by Mason, V. F.
The man chuckles, and for the first time, his face cracks a real smile. “No need to worry, boys. They’re not real.” Then he ushers us through the dark hallways with black walls and a black marble floor.
Everything in this house is so scary! Even the chandelier moves with each breath of wind, sending weird sounds through the house that make me wish to go home more.
We end up in the living room where several brown couches stand, and then we notice a chair with Grandpa in it, reading a newspaper.
He peeks up from it and then grins widely at us, folding the paper and placing it on the table. “My twins are here.” We rush toward him, climbing on his lap. He laughs, this easing some of the fear inside me. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“We didn’t know we have an uncle,” Eachann says, and Grandpa frowns, patting his head. “You didn’t? Mommy never mentioned him to you?” We shake our heads, and something crosses his face, but I’m not sure what to name this look. “Well, he is my son and an heir to the empire.” I’m not sure why everyone always says it so proudly, but Mommy comes from a long line of rich people who live in Chicago.
At least that’s what Grandpa often repeats. Mommy never talks much about her family and always screams at Daddy whenever he mentions them.
“Anyway,” Grandpa continues, “the time has come for you to meet the family.” His voice deepens a little, like he wants to say more but doesn’t.
I shake off the goose bumps flashing through me and push some of the fear away, because this is our grandfather and he loves us. This place will be as awesome as everyone claims.
Still though, the distrust doesn’t go away.
And it never did.
After all, we were delivered on a silver platter to the monster who couldn’t wait to sink his claws into us.
That summer day was the beginning of the end to life as we knew it.
Cassandra
Something lightly touches my skin, causing it to itch a little. I twist my head to the side, avoiding it, and sigh in frustration, wanting to rest a bit more.
My body aches in different places like a giant bruise, and I groan, burrowing my face into the pillow. I’m about to roll on my side when I freeze.
Instead of my lavender-scented pillow, my nose digs into something rough that has a chlorine smell all over it, and I detect a strange surface scratching against my back.
Snapping my eyes wide open, I see a droplet of water above me fall from the rusty ceiling. It hits me on the nose and slides down my chin to my lips.
I raise my hand to remove it from my face and realize my wrists are tied together. A tight rope is wrapped firmly around them. Instantly, the haze around my mind disappears, bringing back the events from earlier with full force.
I sit up swiftly but gasp in pain when it feels like a thousand ants are biting my scalp, creating an agonizing sensation that rocks my entire body.
Resting my head on the rope, I moan slightly from the discomfort. This time, the burning starts in my throat, my bruised flesh reminding me of the leather wrapped around it earlier.
Running my fingers over the skin, I can predict it’s angry red and will heal in a few days; after all, I could write a book on injuries like that.
Which is probably what the monster wanted all along—a reminder of all my previous pain.
Shifting a little to the side, I press my back against the wall, ignoring how my body groans in protest, and study the environment around me, assessing the danger before thinking how to get the hell out of this hell.
Pun intended.
I’m inside a rusty cage made of iron with traces of blood all over the bars. I also see scratches as if someone tried to dig their way out of it.
The cage is in the right corner of a large basement, I assume, since there are steps leading upstairs. I also see metal chairs with some weird wires connected to it and a weapons table with several types of knives, a sword, other ropes, and guns.
There is a small table right in the middle of the space with two silver chairs. The hard concrete is squeaky clean, which explains the chlorine smell floating in the air, while the sink and toilet inside the cage have seen better days.
The water above must come from the pipe, although the whole dripping thing seems out of place in this basement that otherwise could have come straight from a luxury magazine; everything is so classically put together here.
There is a weird humming coming from the walls as if we’re close to water, but I quickly shrug off those thoughts. That’s not possible and would have required such deep excavation I’m not sure anyone would have bothered with it.
Although the ceiling has around ten light fixtures, only one bulb is on, and it flickers slightly every few seconds, creating a disco kind of lighting. I guess it only spikes up the doom the victims feel when the madman drags them here.
For I have no doubt it’s the devil’s playground, and he savors all his conquests here, stripping them of their sanity before killing them and filling this place with their screams of agony.
I should know, since I grew up around the likes of him. They have no mercy for those they believe guilty of the crimes that demand their justice.
But while I do feel grateful for Lachlan and everyone else for taking care of me, nothing but disgust spreads through me at the thought of… whoever he is… displaying his sick desires to bring doom to people.
And judging by what he has done to me… to my family… he has destroyed innocent lives without a care.
People like that deserve only death. They are like the wolf hiding in sheep’s clothes, scouting for their new victims while keeping an eye on the old ones.
He might have killed Ethan, who deserved it, but it means nothing.
I notice a huge board on my left where there are a lot of photos displayed, each one of them having a huge red X marked over them, leaving no doubt he’s killed them all.
Fifty or sixty names.
Oh my God.
I won’t be another picture on his bulletin board, everything be damned.
Fisting my hands when the pain slashes through me, I slowly get up, not even bothering to think about my shoes he must have taken with him.
Stepping on the cold granite, I shiver and walk to the cage’s door, rattling it a little. It stays immovable under my hands, and I huff in frustration, hitting it with my wrist, but immediately regret the action when the pain reverberates through me.
Growling in frustration, I kick the bars, but that does nothing to help to let off some steam. “Okay,” I murmur. I take a deep breath and will my rapidly beating heart to calm down, because I know rational thinking as panic slowly creeps into me is impossible. “One thing at a time.” I raise my hands and study the knot around them that oddly is not very tight.
I’m nipping it with my teeth, pulling at the edge and trying to unknot it when the sound of the key code being entered on the security pad beeps above me and the door opens, bringing harsh light into the place.
Blocking it with my hands, I scrunch my eyes to see heavy black boots slowly thumping down the stairs. Each step echoes in the space and raises my heartbeat to epic proportions—so much that I feel it in my throat.
Shifting back, I see Eudard—or whoever he is right now—walking toward me, the flickering of the bulb only emphasizing his sinister features, his green pools flashing dangerously when his gaze lands on me. “Cassandra,” he says. And although it’s not the usual cocky or warm tone he addresses me with, I know it’s Eudard in front of me now.
While I can’t ever trust him again, he is my safest bet in this situation.
A better evil among the two.
“It’s you,” I sigh in relief, quickly coming back to the bars as tears form in my eyes. “You’re back.” I expect him to run to the rescue, to free me from the restraints his alter ego placed on me, and to explain what the hell is going on.
Even if I never forgive him for this, I long to hear his explanation to soothe the inferno in my heart, whi
ch is torn in two from loving him but hating him for destroying my dream about him once again.
But he does none of those things.
Instead, he scans me from head to toe and his jaw tics, but he stays silent. Uneasiness slams back into me, alerting me that something is terribly wrong.
For Eudard has never been cold toward me like this, even during our teens when he was a dick of epic proportions.
Emotions rock between us like waves during a storm, never having a calm moment to catch a break from whatever stands in their way.
“Help me before he comes back,” I whisper, not knowing how frequently the switches happen, and the last thing I want is to be at the mercy of his evil personality. “God knows what he wants to do to me in his basement.” Disgust laces my tone, and I blink in surprise when his hollow laughter bounces off the walls, sending chills down my spine and awakening the fear present only a few minutes ago.
“All this,” he finally says, swirling his finger in the air, “belongs to me. Just like you,” he adds harshly like he can barely talk through the anger riding him, but I pay no attention to that.
Belongs to me?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask carefully, because it makes no sense to me.
Surely my mind is still blurry from the injection the other monster gave me, and that’s why his words sound so confusing.
Because if all this is his, then…
“Yes, I’m the serial killer who murdered Ethan.” He snaps his fingers and then points at the board. “And all those people too.”
“No,” I murmur, stepping back from the bars while bile rises in my throat. I barely control the gagging sounds wanting to emerge.
It’s not his latest personality who is a vicious monster… but him? All those bad deeds, the weapons, the basement, the desire to kill… it’s all Eudard?
“Oh, God,” I say, glancing at the pictures with all the men in twisted positions with their body parts cut off or blood surrounding them. It’s hard to even make out their features.
One of the photos has only a human chest lying on the surgical table with various sizes of bottles holding body parts scattered next to him.
“I have videos if you’re interested,” he offers, chuckling at my horrified gasp. “No? Then maybe photos?” Just the prospect of seeing all those men dying makes my stomach churn, and I cover my mouth with my palm, not caring how the movement sends prickles of pain to my elbows.
“You are a monster,” I whisper, my body shaking from the uncovered truth, and for the first time, I look at Eudard in a different light.
In a true light that displays his sinister nature hidden behind the successful billionaire who reigns in this town by day and hunts his victims by night.
The devil himself, the only things missing are the horns on his head.
“Am I?” he asks, and I hate how detached he sounds, like the fact only amuses him.
Once again, I expected Eudard to come to the rescue, but instead he revealed his true nature.
Isn’t it ironic?
No matter how much I try, I always end up a fucking victim in this story.
He growls, and I retreat several steps when he almost breaks the lock opening the cage. He storms inside so quickly my back plasters against the wall, but I stifle my groan, not wanting to give him satisfaction in this moment.
He raises his hand to touch me, but I slap it away, saying through gritted teeth, “Don’t touch me.” Just the idea of what he has done sends revulsion through me. I don’t want my skin to be coated in his darkness too.
It’s enough I’ve fallen in love with a monster, but I’ve also fallen in love with an illusion, a phantom of his creation, to lure the unsuspecting victim who no longer exists.
I’ve been so busy trying to punish the founding five that I’ve missed the greatest of monsters among them all.
Does he even have a different personality living inside him? Or is that how he covers all his bad deeds, behind the make-believe disorder?
“I’d be careful how you speak to me, Cassandra,” he warns, but I snort at that, hating him so much in this moment.
“Oh, I apologize, master.” I use a high-pitched tone just to highlight how much his request amuses me, because is he this delusional? At this point, I’m dead one way or another, so listening to stupid orders is not on my agenda. “Go to hell, Eudard.” I prefer to die with dignity than live next to the likes of him.
He does not appreciate my sarcasm.
One minute, I’m facing him, and the next, I’m looking at the floor as he tosses me over his shoulder, turning back to the door while I do my best to kick him and wiggle in his hold, to hit him with my hands, but there’s no use.
He probably barely feels a thing as he walks up the stairs, and then we are inside a spacious hall. I have a second to study the endless white walls along with a living room containing a couch, chair, table, and TV. I see a large library and a small kitchen that is adjacent.
He moves right past it, though, farther along the hallway where I see two more doors. How many freaking rooms does he have in this place?
I see the wooden floor passing in a blur, and then with a loud yelp, I bounce on the bed when he throws me on it.
Removing the hair from my face, I quickly rise on my knees, ready to bolt, when his harsh, low voice warns me, “Don’t.” And then he takes out a knife from his back pocket. I freeze, the air leaving my lungs.
He wants to kill me on this freaking bed and thinks I’ll stay put?
Is he insane?
Although, at this point, the question is no longer a rhetorical one. This man is indeed insane!
He stands right in the middle of the room that has nothing but the bed, a bedside table, and a bathroom—I assume, because with him, who the hell knows what hides behind the doors? So he doesn’t really leave me much space to run away.
But I must try.
Since his attention is on me, I raise my chin high and quickly grab the nearby pillow, throwing it at him as hard as I can with the ropes binding me, momentarily taking his attention from me. I dart to the floor, ready to rush outside, when his arm blocks me.
He circles it around my waist, spinning me so that my back presses against his chest, his rigid muscles digging into me and his hot breath filling my ear. The cold metal touches my neck, stopping me from twisting in his arm. “My stubborn phoenix,” he murmurs, tickling the hair on my neck. I breathe harshly, my chest rising and falling rapidly. “Never challenge a madman.” Then the tip of the blade slides to my collarbone, traveling lower to my breast, then my stomach while goose bumps break on my skin. My pulse beats wildly, anticipating his next move. Finally, the knife reaches the rope.
In one swift move, he cuts the rope, freeing my hands. Instinctively, I rub the skin there, wincing at the angry red marks imprinted on me.
He grabs my elbow, dragging me to the adjacent door, while I try to dig my heels into the wood, but it doesn’t help me much.
My strength is nothing against his.
Kicking the door open, I have a second to see the small bathroom with black tile before he put his hands on my hips and hikes me up, placing me on the cold vanity.
I’m ready to bolt again, but then he repeats, “Don’t.” And this time around, I don’t miss the danger lacing his tone that promises retribution. I plaster my back against the wall behind me instead, watching him while wondering what his game plan is.
No one plays around like this with a victim before killing them, but then again, it’s not like I have memos on serial killers’ signature moves.
He searches for something under the sink and then gets out a white box, places it next to me, and opens it up, taking out antiseptic and gauze squares.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but he ignores my question. Instead, he wets the dressing and then presses it against my forehead.
I hiss, “It hurts.” It feels like my skin is burning!
“How did this happen?” He fires his own que
stion, but I stay silent, not wanting to explain. “He didn’t do it,” he states, and annoyance flashes through me at how sure his tone sounds.
“Why not? He did this.” I point at my throat, and by how his eyes darken, I understand it doesn’t look good.
“Who did this?” he repeats, lightly cleaning the wound and then leaning forward, examining it and blowing on it a bit, taking the sting away.
And somehow, this caring gesture pisses me off even more, maybe because my heart clenches inside my chest and wishes to bury my head in his neck, finding protection in his arms. “What? You don’t like people tarnishing your toy?” For the life of me, I don’t understand my behavior.
Living with serial killers taught me a lot about them, made me understand some of their psychological aspects, even if what they did scared me.
Antagonizing him every step of the way doesn’t ensure my freedom; instead, it will drive him to suffocate me further until there is nothing left of me.
I should keep myself focused and try to get to know his problem and what fuels his desire. Only then will I find a solution for my problem.
But how can I keep a cold attitude when the serial killer is not just a monster, but the man I love? I can shout till I turn blue in the face that I don’t love him, but it won’t make it the truth.
No matter how much society frowns on it, a man’s bad deeds don’t immediately erase the love in the hearts of their loved ones. Of course, hate is present, but how can it not be?
After all, he deceived me just like everyone else. His second personality killed my parents and almost choked me to death.
Even if Eudard hadn’t been a serial killer, we would not have a future.
Some darkness cannot be conquered with love.
“You are not my toy,” he replies and then throws the gauze in the trash, taking another one and dipping it in the antiseptic once again, and this time, he puts it on my throat, so gently and softly it seems like he almost cares about me.
But it’s an illusion, right?
