Chained

Sixteen

Of course the door is locked. That doesn't stop me from pounding on it and rattling the old door knob. I am fairly certain that I am shouting all sorts of obscenities through the door, but the buzzing returns to my ears and time disappears in the darkness. When reality rushes back, my throat is dry and scratchy, so I assume I was still yelling.

But I can't be certain of anything at all.

I slump down on the basement stairs. Utter weariness has crept into my bones, a weariness of the grave. I can't remember the last time that I ate or drank—let alone took a shit. My sanity is dripping down a drain and I can't stop it.

A sigh escapes me as I consider my sticky situation. I helped a woman who turned out to be psychotic. I was drugged with some unknown substance and—for all I know—am still being drugged. And now I'm locked in a basement.

My life has become a horror shit show. I won't be surprised if an evil clown pops up at any moment.

Since meeting Freddie, a hazy unreality undulated through me. But my senses are starting to return and the effect makes me long for the unreality. Because fear is eating into me. Not a fear heightened by a dangerous drug, but the fear of a rational mind. The kind that reminded me over and over again that I am likely going to die.

The horrible unfairness almost chokes me. I do one decent thing by helping Freddie and now I am going to die. The otherworldly aspect of the encounter now seems far away and everything makes sense in the worst way. This is a cult that wants to protect its secrets. And what better way than sticking me in a basement? Either I was never getting out of here or I was never getting out of here alive.

They wouldn't even have to do their own dirty work. I will rot away and be forgotten by the world.

I get up. I am not ready to give up so soon. Not now that reality is forcing me back into the land of wretched wakefulness.

I go down the steps of the basement, each step creaking a little too loudly. I reach the bottom and slowly start looking for a light. There are several switches, but none of them seem to work. A cold chain brushes against my face and I tug on it. A flickering, fading light bulb gasps to life. It's dim, but gives me a better look at my surroundings.

This is a cold, cement basement out of every horror story. No windows. Almost nothing to see in this desolate dungeon masquerading as a basement. I would almost prefer skeletons and drooling men to this disturbing reality.

There is no way out and I don't know what to do. I want to run up to the door and start pounding until they let me out or I magically knock the door down. But exhaustion chains me down and I slump down next to one of the cold walls.

"I could use a hallucination for company," I croak.

Nothing. Even insanity has abandoned me.

I slump my head to the side and something catches my eye. There is writing on the wall. Red marker or—more likely—blood.

The words offer no comfort and certainly no hope.

AWAKE. AWAKE. AWAKE.

Perfect. Those words will certainly keep me awake.

Occasionally the hallucinations creep back, but without the earlier potency. Translucent tarantulas crawling over my skin and burrowing deep inside. Ghostly goblins lurching across the floor, my death written on their twisted faces. Hellish heckles tearing into me for my stupidity in following these people.

But all of it faint, like watching an old TV. Fuzzy and indistinct, a jumping picture always reminding you that what you are watching isn't real.

Eventually images and noise vanish and I am left only with a flickering light bulb and my tangled thoughts.