DECAY
Zach T. Stockwell
Copyright © 2017 by Zach T. Stockwell
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9993511-1-6
ISBN-10: 0-9993511-1-7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
For my close family and friends, especially Blake, Courtney, and my overly-supportive parents, Phillip and Sheri.
Part One
ONE
SATURDAY, JANUARY 2ND
My eyes have adjusted to the dark.
I can see very little, but this place isn’t the pitch-black hole that it was yesterday. I think it’s only been one day.
I’ve managed to calm myself down. I remember the panic beating in my chest and giving me a headache. I remember the feeling of screaming, but not the screaming itself. My voice has gone hoarse. I think I tore something in my throat, because I remember coughing a bit of blood. I feel of my shirt sleeve and, surely enough, there’s a bit of crusty dried blood on the piece of the sleeve just below my shoulder. I don’t know if I can scream any more, let alone even talk because of it, but I suppose it’s hard to conjure up any self-control when you’re throwing a drunken, panicky fit.
He didn’t even care. He didn’t come back down the steps; he didn’t punish me; he didn’t tell me to shut up. No reaction at all. Maybe he enjoys the screams.
At this point, I’m focusing more on smells and sounds than I am sights. The room, or pit, or whatever this is, is very small and there’s not much to find, really. I know I’m somewhere down stairs. It seems like a basement. The creepy kind that have old wooden steps leading down. It even smells creepy, exactly how I would imagine it. It’s cold and damp; it almost feels like it’s going to rain in here, and there’s an extremely musty stench in the air that is the product of basement humidity, urine, sweat, and a hint of something else. Something more potent and foreboding than all the other smells combined, but I’m not quite sure what it is. Although, in this basement, the old wooden steps were chopped off halfway down and the bottom of the basement was dug out. So essentially, I am sitting in a pit dug out underneath the house and the only way out is through the door that is too high up to reach.
The room itself is rather large, but there’s nothing in it. The pit was dug out in the center of what I assume was a basement, and the deepest point of the pit is in the center of the room. It’s kind of a big hole, probably six or seven feet deep, but the radius is much larger. The diameter of the pit extends all the way across the room, probably about thirty feet or so, which makes for a very gradual decline into the center, rather than a steep drop-off. Its highest points are close to the walls, but the hole hasn’t been dug into the wall at all. There’s even a concrete space large enough to walk on around the circumference of the hole, but with nothing to grab onto, and with no leverage or stability, it would be impossible to get on that small sliver of concrete and maneuver around much. Even if I did manage to crawl out of the pit and make it onto the remnants of concrete, I would likely lose balance and fall back in.
The end of the stairway looms over the edge of the pit, like a dock hangs over a pond with no water.
I haven’t noticed any kind of routine over the last day or so, but whoever this monster is, has tried to feed me once. It was a bucket of slop, like what would be fed to a pig. I refused to eat it, and I’ll keep refusing to eat it. I remember thinking, a bucket - how stereotypical. I never sampled it, so I can’t be sure, but it smelled heavily of sausage. By the looks of the contents of the bucket, it may be that gravy was mixed in there too, but a different texture as well filled the rest of the bucket - scrambled eggs? Then finally, it looked like there was a liquid, too, which I’m assuming was milk, but the discoloration of the gray blob that it formed made it impossible to tell. It looked repulsive, but it smelled delightful, like Sunday morning.
I’m assuming that it was his breakfast leftovers that he wanted to feed to me, like I was a dog eating scraps from the dinner table, and I’m assuming that was this morning, but I don’t know anything for certain. There’s no natural light in this place. The only time I get to see light is when I hear that dreadful creak of his feet on the wood just outside the door, and then the door opens.
One would think, because this is the stereotypical scenario seen in scary movies, that the door would creak as it opened slowly to unveil a silhouette in the doorway, but that doesn’t really happen. The door is silent. He opens it as quickly as he slams it behind him. Sometimes he opens it for no reason, just to watch me. I think he gets pleasure from watching me panic. The light from outside the door burns my eyes, and he stands directly underneath it, so all I can see is a figure, but he’s usually only there for a second.
The ground beneath me is dirty. It feels like there’s some concrete chunks leftover from the excavation, but it’s mostly soggy dirt. During my drunken fit yesterday, I must’ve pissed myself. The ground near me is wet and clumpy like cat litter, and my pants are somehow still damp all over. I guess since the room is so cold and humid, it takes longer for stuff to dry, and because of it, the room stenches of urine. It’s like a madman watched a bunch of horror films and decided to use all the stereotypes on me, except the creaky door. The door should be creaky.
It’s hard not to be terrified. I want so badly to give in and cry and let all of it out once again, but I read somewhere that if you succumb to your fear, all rational thought goes out the window, and with it goes your sanity. At that point, paranoia sets in, and you’re a goner. I don’t really know if that’s all true, but the survivor in me says to be tough and stay calm, so I will.
I don’t know why I’m here, or where I am, or who has me. All I know is that I’m freezing, dirty, hungry, terrified, but mostly ashamed of myself. I deserve this.
---
Sunday, January 3rd
I get one waste bucket for when nature calls. I don’t get a bed mat, or a pillow, or any kind of comfort. I suppose my worth has been reduced to sleeping on cold dirt and shitting in a bucket - yet another stereotype.
I’ve still never heard this man’s voice and I haven’t been given another bucket of slop since yesterday’s breakfast. I figure it’s been at least twenty-four hours since the slop yesterday and that was roughly one day after I found myself here, so it’s probably been about two days since I’ve gone missing.
I wonder if anyone has noticed, or if they think I’m on another drunken bender. I’m sure I’ve been fired, no questions asked, and I doubt there’s been any report filed. I guess this guy picked a good target. I’m someone that won’t be missed.
I’m alone with my thoughts all day. I sleep as much as I can, but packed, frigid dirt makes that difficult.
There it is again. There’s the creaking of the aged wood floor just outside the doorway; he’s coming again. The door swings open, and he slowly saunters down the wooden steps to the very bottom one, which is probably eight feet or so above my head.
He’s on the very bottom step, just staring at me, smoking a cigar. He’s standing there, inhaling and exhaling in such a calm and relaxed manner, billowing clouds of smoke downward. He’s blocking the light with his back now, so all I can see is his outline.
He’s kind of fat. Not obese, but he certainly isn’t skinny, and it looks like he has a beard. It’s hard to tell, though, because what little light that comes into the room is burning my eyes, and the cigar smoke is creating a sort of smog.
He’s still standing there, smoking that cigar, staring. There’s something else in his hand though. Something small. He takes the cigar from his mouth, not even halfway smoked yet, and puts it
into what I now can tell is a bowl, and drops the bowl carefully onto the ground of the pit.
“Take it.”
I do as commanded with no hesitation, and pick up the bowl.
“Smoke it.”
My ex-husband smoked cigars, so I am no stranger to the pungent smell. It was still lit, so I took a small puff. Small as it was, it was about a big a puff as I could manage. I held back my raging instinct to cough, so as not to appear weak.
“Touch it to your arm.”
What?
I’ve been burned by a cigar before. It hurts like hell, and the sting lasts for a while. I let out one cough to relieve myself. Slowly, knowing the pain that is coming, I lower the cigar towards my left forearm, and hold it there for a minute, not wanting to go any further. Less than an inch from my arm, I can already feel the heat.
“Now.”
So, I did. I hold it there for a couple of seconds, clinching my left fist and biting my cheek to keep myself from screaming. I hold it as long as I can, until I’m physically unable to any longer.
“Good,” he chuckles as he turns around and walks back upstairs. I can feel blood rush in from the right side of my mouth, and the pain from my cheek almost outweighed the searing pain on my arm. The door slams behind him.
His voice isn’t the intimidating deep pitch you’d expect from an antagonist. In the movies, they’ve got a deep voice. Something manly and menacing. Or raspy and dark. But his voice was more high-pitched, and his laugh is more of a cackle.
What kind of sick freak gets his fix on this?
Reality sets in. This isn’t a dream. This isn’t a movie or a book. This is my life now, and the future of it is uncertain. What’s next to come? Torture, starvation? Will he rape me? Will he kill me quickly or slowly? Maybe I’ll only wish I was dead.
And finally, after two days, my willpower diminishes to nothing, and I break into a sobbing cry - a kind of cry I hadn’t let out since I was a little girl. I don’t know if I’m crying because I know death is imminent, or because of the pain radiating from the burn on my arm and the teeth holes in my cheek; or if it’s because I know that somewhere up in that house, he can hear my cry, and he’s having a laugh about it.
That was the first time I’d heard his voice.
---
Monday, January 4th
I’m numb. When I was first put in this hole on New Year’s, I was drunk and angry. My throat is still sore from the damage I levied on myself. The next day, I was calm and collected, feeling like I would figure a way out of this and that, even if I didn’t, then I deserved it. But now the fear is crippling, and I think the initial shock has broken. Now I’m living in constant terror, always trembling because of the mixture of the cold temperature and nightmarish conditions. I haven’t eaten in three days.
I can hear him upstairs walking about. Sometimes I can hear his footsteps directly above me, and sometimes I hear the creak outside of the door. Sometimes I even hope he will come in, because maybe I’ll get some food, but at the same time I’m paranoid that when that door swings open, it’ll be the last thing I see.
I am regretting not eating the bucket of slop he gave me two days ago. The pain then was manageable, because it probably had only been a little over twenty-four hours from my last meal, but now there’s a kind of sharp pain in my stomach, like it is trying to claw itself out. I should have eaten the slop.
My pants have finally dried, and the smell of urine has dissipated, and that makes room for the pleasant aromas of his cooking. This morning I smelled some sausage and bacon, but I didn’t get any of it.
Now I smell beef. Burger patties, maybe? I wonder if I’ll get to eat today or tomorrow. Or this week, even. Or ever again. Maybe he’s starving me intentionally; maybe that’s how I’m going to die.
Among the torture of never knowing whether I will be alive in the coming hours, perhaps the most painful part of this situation is that I now haven’t eaten in three days or so, yet I smell food seemingly constantly. I know he’s up there somewhere, preparing a meal for himself. I can imagine him sitting down in front of the TV with his cheeseburger, totally relaxed, laughing at this week’s episode of his favorite sitcom.
My arm is still tender from the burn of the cigar. It blistered and swelled a bit, and stings something dreadful if I touch it. My cheek also puffed out a little and swelled up yesterday, but it’s mostly okay now. It still hurts a little if I rub my tongue along the bite marks, but not so much if I leave it alone.
I’ve already started losing weight. I’m not as skinny as I’d like to be, but I feel lighter. I used to be skinny when I was a little girl, but my anxiety in high school kept me out of sports. And I never exercised on my own, so I started gaining weight and, by my senior year, I may have been the fattest girl in school, or so it felt. Luckily for me, my high school boyfriend dealt with it and married me anyway, a month before my nineteenth birthday. The marriage didn’t last, though, as I suppose my figure repulsed him until he didn’t love me anymore. As if he was so fit and perfect.
We were married for three years, and the divorce just finalized a week before Christmas, on the eighteenth. I am barely twenty-two, and already divorced. I spent Christmas drinking alone, one week after my divorce.
Speaking of drinking, I’ve never really had a major problem with it. I don’t consider myself an alcoholic, and I don’t think anyone else does either. But my issue is when I drink, I don’t control myself. Maybe it’s because I don’t know how, or maybe it’s because I don’t want to be in control, but either way, it tends to be destructive.
There have been a couple occasions, since Terry filed for a divorce, that I would show up somewhere I didn’t belong, drunk and unannounced. There was one occasion that I stopped returning phone calls and texts, and didn’t show up to work for a couple days because I was having a drunken episode holed up in the safety of my apartment. My family filed a report, but eventually I sobered up and called them back.
After they told me how worried they had been, they got pissed and said I needed to control myself. I got a good scolding at work as well, but I got off with a warning and managed to keep my crap job as a lawyer’s secretary. My boss was much too forgiving. I should have been fired.
But this wasn’t a common thing. I don’t get drunk every night; in fact, I don’t even keep alcohol in the house that often. I’m assuming my family probably thinks I went out on New Year’s Eve and got drunk, which I did. They probably think I’m still drunk several days later, depressed or something. I imagine Mr. Butler has already fired me, assuming the same thing.
I’m not an alcoholic.
My blood sugar is low, and I’m feeling incredibly weak. If I tried to stand up I’m fairly certain, I’d just fall back down.
I haven’t heard him today. No muffled voice from upstairs. No creaking of the wood just outside the door. No talking on the phone, or yelling at the TV. No squeaky cackle.
He hasn’t come to see me today, either. No quick peeking in or brutal staring sessions. The door hasn’t opened once. Maybe he’s forgotten I’m down here. Maybe it’s my fault, and I’m not entertaining enough. Maybe I’m too fat for him. Maybe I haven’t done anything worthy of his attention.
---
Wednesday, January 6th
It’s been five days since I’ve eaten. For the first time in my life, I feel tremendous pain for the starving people in around the world that often go even longer than this without eating. I don’t know how I’d survive in that world. I can hardly move. If I stand up too quickly, or at all, I get dizzy and have to sit right back down.
I feel a pit in my stomach, almost like nervousness and almost like I need to vomit, but I know there’s nothing down there to throw up. At this point, I don’t truly know how long it’s been. I think this is the sixth day, and I’m feeling a little smaller. Maybe I’ve dropped ten pounds or so. Wishful thinking.
Not only am I starving, but I’m dehydrated as well. He’s only given me small portions of water here
and there to keep me alive. I hear you can only go three days without drinking water before you die of dehydration, so maybe that’s why I’m so physically weak. Maybe it isn’t from the hunger, but from the dehydration. I have a pounding headache at all times, and my lips are dry but licking them accomplishes nothing; my tongue is as dry as my lips are. I’m withering.
Because of the weakness from not eating or drinking, combined with the cold room - maybe low sixties in temperature - I shake and shiver constantly, and it’s impossible to control.
I’m scared. But I don’t think I’m scared of what is happening anymore. He comes in here so rarely, and has never actually touched me. But I’m scared more by the fact that I’m not scared anymore. Is this what they mean by losing your sanity? No longer feeling?
There’s still a blister from the burn, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. The skin inside my cheeks haven’t fully repaired, and I think under normal circumstances, it would be tender. But I don’t feel the pain anymore. Is this the acceptance part of the grieving process? Have I accepted that I’m going to starve to death or wither from dehydration in this pit?
The room is creepy, too. It has an aura of death. It feels like I’m always being watched, or that someone is next to me when nobody is. It makes it hard to sleep, and sleeping is the only thing I have to pass the time.
My shirt that was once my favorite purple V-neck is now covered in dirt and sweat, and stained with the stench of fear. I’m disgusted with myself for sitting in my six-day-old filthy shirt, and piss-dried jeans, but it’s all I have to keep myself warm. I don’t know what happened to the coat I had that night, but I probably dropped it at the bar or sometime during the part of the night I can’t remember. I wish I had worn warmer socks because my feet feel like they’re going to crystallize and break off.
Decay Page 1
