Callum’s Hell

by Mason, V. F.

  Whoever the hell that is.

  I take my last bite of food, wash it down with tea, and get up. “Thank you so much.” I put the plate in the sink and grin. “I’m going to explore the villa now, and the soil.”

  “Ah yeah, Callum mentioned you wanted to work on the garden.” When I make a move to clean up, she waves a towel at me, shooing me away. “Go, go.”

  With one last wave, I go to the terrace, grabbing my tablet on the way, and breathe in the scent of the garden, snapping a few pictures and zooming in on the petals of flowers.

  While I recognize some of the orchids and roses along with the tulips, which is a strange combination as it is, there are species unknown even to me.

  My brows rise when I see a darkish blue flower with red ends. I softly run my finger over it and quickly snatch it back when it stabs me. “Ouch,” I mutter, sucking on the blood, and then make a note to search for it in the databases.

  “Giselle, I’m leaving!” Magnolia shouts right before I hear the door slam shut.

  Mostly green grass and palm trees surround the villa, so Callum wants to plant a few more flowers, since they’ll make a good composition.

  I quickly send everything to my drive to sort out later. The land is different here from in the city due to the humidity, climate, and close proximity to water. I’ll need to check it out.

  I walk back inside, since I’m thirsty from all the heat, but on the way to the kitchen, I notice a door ajar at the end of the hallway, almost hidden from sight since it’s behind the kitchen.

  Frowning, I wander over there and gasp when a spacious library comes into view. Hundreds of books are stacked on different shelves.

  I wouldn’t say I’m that big on reading, but after a peek, I see all these books have to do with botanical gardens or architecture of houses, which is always connected to my job.

  Curious, I step inside to explore it further. It has a desk with several notepads and pens on it, and a landline phone, two chairs, and that’s about it.

  Everything else is shelves and shelves, which is so weird. Shouldn’t he have more room for like, I don’t know… couches to properly study the material?

  I scan the books to check if anything grabs my attention, since no one is home and I have nothing else to do. The sun is down, so tanning is not an option.

  “Oh yeah, baby!” I scream when I see a book on orchids and rise on my tiptoes, reaching for it.

  Except when I do that, something happens.

  The freaking wall moves back, opening up a view of a square-shaped hidden room behind it. “What the hell?” I mutter, entering, still holding the damn book.

  I expect to see some naughty place where maybe Callum keeps his boy toys or whatever guys like, but I find something else.

  Endless bulletin boards are attached to the walls, with various images of different men and their ages posted, along with several other links to them as younger guys.

  There are some women too with similar arrows; some photos look like they were taken with a surveillance camera.

  The room has one single chair and a desk, where markers in red and black colors are laying, waiting to be used. “What is this?” I murmur, and then lean back when I go further, and my eyes widen at the wall covered from floor to ceiling in different sizes of TVs that showcase camera footage.

  Each more horrific than the next, with Callum doing the vilest of things to people.

  But that’s not the most shocking part, no.

  It’s the live streaming scene on the middle TV that takes the most space and what causes me to gasp. I use my palm to cover my mouth, stilling the scream inside me.

  Because Callum is ripping someone’s fingers off with pliers one-by-one, while the agonized whimpers echo in that room.

  Callum

  Classical music plays in the background as I crack my neck from side to side, letting the sensations of the rhythm wash over me and direct my movements. My love for classical music was formed from the endless pain and heartache those composers managed to express without any words. The way certain notes can inspire so much doom and agony in a person from listening to it alone, the fear that always prickles their skin… truly nothing beats classical music for me.

  A soft whimper escapes the man chained to a pole located right in the middle of a room belonging to a man I shall never name.

  A sinister smile lifts my mouth, and I correct myself.

  The most beautiful sound on this earth is the cry of distress of my victims. Not their usual screams and whimpers that annoy me, but desperate cries that indicate they know help is not coming.

  Running my fingers over the weapons spread on the table, I hear him mumble something through the gag in his mouth. Sighing, I turn around and zero my gaze on him as sweat mixing with blood slides from his forehead, joining the tears that wet his face.

  Probably because all of his fingers are lying by his feet, his dripping wounds creating a pool of blood by him.

  “What was that?”

  He mumbles again, sobbing while trying to tug on the chains, but it’s useless, since they’re securely wrapped around his middle and legs. “Why don’t you just shut up? It’ll be easier for both of us,” I say, and he thrashes a little, probably going for a scream, but once again it comes out muffled.

  But then again… he was always stupid, so I shouldn’t be very surprised.

  Finally settling on the razor-sharp blade, I pick it up and shift it from side to side, chuckling at how he freezes and watches the blade, afraid it might strike him.

  I click my fingers in time with the music right before I stop by him, stepping on his dismembered fingers, and they crunch under me. He whimpers, scrunching his eyes, expecting a blow, but what would be the fun in that?

  “I think it’s the music,” I mutter, and his eyes snap back open, confused while he still gazes warily at the weapon in my hands. “Let’s put on something else.” I take out the remote from the back of my pants, turn off the stereo, and then turn on the TV behind me, right at the beginning of the cartoon. “Remember that one? It’s fucking long,” I say, and then singsong, “Your favorite kind.”

  And then I watch as realization hits him, and he shakes his head, sobbing and mumbling. Since I’m closer to him, I understand him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Like that will stop me. Honestly, my victims need to come up with better persuasion tactics, because from what I’ve seen with all my experiences… they all suck.

  “Oh, sorry is supposed to make me feel better?” He shakes his head. “Hmm, then sorry will erase everything else?” I ask again, and another shake. Rubbing my chin with the tip of the blade, I exhale heavily. “Then I guess sorry is not gonna cut it. But hey, on the bright side… you’ll get only one cartoon.” I grin. “Sounds good, right? Way more generosity than you ever showed me,” I hiss, right before stabbing him in the pelvis, and the scream erupting from him could probably be heard in a different state.

  I should come here with earplugs, but I enjoy it too much to deny myself the pleasure of listening to them.

  Pulling back, I stab again, this time lower, right into his dick, and it must break a vessel, because blood spurts from it, and I step back, not wanting to get any on me.

  He screams and screams in pain while I deliver a few more stabs, not really touching any vital organs. Then I go back to the table and sip my whiskey, all while the cartoon plays in the background.

  Is he counting down the minutes? Hoping it will end at some point? Believing there is a solution in this darkness that will never go away?

  Does he suffer the way I suffered for fucking years?

  With time though, the cartoon brings back the memories I’ve run away from for so long, I barely restrain the desire to cover my ears and get the fuck out of here.

  I’ve chased him for so long, but the fucker managed to escape me, changing names along the way. He must have lived really well after the deal he secured all those years ago.

  B
ut now, with him at my mercy and soon dead, I can find peace in knowing he got what he deserved, even if it was too little too late.

  The doors to the dungeon opens and he enters, exhaling smoke as he chuckles at the man being tortured. “I always liked you, Callum, for your unapologetic approach,” he says, perching on the weapon table. “So are you done, or do you want me to help you?” Even though he asks this question, I can see that my victim doesn’t appeal much to him.

  His tastes are way… sicker than mine.

  Which is hilarious in itself.

  “I’m about done.”

  He clicks his fingers at me and then gives me another remote. “Thought you might need this. I know you prefer to hang them from rooftops and shit, but this is the best alternative you can find on an island.”

  I glance at the floor, the thick glass keeping us above the water, where various sharks are swimming around waiting for easy prey to catch.

  Maybe they got used to him doing that all the fucking time.

  Pressing on the remote, I see how the circle around the restrained man opens, and slowly the pole starts to go down while he blinks in surprise before resuming his thrashing, blood spilling from him everywhere.

  What a mess.

  The minute he is under, we can see the sharks bite his flesh, tearing him apart bit-by-bit.

  Finally, there is no torn flesh to admire.

  Dead.

  At last.

  One more nightmare that can be put to rest, living only in my past.

  If only I could do that with all the others, then maybe my history with Giselle wouldn’t be so tragic.

  Giselle

  Loud screams bounce off the walls, surrounding the place with terror and heartache, and it takes me a moment to realize they come from me.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” I whisper, sinking to my knees and covering my ears as the man’s whimper still echoes in them.

  A man who Callum tortured and killed so causally, as if it was no big deal.

  The bile in my throat rises when I remember the torn flesh, the acid taste filling my mouth, and I get up, ready to barf all over the floor. I snatch the nearby trash bin and empty my stomach, while my heart continues to pound in my chest and ears.

  Coughing, I wipe my mouth clean but freeze when I see my entire family on one of the walls. But it’s mostly me in all the pictures as I work, sleep, or go out with Isla.

  He has all the information on my degrees and connections, notes on Lucy and me… even the engagement with Kevin, although that picture has a red cross over it.

  Spying on me. He’s been spying on me all this time?

  Then my gaze shifts to another bulletin board, only to see the torn flesh of other victims and newspaper articles with their deaths. “He’s a killer.” How did I not notice such madness in the man?

  And then the bulletin board right in the middle, in front of me, has all his victims lined up in chronological order based on dates.

  More than fifty names.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper again, wracking my mind for if I’d sensed anything fishy about him, but he has never given me a reason to think about him differently.

  But how have I not seen the murderer next to me?

  Getting up on my wobbling legs, I come closer to the wall and read the latest date, which was just a week ago. According to the time, it was right before our dinner date and we had sex in the car after that.

  Hate crawls on my skin as if someone is biting it, and I scratch myself, despising every touch he has given me, and my response to it.

  Hands that kill and torture so easily… did I admire those hands?

  There is one empty place for a picture of the dead man in his earlier years, as if missing a puzzle piece, and then his words flash in my mind from the livestream.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  Maybe it’s the one he has been searching for?

  All thoughts about the victim fly from my mind though when I notice one more vacant place at the end, date unknown, and his signature, grand finale.

  For whatever plan he has, it includes one more victim he has hunted for years, if these pictures are anything to go by.

  And if everyone else is dead, it leaves only me.

  I’m the last picture on his death board.

  And like the idiot I am… I came right into his trap.

  “I need to get out of here.” I rush from the room, hoping to forever erase all those pictures from my brain, and stop in the library, breathing heavily and thinking about my next action.

  I need to call someone and inform the authorities about this, and then run the hell away from him.

  I won’t be the last picture gracing the wall of his dungeon.

  My feet slap against the marble floor while I dash to my room, preparing to escape, and I see Magnolia return with a heavy bag.

  Did I spend that long in that awful place without realizing it? “Giselle,” she calls, but I only have one agenda in mind—finding my phone and passport to get the hell out of this trap.

  But the minute I end up in my room and reach for my bag, the door snaps shut and the lock is turned. “No!” I shout, banging on it and pressing on the handle, but it doesn’t budge under my assault.

  I run to the terrace, but the doors shut automatically too.

  I hit the glass several times, crying out for help. “Please!” But it doesn’t come, and maybe I shouldn’t escape it.

  After all, the hunter doesn’t lure the prey if he’s not sure about his power.

  Looks like Callum will get his last trophy after all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Callum, 7 years old

  “Come here,” Mommy murmurs, bringing me closer to the mirror, and then stands behind me, combing my hair. “It’s so soft. That shampoo is really doing wonders.” She laces her fingers through my curls and ruffles them a little, so they fall down to my spine. “Ah, you are so pretty.”

  The smile slips onto my lips at her words, but I decide to ignore it.

  It’s not the weekend tonight, so she is probably happy with my hair. “Thank you, Mommy,” I reply, and she claps her hands, shaking her head from side to side as she runs her eyes over me. “Truly, Callum, I’m so lucky God graced you with this beauty,” she whispers the last words and hugs me close.

  Inhaling her scent, I wrap my arms around her middle and sigh in relief. Tonight, she smells of flowers and baking powder, and not that bad, brown liquid usually in the house. But that’s the only thing her eyes shine about though, so I’m torn whether to like it or not.

  She leans back and palms my head, softly rubbing my cheeks while I see a single tear slide down her nose, and my stomach flips, awaiting her words. “My beautiful baby, you love your mommy, right?” she asks, and I still, my heart beating rapidly in my chest, and I nod, even though I want to do anything but. “Of course you do. You are different from all those men who hurt me.” She repeats those words often, like they are supposed to mean something.

  Who hurt Mommy so badly she wants to do all this stuff to me now?

  “It’s not Saturday,” I whisper, swallowing past the lump in my throat, and she exhales heavily, kneeling in front of me so our eyes are on the same level.

  She tugs a little on my white tee and grabs my shoulder, so she’ll have my attention.

  That’s what she usually does whenever she wants to explain to me rules, or new rules. “I know, darling, I know. But… we have another friend of mine who’d like to watch cartoons with you,” she says, and I start to cry. She sighs and pats me on my head, “Shh, darling, I know you don’t like them. But this one wants just one cartoon, okay? Not three, like Jimmy.”

  As if it’s supposed to make me feel any better.

  “I don’t want to,” I say, stepping closer and picking up Mommy’s chin. “I don’t want to watch a cartoon today with one of your friends.” I’ve never said it before, but I don’t want to do it.

  Just imagining….

>   I shake a little, but then her face transforms when she gets up swiftly, pushing me in my stomach, so that I fall back. She cries out, “You little piece of shit. Who asked you what you want?” Mommy snarls, her upper lip jerking, and her eyes slowly fill with rage.

  She goes to her cupboard near the bed, and I quickly slide back, wanting to run away to the other room. Before I even take one step, she fists my hair and brings me back as a whimper slips past my lips.

  “Who feeds this mouth of yours?” Without waiting for a reply, she hits me with the belt, and I feel the buckle hit my back. I hold back my groan, because it will only make her madder. “Who lets you have all those things, you little fucker?” Another hit, this time behind my knees, and I fall down, biting on my fist and drawing blood. “You ungrateful little shit. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have to live here at all. And you have the audacity to say no?”

  Hit. Hit. Hit.

  I roll into a ball on the floor, covering my head with my hands, all while she continues to slam the metallic belt buckle into me, for sure leaving new bruises on my already bruised skin.

  Each hit brings more and more pain, but I hold back my tears that almost don’t let me breathe. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I don’t know why I fight her if I never win. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, and then lick the blood from my lips. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I scream, and her arm pauses midair while she breathes heavily, gazing at me suspiciously.

  “You’re sorry?”

  I nod, and a wide smile spreads on her mouth. She drops the belt on the floor and reaches her hands to me, helping me get up. I stand up, even though my bones scream for me to sit down. But even mentioning it will bring on her rage again, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “See, sweetie? You make Mommy so happy when you’re not difficult. Now—” She rubs her hands and snatches the pink dress from her closet, shaking it loudly. “Wear this pretty dress that brings out the color of your eyes, and I will comb your hair again. Because of your stupidity, it got messy.” She ruffles my hair, giving me a little peck on the cheek that makes me almost throw up.