as quickly as she could.
The resistance slackened, and she was able to yank her arm free.
The footsteps approached the door above her.
She began sawing at her still-trapped wrist, pressing harder than she’d been able on the other arm.
Someone fumbled with the doorknob.
Faster, she sawed, grunting with the effort.
The door began to open, painfully slow.
Her other wrist came free, and she grabbed the saw with both hands, blood dripping from where she had cut herself, the flesh ragged. She brought it down to the side of her chest, using all the strength she had left to work at the thick strap that ran beneath her breasts.
The door stopped moving, light now flooding down the steps. Something slid forward.
Her breaths came out in sobs as she sawed at the strap, having a hard time finding purchase in this position. She gave it everything she had in her, splitting her attention between her sawing and the door at the top of the stairs.
A figure came into view, the bright light behind it keeping her blind as to who approached.
As the figure took one unsteady step down the stairs, the leather parted, freeing her chest. She removed the clamp then jerked herself up to a sitting position, ignoring the pounding in her head. Hunching over, she attacked the strap that bound her ankles. She glanced at the stairs, her hands slipping, and she cut into her leg before jerking her gaze back to the work before her and righting the saw.
Looking up again, she couldn’t find the figure at first. She stopped sawing, darting desperate glances around her until her gaze came to rest on Ralph Samuels at the bottom of the steps. A sheet of flesh hung over his forehead, and blood poured down his face, hiding one eye. The other eye glared at her from beneath the skin, and she choked on a gulp, hurriedly sawing as she stared at him.
He began to move toward her again, shambling oddly. She held the saw in one hand and used the other to fumble behind her, trying to find purchase on anything with weight or a good long blade. She dropped one item after another, not finding a good enough weapon to use against him as he drew nearer. She heard herself pleading, words tumbling out of her mouth with no real meaning.
About halfway between the stairs and the table she was on, Ralph paused again, still glaring at her. Her hand fell upon something that felt like a small hammer and she jerked her arm back, holding it out in front of her. They stared at each other, neither one blinking, until his eye rolled backward, exposing the white sclera, and he fell backward with a hollow sounding thud.
“Becky?” called a voice from above her.
“Here,” she whispered. She coughed and tried again, clearing her throat. “Here. I’m down here!”
Her husband appeared at the top of the stairs, flipping on the basement stair light. Her eyes squeezed shut against the sudden bright light, but she reopened them quickly and looked up at him, blinking against the glare, the tools in her hands forgotten for the moment.
Clark ran down the stairs, skirting around Ralph’s prone body. He grabbed her and held her as if he’d never let her go, and she held him back, hammer and saw still locked tightly in her hands.
“How did you find me?”
Pulling back, he looked down at her. “I’ve been looking for you for hours. I finally saw blood on the sidewalk and followed it to this guy’s door. How did he get you in here?”
“I’ll tell you later. For now, help me get him onto that table.”
Clark looked at her like she was crazy. “Why?”
“You want to leave him on the ground where he can just take off after we leave?”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it. You need to take it easy.”
He hefted Ralph onto his shoulder, ignoring the groans this move elicited. Shuffling to the table, he thumped him unceremoniously onto the table.
“The straps are ruined; I can’t tie him down.”
“That’s okay,” Rebecca said. “There’s duct tape over there.”
Clark followed the direction of the finger she was pointing and grabbed a silver roll of tape from the desk. He picked something else up, studied it, then stuffed it into his rear pocket. Grabbing the end of the tape and pulling it out with a loud tearing sound, he wrapped it around Ralph’s chest, arms and the table, over and over until he was completely tied down in the middle.
“We need to get you out of here.”
Rebecca stood to one side of the table, the bloody scalpel clenched in her right hand.
“I just need a minute.”
As she approached Ralph, her foot kicked something under the sofa. She bent over to pick it up, see what it was. It appeared to be some kind of photo album.
“Rebecca, do you really want to look at that? Who knows what sick photos he might have in there.”
Ignoring him, Rebecca flipped the album open, glancing at Ralph to be sure he was still out. The first page had a big newspaper article about a serial killer in Texas. More articles followed, but then she hit photos.
What she saw made her hair stand on end, that prickly feeling crawling up her neck.
“Clark? What is this?”
“Damn him for taking you, Becky. He knew better.”
“Is this you?”
As she watched, Clark transformed before her eyes. His modest slouch disappeared as he straightened. His entire posture changed. The man who looked out of those eyes was not her husband, but something far more feral and dangerous. He reached for a long blade that had fallen on the ground, bounced it slightly as if to test its weight, and stepped toward her. She backed away, looking at the steps behind him, wondering how she could possibly get out of there.
Behind her, Ralph moaned. Clark’s eyes flitted to the prone figure behind her.
Instead of looking back, she put her head down and rushed her husband. This was likely the only distraction she was going to get.
He looked back at her just as she slammed a shoulder into his chest. She felt the blade snick across the back of her arm, but ignored it and fled up the stairs, each step feeling like she was dragging a bag of sand in her calves.
There was no looking back. She raced through the door, shoved it as she cleared the frame. There was the front door, just to her left. She could do this.
Her head was jerked back abruptly, halting her forward momentum. She slammed back against his chest and stumbled, but he held her up by the hair he’d wrapped into his fist.
“Don’t make me do this, Becky. We can clean this up, go back to the way things were.”
Oh God, how she wished those words were true. Her chest hurt thinking about it. She’d loved him with all her being, but she couldn’t go back to that. Not now. The man she loved was a monster. He’d been in those pictures. And the ones he wasn’t in? He was probably the photographer.
He brought the blade around to her throat, pressed it until the skin separated beneath it.
“Do you mean it?” she asked, voice quiet.
“Of course.”
“Do you love me?”
“It feels like I’ve always loved you.”
She reached one hand up and found his, her hair entwined around it. Gently, she placed her hand on his and patted it. He let go and pulled the blade from her throat.
When she turned to face him, he looked like him again. Those eyes were her husband’s, not some murderer’s. She placed her left hand up to his face, caressed the familiar curves, rubbed against the roughness of the stubble there. His hand covered hers, and he leaned his face into her palm.
It was then that she brought the hand still grasping the scalpel up and jammed it as deeply into his eye as she could. Without waiting to see what he’d do, she reached into his pocket, grabbed the flat object he’d put there, and ran to the door, fumbling with
the various locks until she could throw it open. The embrace of the cool night air was upon her again, and she ran for home. It wasn’t until she was through her front door, her back pressed against the cool, hard surface, that she looked down at what she’d pulled from Clark’s pocket.
It was a photo of her and Ralph on the blue leather sofa.
She ran to the phone, picked it up, and placed it against her ear. Pushing it on with her thumb, she listened to the dial tone droning away in her ear as images of Clark with their boys fled through her brain.
And it struck her. Little boys need their fathers, too.
Story Notes
The Blue Mist – This was inspired by an urban legend set in Estes Park, Colorado, about a blue mist that used to creep out of the mountains in Rocky Mountain National Park. Only, the legend didn't say what made this blue mist frightening. What did it do? What was the point? Why was this mist a frightening thing? It was just a mist. I decided this was something that needed examining.
The Salvation Lottery – A countdown clock and a person trapped. That was the call put out by an anthology. I didn't finish the story in time for the anthology. In fact, I didn't discover the call until it was too late. It still managed to inspire an idea, and this is where it went.
Maelstrom – I wrote this in a hotel room on the Oregon coast one night, while my mom, sister, and youngest brother slept. The fog is thick and sentient on the coast, and it had crept up to the sliding glass door, teasing around the edges, begging for a story to be written about it.
Shifting Sands – I frequently hike in a park near my house. Inside the park, there are trails going high and low, and fantastic pink, white, and red rock formations to climb. There's also a valley where thick, white sand rests, making it hard to walk unless you step on the edges where there's hard-packed dirt. At the main entrance, there's a shallow pond, a parking lot, and several trails. On one hike, I'd just heard that women hiking alone at a different park were being attacked by a man, and I'd had a run-in with a guy who kept crowding my space and trying to get close to me. This story of revenge came to me as I thought of these dangers while walking through that sandy valley while warily watching a man approaching in the distance.
Blue Sludge Blues & Other Abominations Page 17