Soon
ROSWELL MILLS
The acrid scent of bleach permeated the air in the basement as I walked down the steps. The mattress was empty, the chains I’d attached to the wall hanging loose. I paused, holding the freshly washed fitted sheet, and remembered.
She’d looked good, lying there with her wrists chained to the wall. Not as good as Melanie was going to, but I’d enjoyed it more than I’d thought I would.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t behaved.
Neither had the first.
The drunk one had been a disaster, vomiting all over the place when she finally woke up. I’d been angry with her from the beginning. Despite my attempts to coax her into calming down and sipping water, she’d done nothing but sob and complain.
I’d hated her. The bruises I’d given her were her fault. If she’d done what I said and calmed down, I wouldn’t have had to lay a hand on her .
Still, she hadn’t been a total waste of time. Taking her had given me what I’d been after in the first place—a practice run.
I’d learned that I needed to keep cleaning supplies on hand. I didn’t want it to stink down there. More importantly, I’d learned the basement was quite soundproof. I’d left the first one to scream, and with the door shut, the noise was muffled upstairs. Nothing could be heard outside unless you went to the back of the cabin.
Pleased with my first rehearsal, I’d drugged her again and dumped her in the woods, far from my hideaway.
I was confident no one would find me. She never saw my face, and she’d been drugged when I brought her into the cabin and when I took her out. As hysterical as she’d been, I doubted her story would be coherent enough to give them anything.
The second one had been better. She looked more like Melanie, which I’d liked. I’d been able to watch her and imagine it was real. I’d enjoyed the way she looked so much, unconscious and chained to the wall, that I’d gotten off on it.
That added layer of pleasure had been surprisingly intoxicating without the guilt I felt when I’d been with the whore. Melanie wouldn’t mind, and it didn’t require me to touch an unworthy substitute.
She’d even answered to Melanie when I’d told her to. I’d liked that too, although her voice had been a weak whimper. She’d been sniveling and afraid.
Eventually, she’d angered me too. Was it too much to ask that they play their part? I’d told her exactly what I wanted her to do—how I wanted her to behave. I’d explained that I wouldn’t hurt her if she’d be a good girl and do what I said.
It was her fault that she hadn’t. I’d snapped. Maybe gone a little too far.
But she’d live. They both would. I wasn’t a murderer.
Although I’d found myself thinking about it. Wondering if I could .
Wondering what it would feel like to take her life.
I hadn’t. And was anyone going to appreciate my self-control? Of course not. They wouldn’t know anything about me.
I was invisible. Not worth noticing.
But I’d heard the murmurs when I’d been in town. Word was spreading. People were scared.
That was an unexpected benefit. I couldn’t get caught—that was imperative—but a reputation that spread? My lips curled in a smile. I could walk through their towns unnoticed, unremarkable. But I’d know they were talking about me. I was the one making them afraid.
I couldn’t wait to tell Melanie all about it.
After putting the sheet back on the mattress, I went upstairs. I was getting anxious for the real thing—to have my Melanie there, with me.
But I needed patience above all. , I’d start following her, learning her routine. I’d have to be ready at a moment’s notice. The circumstances were unlikely to be perfect. I doubted I’d catch her coming out of a bar alone, tipsy or otherwise.
Which meant I needed to take on a bigger challenge first. A woman in an empty parking lot in the dark was an easy mark. I had to prove to myself I could do it during the day.
Wandering over to the wall near the kitchen, I looked at my photos. I’d framed them, the photos I had of her, and hung them on the wall. A gallery of my passion. My preoccupation.
My obsession.
Who wouldn’t be flattered by such attention? By such wanting?
Such need.
“.” I touched the photo I’d taken of her in my trunk all those years ago. “, I’ll bring you home.”