by Amy Cross
Day Fourteen
Prologue
Twenty years ago
"What did you do?" he asks, standing in the kitchen doorway and watching as the girl frantically scrubs the floor. "Sara, look at me."
With fear in her eyes, the girl looks up at her father. She knows what comes next. Every time she makes even the slightest mistake, he brings punishment and vengeance down upon her soul. She has prayed so many times to be delivered from his evil, but God has never offered her even a sliver of hope. All she can do is hope that the old man drops dead as soon as possible. This is the hope that has kept her going since her childhood, and she can only beg and pray that one day, eventually, she might be set free.
"Now tell me," he continues. "What did you do?"
"A cup fell off the table," she stammers. "There was coffee in it."
"A cup fell off the table?" he asks with a frown. "Now how did it do that? The last I heard, cups weren't given to involuntary movement, so I'm thinking..." He pauses. "Did it really fall off, all by itself?"
"There was -"
"Did it inch closer to the edge all on its lonesome?" he continues. "Did it decide it had endured enough of this life? Did it long keenly for death and leap down to the floor?"
"I..." The girl pauses, her teeth chattering with fear. "I knocked the table," she says eventually. "I bumped into it when I was sweeping, and the cup was close to the edge so..." She waits for him to respond. She knows that this could go either way. Some days, her father doesn't give a damn about anything and she could break a hundred cups without suffering any punishment; other days, the old man flies into a rage about the smallest little thing. "I'm cleaning it up," she continues. "All the pieces are in the trash, and I've just about got all the coffee off the floor, so it's as good as new, really."
"Is it?"
She nods eagerly.
"Huh." After a moment, he walks over to the stove and sets a kettle of water on to boil.
"I'm sorry, father," the girl says, hoping that she's escaped punishment this time. "I promise, it won't happen again."
The old man nods as he grabs another cup from the cupboard and pours out some instant coffee from a jar. After a moment, however, he picks the mug up and examines it more closely. "I don't like this mug," he says slowly. "It's not my favorite. My favorite is that old one with a picture of General Custer on the side. Where's that mug?"
"That mug?" Sara replies, her heart sinking. "I... I don't know. I..."
"Is it dirty?" he asks calmly. "Is that why it's not in the cupboard? Did you not get around to cleaning it yet, on account of you having to wash coffee off the floor?" He walks over to the sink. "I don't see no washing waiting to be done."
"I've done all the washing, father," Sara stammers.
"Did you take anything up to your mother?" he asks. "Maybe she has my favorite mug. God, wouldn't that be something? That woman knows how much I love my favorite mug, but she still takes it for herself. I never took your mother for a selfish, ungodly woman, but I suppose maybe in her old age she's starting to curl up at the edges."
"She only wanted water," Sara says. "She had it in a glass."
"Huh." The old man walks over to the trash, and after glancing at Sara for a moment, he leans down and lifts the lid. "Huh," he says again, with a hint of theatrical contemplation in his voice. "Well what do you know?"
"Father -"
"Here it is," he says, reaching down and lifting up a broken piece of china. "It looks to me like the mug you broke was my General Custer mug. I've had that mug almost my whole life. Looked after it, too. Only a goddamn careless fool wouldn't be able to look after a mug."
"I'm sorry, father," Sara says, trying not to let her fear show too strongly. She knows that her father hates it when she seems weak and scared, even though he's the one who always sets her on edge. "I'll find another one for you. I'll find someone who sells them and I'll get you a replacement."
"I doubt it," he replies, turning the piece of broken china over in his hands. "No, I don't think you'll find anything even remotely similar to this, not anywhere. This was a one of a kind, genuine antique. I got it over in...." He pauses. "God damn, I'm getting old. I don't even remember where I got it. That's something, isn't it? Maybe my mind's starting to let me down." He pauses again. "No, you won't be able to get a replacement."
"I'll try."
"Trying's not the same as doing," he says quietly, before dropping the piece of china back into the trash. "Well," he mutters. "Can't fix everything, can we? No point crying over spilled milk."
Sara watches as her father walks back to the stove and takes the kettle off the heat, pouring the boiling water into another mug. He seems strangely, unusually calm, and although Sara wants to believe that he's having one of his rare days of kindness and benevolence, she can't help but worry that this is the lull before a storm. It's as if he's pondering the nature of the punishment he's going to mete out to her, and she knows that the longer he thinks about it, the more inventive and cruel the punishment will be when it finally arrives.
"So you're not angry?" she asks eventually.
"No," he replies after a moment. "I'm not angry." He takes the mug and walks over to the door, before stopping and looking back at her. "I'm sad, but I'm not angry."
"I'm sorry you're sad," she says. "I'll soon -"
"Put your hand on the table," he says suddenly.
She stares at him.
"Put your hand on the table," he says again.
Slowly, cautiously, she places her right hand flat on the table.
"Good," he says, walking over and staring down at her for a moment. He glances at the hot water in his cup, and then he smiles. "I don't like being sad, Sara. I try to shield you from those moments as much as possible. When I lock you in the basement, for instance, it's usually so that you don't have to see me being sad. You might not appreciate that gesture, but I feel it's important. It shows you the value of freedom, Sara. It shows you that even though your life might not seem terribly exciting, you still have reasons to be thankful, not only to the Lord but also to me, and to your mother."
"Yes, father," she says eagerly, slowly moving her hand away from the table and hoping - praying - that he'll let the matter drop.
"Keep it there," he says, holding the cup out. "Keep your hand right where it is." He pauses. "I hope you've got a strong constitution, Sara. I hope you can take a little pain as punishment for your clumsiness." With that, he tilts the cup and lets a thin dribble of boiling hot water fall into her hand.
"Father -" she says, before gasping as the pain hits her. Water is dribbling all over the back of her hand now, but she knows she has to let him do this. After all, the penalty for disobeying him would be far, far worse than the penalty for breaking a mug. She knows that she has no choice but to do what he wants, despite the agony.
"Yes," he says after a couple of minutes, as the last of water flows from the mug. "Yes, indeed. I think I've made my point." He drops the mug onto the floor, where it smashes. "You'll have to clean that up," he says with a smile, "before you go putting cold water or ice on your burns. You understand? You've got to prioritize things and perform your chores before attending to your own needs. Is that clear, girl?"
She nods, even though the pain is almost unbearable.
"Go on then," he says, taking a step back. "I'll watch, to make sure you don't cheat. Start cleaning, and don't even think about putting cold water on that hand until you've finished all your chores. Every last one."
Looking down at her scalded hand, she sees that the skin is already turning bright red. Even though the pain is intense, she starts picking up the broken pieces of the second mug. All she can do is hope that, this time, she'll please her father enough to make him leave her alone. She doesn't want to anger him. She just wants to get things right and avoid his wrath. She knows full well that when he's really angry, the consequences can be a thousand times worse than a burned hand. He has done worse things to her in the past, and he
will undoubtedly do worse things in the future.
Today
Thomas
Missouri
"Get up!" he screams. "Get the fuck up!"
As I open my eyes, I'm doused by a bucketful of freezing water, which immediately jolts my body into action. I scramble to get back on my feet, but my arms and legs feel tired and heavy; I end up slamming back down against the concrete floor, panting and shivering as the cold water soaks through my clothes and reaches my skin.
"Get up!" he shouts, kicking me hard in the belly.
Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling and watch as the old man leans over me.
"Fucking Christ," he mutters, with a shocked look on his face. "What's wrong with you?" He kicks me again, not quite as hard this time, and then he leans closer. "Are you in there, boy? Can you hear me?"
I try to open my mouth, to say something, but I can't really control my body properly. All I can do is wait as I hear the old man walking away, and moments later the door to the basement slams shut. Shivering violently, I try to work out what the hell is happening, but finally I realize the most shocking and surprising thing of all.
I'm alive.
Somehow, I'm alive.
Thomas
Missouri
After three days without food, the bread tastes good. I wolf it down, curled up in the corner of the basement like an animal. Hunger has become more than just a feeling in my body; it has become the only thought in my mind, pushing my normal thoughts to one side; even though I know I should probably slow down, I end up barely even chewing the bread, swallowing it in large, thick chunks instead, and then washing it down with big gulps of water.
A few minutes later, the pain kicks in. My gut feels as if it's burning, and I roll onto my side, clutching my belly and letting out a gasp of agony. I guess I ate too much, too fast; my stomach has been empty for three days, probably consuming itself, and now I've over-filled it with bread and water. For a while, curled up in a ball and wracked with pain, I start to wonder if the whole stomach might just burst. Finally, however, with sweat pouring down my face, I realize that the pain is slowly starting to ease.
I wait.
The basement is cold, dark and quiet. It's been about half an hour since the old man came down here with a plate of bread and a cup of water. I've barely had time to think about what this all means, but I know one thing for sure: I thought I was going to die. I spent a few days down here, completely alone and with no indication that the old man was still alive, and I finally gave up. I don't think I woke once yesterday. Instead, I was just passed out here on the floor, wasting away. So why did the old man suddenly come and give me food? Was he just testing me and teasing me, or has something changed?
Once the pain has completely left my stomach, I sit up. I've removed my soaking wet clothes, and the old man left some kind of old, stained set of overalls for me to wear. They stink of oil and body odor, and they're too big for me, but they're warm and dry so I put them on. Something about this whole situation feels very wrong, and I can't work out why the old man would suddenly give a damn about me. I guess maybe he was trying to break me, in which case he did a pretty good job. I feel completely exhausted and strangely blank, as if the top layer of my mind has been permanently ripped away to expose a tender, raw new layer below. Looking down at my hands, I start to wonder if maybe I'm imagining the whole thing. Is it possible that somehow I actually died, and this is what comes next?
Getting to my feet, with the manacles still attached to my ankles, I limp over to the narrow window at the far end of the room. Rain is falling outside, spattering the glass and creating a faint, distant tapping sound. In a way, it's a comforting feeling to know that the weather, at least, is continuing as normal. This might be the first rain in two weeks, and I like the idea that it might be washing away all the bad things that have happened. Still, I know that's not what's really happening. It's just rain, and those creatures - whatever they are, and whether they're near or far - aren't going to be washed away in a flood. As I watch the rain hitting the truck, I can't help but think about Joe's grave in the forest. I guess the rain should help to flatten down the soil on top of him.
Above me, the floorboards creak.
The old man is moving about.
This is no dream. I must have been at the brink of death when he chose to revive me. I can't help but wonder what he wants.
Walking over to the steps, I glance back at the pile of cloth sacking and bones in one of the corners. It's weird to think that someone else was down here before me, and that whoever she was, she died in this room. The old Thomas would have been scared, and would probably have worried about ghosts, but the new Thomas is strangely comforted by the presence of those tattered, broken old bones. Whoever that girl was, she probably went through the same things that I've been through, except she didn't make it; at least I know that I'm not the only person who ended up down here, although I'm damn sure I'm going to be the last. I don't know how I'll do it yet, but I'll get the hell out of here and I'll break the old man's skull. Maybe I'll have to wait and be patient, but I'll make him suffer. Not for me, but for the girl who died down here. Whoever she is, or was, she deserves justice.
Limping up the steps, I reach the door and pause for a moment.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice sounding harsh and weathered.
I hear the sound of someone shuffling about upstairs, and finally footsteps come closer to the door. There's another sound, as if someone's jangling a set of keys, and finally I hear the door being unlocked. I take a step back, as the door finally swings open and I find myself face to face with the old man. He's holding a rifle in one hand, and as he steps aside, it's clear that he wants me to go upstairs.
"You try anything," he mutters, "and I'll blow your fucking brain clean out of your skull with one shot."
Figuring that I need to pick a moment when he's less cautious, I take a step past him and head up into the kitchen. The place is a mess, and with rain and dark clouds outside, there's not much light in here. Shivering a little at the cold, I walk over to the window and stare out at what appears to be a proper rainstorm. It's almost as if the heavens are trying to wash everything away, to scrub the planet clean and start again. To be honest, I can't say that it sounds like a bad idea.
"You've got a job to do," the old man says, walking over to the sideboard and grabbing a large knife, which he sets on the table between us.
Staring at the knife, I try to work out what he means.
"If you're thinking you can use that thing on me," he continues, "I should advise you of the following. I served five years in Korea. I fought bastards who were twice as tall and twice as wide as you, and I brought 'em down. Maybe you could get a lucky move in and stab me. Maybe. Probably not, but I guess it's a possibility. Still, I'd take you with me, boy, and I know just where to stick the blade and how to twist it, you understand? You're not getting out of here alive until I tell you it's time to go. You got that?"
I stare at him.
"You got that?"
I nod.
He sighs, before grabbing one end of a long chain and tossing it across toward me.
"Attach that to the chain between your legs," he says, "and close the lock. Don't worry, I've got a key. I'm not risking you running off."
Realizing that I don't have any option other than to obey for now, I crouch down and do as I'm told: the end of the chain is easily looped through the linking chain between my ankles, and I close the lock with a firm snap. I've spent so many days chained up now, I can barely even remember what it's like to be free.
"Now I don't know what you brought here with you," he continues, keeping the rifle pointed at me, "and I don't particularly want to know, but it's time to get rid of it. You understand? It ain't staying. I want it gone. I'd shoot it myself, but..." He pauses. "Well, never you mind why I figure this is a better way. I'm sick of people asking dumb questions and expecting me to explain myself, you hear? I won't have it, so what y
ou need to do, and I'm only gonna explain this once, is you need to go out there and slice its fucking head off."
I stare at him for a moment. "What?" I ask eventually. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"That thing," he continues, adjusting his grip on the rifle before raising it and aiming straight at my head. "I swear to God, boy, you're gonna go out there and kill it."
"What is it?" I ask, even though I'm fairly sure it must be one of those creatures.
"You know," he sneers.
I stare at him.
"I don't give a damn what it is, okay?" he continues. "All I care about is that it's gone. I don't like the thought of it lurking out there, like it's hungry."
Turning and looking out the window, I see nothing out there but trees and rain.
"This isn't a debate," the old man continues. "I've got the other end of this chain, so don't think you're gonna just run off. I've also got this rifle trained on your, so again, don't go getting any ideas. Just get out there and do a nice, clean job. Finish that fucking thing, you understand?"
"I don't -"
"Don't bullshit me!" he shouts, stepping closer. "Don't you fucking bullshit me, you little ass-wipe! Get out there and cut its goddamn throat!"
"I don't -"
Before I can finish, he swings the butt of the rifle at me, catching me on the side of the face and sending me slamming into the fridge. I take a moment to steady myself before reaching up and feeling blood on my cheek.
"How many times am I gonna have to do that," he says after a moment, "before you get out there and do what I'm telling you to do." He turns the barrel of the rifle back toward me. "Or should I just end your miserable fucking existence right now?"
Figuring that he seems pretty trigger-happy, I look down at the knife for a moment before realizing that I probably don't have much of a choice here. I'm determined to get the jump on this guy, but I need to choose the right moment. One bad move and I could end up with a bullet in the brain. Slowly, and hesitantly, I pick up the knife and start walking toward the door. I'm not certain, but I think my cheekbone might be fractured after that impact with the rifle butt; there's a kind of dull pain radiating up toward my eye, and part of my face is starting to feel numb.
