Cellar Door

I’ve taken that risk before, but I’ve come too far to jeopardize everything now—even for the life of one woman.

The hypocrisy of that thought lashes my skull.

Fine. Better to be a smart hypocrite than a stupid one.

Resolve solidified, I pull her forward by her leg and lift her into my arms. I carry her to the only place I’m sure no one will hear her, where she can make as much noise as she wants.

The cellar.

The underground room was a late addition to the house. Not on any blueprints, the basement doesn’t belong in the surrounding Seattle area. It’s prohibited. That’s why it’s an ideal place. No one even suspects it exists. You can’t see it from the outside; there’s only one door that leads in, and no way out.

I cart her down the winding staircase to the entrance and have to prop her against the iron rungs so I can dig out my keys. She moans in her sleep, a fitful sound that frays my nerves.

This is wrong.

This is fucked up, is what it is. I made a rash choice back there. And now, confronted with the consequence, regret weighs heavily in the pit of my stomach.

I hastily unlock the door and move her inside. “This place wasn’t meant for you,” I say, though she probably can’t hear me. I need to hear myself say it, however—to believe that I haven’t gone too far.

The last chamber of the cellar is a bare, ten-by-ten room, unassuming in its simplicity. It’s the central cellar area that would be discovered if anyone happened to find their way down here.

She starts to stir in my arms before I lay her on the slab floor.

Damn. I can’t just let her roam around. I made sure the cellar was impervious from the inside, but it’s never been tested. Not yet.

This place is for ghouls and fiends. Not women who attack strangers at night.

“Don’t do anything stupid before I come back,” I warn.

Improvising is not my strength. I’ve planned for years, worked out all the details, and this woman is fucking up the design. Who the hell is she? Where did she come from?

I lower myself down next to her and sweep the dark, tangled tresses aside to reveal her face. A surge of familiarity bites at my mind, like a shark circling blood in the water, trying to locate the source.

I’ve seen her before.

But I don’t know where, and trudging through the past is like navigating a minefield. One misstep and I detonate. I keep the past secure just like I keep this cellar—locked and hidden.

I leave, locking the door behind me.

After locating a cuff and chain, I unseal the cellar to find her still asleep. I hammer an iron spike from my collection into the cement floor. The makeshift restraint will have to do until I figure out what to do with her. The banging rouses her, and I strip her of a boot and shackle the cuff to her ankle before she fully comes to.

As I test the strength of the chain, she groans and palms her forehead.

Relief is only partially claimed as I leave her, bound and trapped, and start up the staircase. I’m almost far enough away from the room, but like the marionette that I’ve become, the cruel strings try to pull me in that direction. The whispered voice beckons me closer, the draw to look inside, to check. To deliver pain.

It’s become a sick compulsion.

I press the heel of my hands to my temples. “Shut up.”

My head pounds with the beat of my heart, in sync with the murmured voice begging for escape.

My head meets the side of the iron railing. The pain splinters my mind, giving me a second of peace. My thoughts shoot out like probing tentacles, threads of webbing all searching. I follow the one thread that promises a shred of sanity.

The woman.

I grab a blanket from the closet and candle from the kitchen and head back down. By the time I return to the cellar, she’s awake. She’s backed against the wall, her jean-clad legs pulled to her chest. Her eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark yet, and her gaze flicks around searchingly.

“Now you’re quiet.” I kick the blanket her way, and she flinches.