“Get up. Now.”
The pledge slowly moved to all fours, shook his head, then dropped to the floor with a grunt.
“I told you to get up,” he said, then punctuated his demand with a swift kick to the puke’s stomach.
Back on his knees, coughing, mouth gaping, the pledge clutched his midsection. “Please,” he begged. “No more. Cold. So cold.”
“Ah, but you won’t be after you’ve done your daily exercises. First, you need sustenance.” He dropped the bag of rice in front of him, then pulled a plastic bottle, filled with salted water, from his other pocket. “I even brought you something to quench your thirst.” He set the bottle next to the rice.
The puke looked up at him, his eyes wild, searching. Then he stared at the bag.
Wondering if the pledge remembered the maggots he’d promised for dinner, he smiled. Psychological torture had played a large part in the Hell Week he’d experienced twenty-five years ago. But he’d been mentally stronger than his tormentors had given him credit. He’d endured their infantile demands, ate items he and the other pledges were led to believe were grotesque. He’d do the same to his pledge and much worse as the days continued. Today was only Monday, after all. If he were to complete a reenactment of what had happened to him twenty-five years ago, he’d have to stay on course and exhibit an enormous amount of patience. This pledge was the most important of them all. He would close the circle. And his death…?
The ultimate revenge.
Junior lowered the bat. “How long are we going to wait on him to eat? I have to leave soon, but don’t want to miss a thing.”
Children, even when they’re grown, should be seen and not heard. While he’d developed an infinitesimal amount of paternal warmth for his daughter, her whining grated on his nerves.
Raising the heel of his booted foot over the pledges hand, he said, “This pathetic pile of vomit has three seconds to begin eating. Otherwise, I’ll crush his fingers. Afterward, I’ll smash the maggots, dump them into his water and force the contents down his throat. Either way, boy, you will eat your dinner.”
The pledge kept his focus on the rice, but he shifted the hand near the boot heel a fraction. Then another, and another until he touched the bag.
“Eat it.”
While remaining on all fours, the pledge dropped to his forearms and scooted his knees until his bottom rested on his heels. Cupping the bag in one hand, he dipped three filthy fingers inside, scooped the rice, brought the food toward his mouth, then hesitated.
“You need your protein. And while not necessarily appetizing, maggots have as much protein as a chicken breast.” He didn’t know if that was true, and quite frankly didn’t care. Even though what the pledge held in his fingers didn’t move and it smelled like rice, the boy must think he was about to eat maggots. The horror one creates in ones own mind is sometimes worse than reality. Although in this case, that horror, something he’d experienced during his own Hell Week when he’d been eighteen, would eventually become a reality for the pledge. In order to complete the circle, to rid him of the demon that had haunted him for over two decades, he had no choice but to inflict terror, humiliation…pain.
The pledge’s raw back, his bony spine, curved upward as he twisted his head and dry heaved. A moment passed. He looked back to his fingers, coated in rice, then quickly shoved the contents into his mouth. As he coughed and gagged, he scooped out more rice. Like a feral, undomesticated pig-child, he devoured the rest of the rice. When the bag was empty, he reached for the water bottle, then took a long swallow. Within seconds, he retched, splashing the salt water and rice on the ground.
“Disgusting,” Junior said, and held the back of her wrist against her nose and mouth as she looked away.
“Agreed.” He knocked the pledge in the head with the tip of his boot. “Clean it up.”
Eyes red and watery, spittle hanging from his mouth, the pledge looked up at him. “W-with what?”
“Your mouth.”
Crying now, the pledge used the tips of his fingers to pick up the rice from the floor, then cringed as he put several pieces in his mouth.
“If I throw up, will you make him eat that too?” Junior asked, while her pretty face contorted in an odd combination of both revulsion and amusement.
Not bothering to answer her ridiculous question, he checked his watch. Although he enjoyed playing with the pledge, he had work to attend to, and Junior needed to leave. “Watch him while I prep for his calisthenics. If he makes one wrong move…”
“Yes, sir.”
Within minutes, he had the CD player and strobe lights placed in position and plugged into the extension cords leading from the upstairs electrical outlet. As he approached the pledge, he took the bat from Junior.
He handed her the lantern. “I need you to stand near the ladder for this. Stay there, and do not move. On my command, turn off the light.”
“But I thought—”
Again, children should be seen and not heard.
“Silence. Don’t think. Obey. Now go.”
Her gaze flicked to the pledge before she did as he’d ordered. Once she was at a safe distance, he turned to the pledge. “Stand.” When the puke didn’t move, he kicked him in the stomach.
With a grunt, the pledge clutched his midsection, then slowly rose to his feet. He swayed, shook his head, then with defiance in his eyes, braced his legs.
Good. He wanted a fighter. In the past, some of his aspirant pledges had been weak, in mind and body. They’d given up too quickly, which had been disappointing. He liked when they fought, because when he finally broke them, and he always broke them, the reward had been that much more satisfying. Unlike those feebleminded weaklings, he hadn’t cracked. He hadn’t let them defeat him, not even that last day of his Hell Week when his demonic tormentor had defiled and violated him in the cruelest, most heinous of ways.
Based on the way the puke boldly glared at him with hatred and insolence, he knew he had no worries. Yes, this pledge had spirit and would not disappoint. But now it was time to show him who was in charge.
Nodding to Junior, he said. “Turn off the lantern.”
Thick, black darkness swallowed the basement whole. The pledge’s breathing accelerated into quick, short pants. The shuffling of his bare feet, as he likely dragged them along the dirt floor, echoed off the rock walls. Then the room went silent.
“What do you want from me?” the pledge screamed, his voice plagued with fear and panic.
Instead of answering, he pressed a button on the CD player. The speakers blasted a cacophony of electric guitars, bass and drums as Ozzy Osbourne began to wail Black Sabbath’s, Paranoid. The same song they used on him, the same song he had continued to use on his own pledges. As much as he detested the heavy metal music, as much as it infused his mind with memories, he had no choice. Whatever had been done to him would be done to his pledges. From the moment he’d taken his first pledge, he’d discovered that mimicking that fateful week had become the only way to ease the nightmares.
And he wasn’t finished yet.
When he pressed the next button, strobe lights flashed throughout the room. The white light sped quickly, bouncing off the pledge, the walls, Junior. As the light accelerated, he raised the volume on the CD player to a deafening roar. The pledge covered his ears. His mouth gaped, his scream silent against the raucous music. The strobe lights tricked the mind. Every move the puke made appeared as slow motion, as if he were an apparition, a ghoul who had been raised from the dead. Jerking, shuddering as if his arms and legs had been weighted with cement.
He glanced at Junior. She stood next to the ladder. Laughing, she stared at the pledge and tapped her foot to the heinous beat of the music. His daughter had come to him defeated, powerless…scared. She hadn’t smiled much then, but as he’d introduced her to his world, he’d witnessed the blossoming of a unique and strong young woman. With further tutelage she would continue to grow and by the end of Hell Week, she would understand the
true meaning of dominance, of supremacy, of total control.
Acquainted with every riff, every word of the Black Sabbath song, he knew he had only two minutes and fifty three seconds to terrify his pledge. According to the CD player, thirty-three seconds had already passed.
Time to have some fun.
Gripping the baseball bat, he approached the pledge. The puke’s screams could now be heard and only heightened his need for vengeance. He had never screamed. Even when his tormentor had violated him in the cruelest, most degrading way, he had not cried or begged for release. He had been too proud to allow the demon to see the pain he’d caused. So unlike this, and the previous nine pukes. They’d always cried and begged. This one would, too.
Starting now.
Like a fencer lashing his sword, he thrust the bat, connecting with the pledge’s stomach. The boy flung his arms wildly in a futile attempt to ward him away. But he came back, lunged and hit the pledge in the kidney. The puke dropped to a knee, then quickly scrambled to his feet.
Yes, this one would give him a fight.
Attacking again, he showed no mercy. While he had no intentions of breaking the pledge’s bones—today—he would make sure the puke understood his place, maybe even his destiny. If not, he would come to that realization by the end of Hell Week. For now…
He swung the bat. Hit the pledge’s shoulder, then spun and aiming for his legs, knocked the puke off his feet. On the dirt floor, writhing in pain, crying and screaming, the pledge held up his hands. As the last twenty seconds of Paranoid played, he hovered over his latest and last victim, and raised the bat over his head.
The pledge’s eyes, eerily black from the strobe lights, grew big and round. He raised his knees to his chest and held up his hands. Shrieked and yelled. Then the music died.
Whimpering and panting hard, the pledge remained still. The crybaby’s bellyaching made him want to take the bat and bash him in the skull.
Too soon for that.
Instead, with a guttural roar and all his might, he slammed the bat against the ground and only inches from the puke’s head.
The pledge released a girly, high-pitched scream, then turned his head and stared at the bat. Wide-eyed, he slowly faced him. “Why?” he cried. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Boo hoo,” he mocked with a snort. “Stop your whining and act like a man.” As he killed the strobe lights, he instructed Junior to turn on the lantern. The lighting back to normal, he looked at the pledge, at the puddle saturating the dirt, then shook his head in disgust. “The urine soaking your underwear might be warm now, but once you’re hanging from the wall and the chill drapes itself over your body, your genitals will likely shrivel up.” He moved closer and raised the bat. “Stand and assume the position against the wall. Calisthenics are complete for this evening.”
The pledge obeyed without a fight. Which surprised him. The little puke’s father had been a bully who had enjoyed terrorizing not only him, but the others who had gone through Hell Week with him. He’d expected the pledge to have inherited his father’s aggression and hostility, his sick need to intimidate. As the boy raised his arms in compliance and waited for the shackles to return around his wrists and ankles, he realized his pledge was nothing but a pitiable, useless milksop pantywaist. While he’d shown strength prior to this first hazing, the pledge had easily succumbed to fear. And all over loud music and strange lighting. If the puke thought tonight was bad, then he was in for a big surprise. Tonight he’d treated him with fastidiousness and delicacy.
Tomorrow would only be worse.
Once he secured the pledge and replaced the space heater, he moved to the ladder.
“That’s it?” Junior asked as she frowned at the pledge. “That’s all you’re going to do to him?”
At the end of spring, when he left Bola and Hell Week behind, he and Junior would go their separate ways. But she would carry more than blood in her veins. Without a shadow of a doubt, he would instill in her the knowledge of true vengeance, along with…patience.
“Yes. For tonight, this is it.”
With a huff, she climbed the ladder. Dousing the lantern, he plunged the basement into darkness again. The soft cries and whimpers of the pledge a sweet melody as he followed behind his daughter. After he reached the top, then sealed the trapdoor, he turned to Junior.
Purse and keys in hand, she stood at the front door. “I think you were too easy on him,” she said.
While he admired her hunger for power, he loathed her ignorance. Beyond irritated that she would question him and ruin the high he’d gained from playing with the pledge, he allowed his anger to snap. In three strides he pinned her by the lapel of her puffy coat and slammed her against the door.
“Put yourself in the pledge’s shoes. Understand his fear, his terror.” To punctuate the point, he shook her, then banged her against the door again. “Remember, it’s only Monday. There was no need to beat the pledge or physically harm him, the fear I’ve instilled in him is enough for today.” He shoved away from her. “Be careful what you wish for, Junior. Tomorrow will be worse, the day after that, dreadful. By the end of the week…horrifying.”
Gripping the front of her coat, her eyes wide and wary, she nodded. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have questioned you.”
“No. You shouldn’t have,” he responded, then realized he should enlighten Junior. He should tell her what had happened to him twenty-five years ago. Not tonight, though. Maybe not ever. Admitting that such atrocities had been bestowed upon him by a weak-minded bully, and that even after twenty years of Hell Week therapy, he still had nightmares, would reveal too much. Junior might be his flesh and blood, but she hadn’t earned the right to know what no one but his pledge’s father knew.
“Go,” he said. “Meet me here tomorrow at the same time. I have a busy day and won’t be able to talk.”
“And the two people from the investigation agency?”
“I told you during dinner, I’m not worried. In my opinion, private investigators are buffoons who couldn’t make the cut to be real law enforcement officials. As you are aware, I’ve dealt with the real deal in the past and managed to outwit them.” He smiled. “Never fear, history will repeat itself. By the end of the week, the investigators will have run back to Chicago empty handed. The ignorant Townies and college students will have new fodder. They will spin tales that will only magnify the legend of Wexman Hell Week.”
“And the pledge?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “He’ll be dead.”
Chapter 7
TUESDAY
Owen sat at The House of Joy’s large dining room table, ignoring the blueberry pancakes Joy had served him earlier, and instead stared at the staircase. Rachel should have been downstairs by now. Maybe she’d overslept. Or maybe he’d pissed her off enough that she’d opted not to join him for breakfast.
Shoving the plate aside, he reached for his coffee. He’d messed up last night. Bad. He should have never brought up Jake. But after he’d walked into her bedroom and saw her in that skintight top and form fitting pants, he’d lost all rational judgment. The most revealing thing he’d ever seen Rachel in had been a t-shirt. Last night, she’d given him an eye full. Her breasts had practically spilled out of the flimsy top. Tempting him. Teasing him. It had taken every ounce of control to not stare at her chest and imagine what it would be like to slip those skinny straps off her shoulders and shove her top to her waist. To palm her breasts, taste her nipples.
He knew it now, just as he’d known it last night when he’d stood in Rachel’s bedroom. He had no business interfering in her love life. If she wanted Jake, and he wanted her, then that was that. Done. Only, the idea of Jake putting his hands on Rachel, of him kissing her, stripping her naked—
Coffee mug in hand, he left the table and walked out the front door. The rush of cold air didn’t help cool his thoughts or libido. Standing at the porch rail, he tried to rein in his anger. His frickin' jealousy. Never in his life
had he been jealous over a woman. Not in high school when his buddy had stolen his prom date away from him. Not in college when his girlfriend dumped him for a fellow fraternity brother. Not in his adult life, either. While he’d had a couple of girlfriends since college, he hadn’t been in a steady relationship for a few years. He dated. Sort of. With his schedule, he couldn’t find the time for a relationship. The women he did see understood this. These women were great, fun to be with, hot in bed, and knew the chances of him committing were slim to none. They also dated other guys, and he was cool with that. He never expected the women he slept with to wait around for him to commit.
So why did the thought of Rachel hooking up with Jake bug the living shit out of him?
“She’s yours.”
Owen spun to the right. A tall, gangly man, he placed in his early fifties, stood at the opposite edge of the porch wearing a red and black wool coat and a matching earflap hat. Good God, had the lumberjack been reading his mind? But Rachel wasn’t his, even if he’d like her to be for just one night.
“Come again,” Owen said.
“She’s yours,” the man repeated, then nodded toward the driveway.
Owen looked over his shoulder and realized the man had been referring to the Lexus. “Yeah, she’s mine.” Wouldn’t that be a great thing to say when Jake arrived? Rachel’s mine, so stay the fuck away. His stomach soured as the image of Jake touching Rachel emerged again. He had no business staking a mental claim on her, let alone a verbal one to Jake. Still, he wanted to. Last night he’d wanted to grab her bare shoulders and kiss her, then suggest…what? That they should have sex? Date? Do the whole “let’s get to know each other” thing?
“She’s pretty,” the man said, then pulled a cigarette and lighter from his coat pocket. “You seen Joy?”
“She went into the basement to do some laundry.”
“Good.” The man slipped the cigarette between his lips, then lit it. After drawing in a deep breath, he released. The smoke caught on the chilly breeze and quickly dissipated. “I’m Walter Eastly.”
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