Chapter 10 #2
Dean is silent for a moment as I watch the way his shoulders sag slightly. He must be so disappointed in me.
“It’s okay, Cora. Don’t worry about it,” he tells me, trying to find me over his shoulder. I scoot forward so we can see each other. “Just get out of here and bring back help.”
I gape at him. “And leave you here alone? I-I don’t even know where we are. What if I get lost? What if I can’t find help and he discovers I’ve escaped?” I ramble, out of breath. “He’ll kill you!”
“I’ll be fine,” Dean says. “Just get the hell out of here. Find a main road and have someone call the police.”
“What if—”
“Go, Cora. Please.”
Our eyes stay locked as his words trickle in and stick to every piece of me.
I gulp down my fear and worries and self-doubt, nodding my head with concession.
“Okay.” I climb to my feet, Dean following suit.
My knees are weak and shaky as I lean in for one more hug, memorizing the scent of his skin.
“I’m getting you out of here,” I whisper against his neck.
We hold eye contact for just a moment longer, then I turn away and jog over to the staircase.
“Cora.”
I pause at the sound of his voice, spinning around to face him from across the room. “Yes?”
Dean pulls his lips between his teeth, mulling over whatever he’s going to say. I watch his throat bob as he swallows, his grown-out hair sticking to his forehead. “I know I said you can go back to hating me when we get out of here,” he says in an angst-ridden voice. “But I really hope you don’t.”
A solemn silence hangs between us, thick and palpable.
I blink.
Then I smile and reply, “But it’s fun.”
Dean’s mouth tips up into his own smile, taking in the words I’ve adamantly denied for so long.
I cling to that smile, using it as fuel as I make my way up the wood steps, hoping and praying the basement door is unlocked.
If it’s not, I guess I’ll be squeezing myself through that tiny window that has taunted me for the past two-and-a-half weeks.
I bite my lip, reaching out a tentative hand towards the doorknob.
It twists. The door squeaks open.
There is a God. There is a freakin’ God .
I blow out a slow breath, my body relaxing just a bit. I’ve made it out of the basement. Out of the dungeon. Out of Hell .
Now… to feel the crisp November air against my skin. I want to swallow it down and let it cleanse me, washing it all away. Every rape and sleepless night. Every stab of hunger and insatiable thirst. Every teardrop, every nightmare, every hollow thought.
I take cautious steps down the narrow hallway, passing the small bathroom on the left and heading towards the main living room.
The house reeks of mold and urine. There are a few crooked pictures lining the walls, showing me that this monster isn’t an actual monster.
He’s human. He has a life. A family. They have no idea what he has become.
I keep walking, noting a 1970s kitchen on the right and a musty living room on the left. There is an oak door off the living area. An escape.
But before I make my exit, a calendar catches my eye.
It’s pinned to the wall in front of me with a red thumbtack.
There are large exes made in black Sharpie across the dates starting from November 8 th and ending yesterday, November 25 th .
There is a scribble next to the number eight that reads: “ New Pets ”.
A shiver crawls up my spine as my feet make their way towards the calendar.
It’s surreal to think that almost the entire month has been wasted in captivity.
I flip through the preceding months, my curiosity getting the better of me.
Nine days prior to the eighth are blank—the last ex is etched onto the square of October 29 th .
My stomach coils with dread at the realization that another couple likely died that day.
I count the previous exes: there are twenty-two .
The couple before us survived twenty-two days in that basement.
Our time was almost up.
A strangled sound escapes me as I bring a hand to my mouth, holding back my queasiness. My insides feel sick, and I want to puke. And cry. And scream.
But I don’t. I’m almost there. I’m almost out .
On instinct, I snatch up a few envelopes lying in a stack of mail on the kitchen table.
They are addressed to Earl Hubbard. His address is listed.
Perfect.
I spin around, uncaring that I’m only wearing Dean’s too-big shoes and a t-shirt that barely touches mid-thigh. All I care about is finding help for Dean. All I care about is ending this nightmare and putting Earl behind bars for the rest of his life.
I run to the front door and whip it open.
The cool air assaults me, and it’s much colder than I anticipate.
Probably freezing. I look around, realizing we’re tucked away on some kind of farm, far, far away from civilization.
The acreage stretches farther than my eyes can see.
Part of me wonders how long I’ll even last out here before succumbing to hypothermia.
No .
Dean is counting on me. His life depends on me.
I can do this.
I dart out the door and start running straight ahead, hoping there is some kind of road or town behind the line of trees. The icy leaves crunch beneath my feet as the cold wind already begins to freeze my limbs.
But my escape is cut short when I feel a hand wrap around my mouth, while a thick arm encircles my waist, pulling me back. The envelopes fall from my grip.
No, no, no .
Earl snarls against my ear as I kick my legs and scream into his filthy palm. “Nice try, kitten. You’re going to pay for this.”
“ No !” I scream and scream and scream, my efforts muffled by Earl’s hand. As he hauls me back towards the house, I notice a charcoal grill off to the side with a turkey sitting atop the grates. I blink, struck by a cruel twist of fate.
It’s Thanksgiving.
It’s a national holiday.
We blew our escape attempt on the one day he didn’t have to work.
Tears rim my eyes as I fight with everything I have left. When Earl pulls me through the threshold and into the living room, I spot a landline phone on the far wall.
Oh, my God .
Why didn’t I think to look for a phone? I’m so used to my cell phone. No one has landlines anymore. But if I’d paid attention, I could have called the cops and waited for rescue, avoiding this utter disaster of an escape attempt. Soon, we’ll be back at square one.
Soon, we’ll be dead.
As he yanks me forward towards the hallway, I swing my head back and forth until I’m able to open my mouth. I take the small window to chomp down on his hand, drawing blood. Earl howls in pain and releases me on instinct, giving me an opportunity to race towards the phone.
I reach it.
I pick it up and start to dial with quivering fingers.
9-1-
“You fuckin’ bitch.” Earl smacks the phone out of my hand before I get the last number in, then clubs me over the head with some kind of metal pipe.
I drop to the kitchen floor in a daze and he begins kicking me in the ribs.
I scream in pain, in fear, in hopelessness.
I can hear Dean yelling for me from down below as I lie across the stained yellow tiles, curling my body into itself while Earl’s steel toe breaks my ribs in two.
When I feel myself on the verge of passing out, Earl grabs a handful of my hair and drags me down the hallway. I twist and resist, digging my fingernails into his arm, but it’s no use. He opens the basement door and throws me down the flight of steps.
I hear Dean shout my name right before my skull hits the cement and everything goes black.