Chapter 12 #2
I laid the plastic in the corridor and began dragging her body onto it, trying to keep the blood from staining the cover on the outside.
Her weight was unbearable, dead flesh heavier than anything living.
The plastic shifted, sliding across the already blood-smeared wooden floor.
I sobbed desperately as my hands lost their grip again.
Then, at last, she was wrapped in several layers of furniture protection. I lifted her by the feet and dragged her to the basement door. I tried to keep the trail tight, to contain the spill, but crimson streaks followed anyway.
Once there, I pushed the body down the stairs. There was no way I was hauling it down. I needed to preserve some energy.
At the bottom, the darkness was a solid thing. I swore under my breath and went back upstairs to fetch a light.
I ran in circles, searching for something to break the padlock—a baseball bat, an axe, a shovel.
A shovel! There was one hiding in the corner, and I’d only found it when I stumbled and hit the floor.
The hatch sat in the opposite corner of the basement, but a closer look brought me to a halt. There was no lock. The circles of the hinged hasp were broken off, too. I didn’t remember doing it. But I didn’t remember many things. So many memories had already become blank spaces in my mind.
I lowered myself to the floor, placing the metal edge against the boards with a trembling hand to stifle any clatter. The hatch was a predatory jaw clamped shut, but I gripped the handle and pulled.
The void exhaled a thick draft of soil onto my face. It coated my tongue and settled in my lungs. I stared down at the stairs, watching them disappear into a darkness that felt eternal.
I descended carefully, and the small opening below revealed two wooden boxes, pressed into the space between walls lined with old shelving.
They were shaped like coffins.
A cold thrum of dread crawled down my spine.
I dropped to my knees and tried to lift the lid of one box. It budged, uncovering a familiar face. Buried under a layer of soil, Ophelia slept. Only her face, the top of her chest, and her feet were visible.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Every instinct screamed to run, but I couldn’t. I was rooted there, staring at her lair, knowing I had crossed a line I could never uncross.
This was why there was always a hint of soil in the scent they gave off. This was why Ophelia always bathed before coming near me. She hadn’t wanted me to know.
She lay before me, her lips a bluish hue. She looked so innocent, so young. So harmless.
My heart squeezed at the sight.
I returned the lid to its place and retreated quietly.
Fuck Rochelle, I thought, dragging her body back to the main floor.
Time was slipping away, and I was running out of options.
At least I had checked first. It saved me from blindly shoving the corpse into the unknown.
At least she hadn’t brought her own car, for whatever reason.
It would be hard to dispose of, given I couldn’t leave the house while my captors were resting. Thank God for small favors.
Once back in the hall, I adjusted the plastic, rewrapping her as tightly as I could. I used an entire roll of tape to secure her makeshift body bag, trying to keep the worst of it contained.
Think, goddamn it, think!
When we moved in, the house had been filled with custom wardrobes.
The previous owners had tried to sell them to us, and when we refused, they asked if they could leave them behind.
We agreed—and I would never stop regretting it.
They were screwed deep into the walls, and removing them would be a much bigger project than we’d anticipated.
Now, their empty vessels would be my salvation.
I opened one and pushed the bundle of flesh and plastic inside. For a moment, I thought I had it positioned just right—until it slipped, sliding partway out before I could grab hold. I forced the bulk back in before slamming the door shut. I leaned against it, exhaling.
For now, I was safe.
I prayed on one of the coming nights that I would get a chance to bury the evidence.
Speaking of . . . I had to clean up.
We never brought bodies into the kitchen or living room, so those areas remained unsullied. It was the staircase from the first to the second floor that bore the stains—bodies were dragged down it regularly.
Now, the kitchen looked like a slaughterhouse. I had only a handful of minutes before the sun set, and I needed to hurry—stairs, basement, everything.
I scrubbed and cleaned, my hands red and raw, the blood still showing. Forgetfully, I sucked some of it off a knuckle that had just split, and it burned my throat. What the fuck?
I spat it out, gurgling, the pain slowly subsiding. Had there been chemicals on my arms that I accidentally swallowed? But no—I hadn’t used any. Just soap. Sylvie had always been opposed to chemicals, and we never kept any at home. Only natural detergents.
Was it my own blood?
When they woke, I was in the room with bones, trying to calm myself. étienne had been soothing me, whispering that it was okay, that none of this was my fault. They had starved me, turned every sense against me.
I sat just outside the candle’s glow, where the trembling light blurred into deep shadow. I cradled him in my lap, my fingers tracing the smooth, cold curve of his brow.
What do I do?
Do nothing, he answered—a rustle of dead leaves in a cold, winter wind. People always think they need to do something when it’s best to do absolutely nothing.
I turned that over in my mind, stroking the edges of his cranium as if he were a lap dog.
Does it hurt? Being like this?
He went quiet, the skull’s features taking on an almost thoughtful air in the flickering light.
Nothing hurts more than being forced into an existence you don't want.
Gunnar paused in the doorway. His eyes swept over me. Could he hear my heartbeat, pounding faster and faster? Could he hear our clandestine whispers? Did he know about my deception? I didn’t falter. I met his gaze, challenging his opinion for the first time.
“It smells like soap downstairs,” he said, almost bored.
I didn’t answer.