“Now you be a good girl. I’ll only be gone a few days, then I’ll be back to free you.”
“Weston, please. Let me go. Why are you doing this?”
“Why? Because you know where I’ll be. Can’t let that info get out, Catherine. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I won’t tell anyone about your fishing trip. You can’t leave me!” I’m screaming now.
“Can’t I?” He smirks, his finger resting on the switch of the overhead light. “You just watch.” He leaves me in the dark.
Those are his last words before he thumps back up the stairs.
I scream, plead and beg long after he’s probably left the house. I cry out until I’m hoarse, but no one comes.
I may be twenty-five years old, but I’m scared of being in the dark, scared of him forgetting to return, scared of dying alone. My parents’ farmhouse is isolated and set well back from the road. It’s privacy a danger now, however much noise I make, there’s no one likely to hear.
I can’t stay here until Weston decides to come back, I simply can’t. Why did I even let him inside? I almost curse that my parents had brought me up to be polite. I should have told him to get lost when he’d turned up at my door, or found some way to call the police, or had asked Rosa at the restaurant to summon help.
I’m already cold. The farmhouse is old. This root cellar was ideal for storing stuff before refrigerators became common place, keeping whatever was here cool all year. I’ve been left with a thin fraying blanket and am wearing nothing more than a tank top and sleep pants.
I’ve cried out for Caspar, hoping he’ll be able to throw himself at the door and open it. I need him for his body warmth and comfort if nothing else.
What will happen to him? He’ll be locked in the house without food or water. At least Star won’t starve, he’s still got enough in his pasture, and water in his trough. That has to last, but for how long for? I’d booked that cabin for a week. Who’s going to feed the hens?
Once I’ve worried about my animals, I worry about myself. The meagre rations he left me are not going to feed me for days. One maybe, not seven.
Gradually the room lightens a little as daylight comes, providing just a sliver of brightness under the door.
Fear of the dark won’t kill me, I repeat to myself. But my heart beats so fast I think maybe it can. Why, oh why did I have to be a fan of horror films? My mind seems to be running through every one, conjuring up horrors which could be hidden in the corners. I berate myself. The horror was Weston, and he’s been and gone.
Now my survival depends on him coming back.
No. I can’t give up. I have to get free by myself. I tug on the chain, it doesn’t budge, but the tugging makes the cuffs dig in. In no time, my wrists become bloody. The padlock. Being unable to see anything in the dim light, I move my hand around the floor, hoping to find something which I could use to pick the lock, dismissing the thought I’ve no relevant skills even if I could find a loose nail.
Frustrated, I scream once again.
I end up screaming until I’m exhausted and hoarse in the vain hope that someone will hear. I’m not expecting anything, but maybe there’ll be a delivery I’ve forgotten.
“Help!” I bellow as loudly as I can. “I’m stuck, down here!”
Was this how my father had felt? Trapped under his upturned tractor, the weight pushing his face into the mud, his life blood slowly leaking out of his body. I’d tried to avoid thinking about that before, how he must have screamed for assistance which never came. The thought so horrific, I’d tried to block it out of my mind, preferring to imagine him lying unconscious rather than hurting and fully aware that unless help arrived soon, he was dying.
Maybe he’d been lucky, it had been minutes or an hour for him, not days like me.
I try to stay calm, but it’s impossible. Redoubling my efforts has the same result, I can’t get out.
Weston will come back. He promised me.
Can I last?
I fall into a fitful doze. When I awake, I try again to escape with no more effect than it had before. My meagre supplies won’t last long. I know I have to ration my food. I nibble on a piece of bread and a small portion of cheese, but it does nothing to ease the hunger gnawing at my gut. A few chips? Sure, but no more. I’ve got to eek this out.
The day goes slowly, but all too fast the slither of light disappears. It’s night, a time to sleep, but I’m too cold. I’m also stiff and sore. I can sit up, lie down, and crouch, but I can’t fully stand.
The second day brings horrors afresh, the first being forced to use the bucket for what Weston had obviously put it there for. When I reach out my hand for a packet of chips, it moves away from me, rustling across the floor.
Rats.
I scream so long I make myself sick, vomiting up little more than bile as my stomach’s so empty. Rats. I might be an animal lover, but I hate those rodents. My mind goes to something worse. What if there are snakes?
“Caspar!” I scream, over and over. He might not be able to help get me free, but he can keep away the critters.
Spiders. Oh, shit. I’m a total wimp. I don’t like nature at all.
I curl up into a ball and sob, wondering if I’ll get out of here with my mental state intact.
I try to make what he left me last, but after the rats invaded while I was asleep, all I’ve got is water. I feel so cold, perversely I’m hot. I grow more and more scared, nightmares of being eaten alive jolt me awake, and when I do drop off, I’m more unconscious than sleeping.
Frantically I struggle hoping somehow I’ll loosen the chains. I hurt, I ignore it, and go back to struggling again. In the end, the pain shoots through me making me think I may have broken my wrist or at the very least badly sprained it.
And still, no one comes.
I lose all notion of whether it’s day or night, or how many sunrises there have been since Weston imprisoned me.
How long does it take to go insane? I think I’m about to find out. Unless, I die first.
12
Stormy…
My shoulders feel light and empty without the heavy weight of the cut I’ve worn for the past seven years. But there’s no going back, only forward. I’ve burned my bridges.
I need to move fast.
Working at lightning speed, my brain issues instructions to my body almost without conscious thought. I might not have my colours, but I had the foresight to bring my wallet with me. I risk stopping in town, thinking they wouldn’t have sent out a lynching party yet, suspecting I’ve ridden off in a pique and will return once I’ve cooled down.
I ditch my phone, buy a burner, and a top-of-the-line laptop. I visit the bank I use, open my safe deposit box and collect my fake passport and papers I’d left there for safekeeping when I went nomad. Next, I go to a second bank and transfer all my money into the account under the Jeremiah Briggs identity that I last used four years ago. My pre-emptive strike entirely necessary, I wouldn’t put it past the club trying to freeze my accounts when I don’t turn up.
When I don’t turn up, I’ll be out bad for certain.
I could go back. After that fucking meeting? No way.
All I can do is get the hell out of Dodge.