"Getting what's coming to me," he said and backed away holding the other end of the chain. He ran it to a big metal pin that looked like a railroad spike embedded in a floor beam and locked that end with a padlock, too.

"What's coming to you?" I asked, terrified.

"A wife, that's what. I paid for a Landry some years back, and she run off. Then, when she returned and I went to claim what was legally mine, she had me arrested. I spent some time in the clink 'cause of her, but Buster Trahaw never forgets a debt owed him. No, ma'am. Relatives of mine," he continued, reaching for a bottle that had an inch or so of beer left in it, "told me you was here, so I come lookin', and sure enough, there you was. Well, I ain't particular which Landry I get, long as I get one that's been owed." He brought the neck of the bottle to his thick lips and sucked out the remaining beer, his throat contorting like the body of a snake. Then he flung the bottle across the room. It didn't shatter, but it bounced off the wall and fell to the floor.

"I figured since I was cheated, I could claim this shack, but it ain't nothin' near the payment owed me." He smiled. "You make up the rest."

"What do you want from me?"

"Want?" He looked confused for a moment. "Why, I want a wife. You do what a wife supposed to do is what I want. First thing, you clean up this place. I give you enough lead on this chain so you can get around the shack. Right there," he said pointing to a rusty pot in the right corner, "is the diddly. You can use them old newspapers I got piled next to it."

"You can't do this," I cried. "This is

kidnapping." "Course I can do it. It's what's owed, and out here in the swamps, a debt is a debt, hear?"

I started to cry. He stared at me a moment and then stepped toward me ominously. I cringed against the shack wall.

"I don't want to hear cryin'; I don't want to hear yellin'. I want a quiet, obedient woman, just like my daddy had twice. Now I got you somethin' to wear, somethin' that ain't fancy. You're a swamp woman now." He dug under the cot and came out with what looked like another sack. "Put this here on. Now!" he shouted, some spittle raining over me.

My body was shaking; I couldn't move. He reached down and grabbed my left arm just below the elbow, squeezing so hard, I screamed. Then his left hand cracked across my right cheek, snapping my head back. The shock of it was worse than the pain that followed. I couldn't speak or swallow down the throat lump. He dug his fingers into the top of my head and gathered a clump of my hair, pulling me to my feet. I was sobbing silently, my chest feeling as if it would burst.

"Get them fancy rags off now," he ordered. "Do it!"

My hands shaking, I began to unbutton my blouse. I was crying and shaking the whole time. When I slipped off my skirt, he smiled with satisfaction.

"You take all of that off," he ordered. "Even them store-bought underwear. Do it. I got to see what I got."

I thought I would faint first. The air in the shack was stifling. My skin was crimson from the heat of fear passing through my body. When I didn't move, h

e turned, found a wide, black leather belt in the pile of clothing, and wrapped one end of it around his wrist and hand. My eyes widened as he approached, lifting his arm. I raised my arms to protect myself, and he swung the belt and slapped me across the thigh. The blow took my breath away.

Instead of lifting me by my hair this time, he dug his fingers under my bra and pulled with such force that the hooks gave way and the bra was torn from my body. He tossed it over his shoulder. I fell back against the cot, screaming. He hit me again, this time on the other leg. I felt my eyes roll back, and then all was dark.

When I opened my eyes again, I was on my back on the cot, wearing the sack dress with nothing underneath. I didn't move. The pain along my thighs reminded me vividly of what had happened. I saw that my lucky dime was gone, too. At first I was afraid to turn to the right or the left, but when I did look, I saw he wasn't there. I took a deep breath and sat up to be sure he wasn't in a corner or below me on the floor. The shack was empty.

Encouraged and hopeful, I stood up, but realized I still had that chain locked around my ankle. I tried to slip it over my ankle bone, but it was too tight. Maybe I could get the other end loose, I thought. If I had to, I'd carry that chain for miles to escape.

As I started across the shack, I saw a large note pinned to the closed front door. It had apparently been written with a burned piece of wood: "I went to get some whiskey and food for you to cook. Clean up fore I get back. Your husband Buster."

Panicking, I hurried over to the railroad spike and tried to get that end of the chain loose, but it was just as tightly wrapped and locked.

I opened the front door and stepped out on the gallery. I realized Buster had taken my watch, but I knew I had been here for some time because the sun was down over the cypress trees, casting long, dark shadows over the canal. Buster wasn't in sight, but neither was anyone else. Even so, I yelled, "Anyone, please help me! Please, anyone!"

I waited. My voice echoed over the water and died in the swamp. An egret flew out of the trees, soared over the water, and disappeared down the canal. When I looked off the left side of the gallery, I saw that the sky was growing overcast. A thick bed of ash-gray clouds was sliding in over the turquoise background, and the wind had begun to blow through the swamp. Then I turned to the right side of the gallery and saw a cottonmouthSnake that had woven its body through the slats. It tightened its coil when it saw me. I couldn't breathe. Slowly I made my way back to the shack doorway and then stepped in and slammed it shut.

Buster Trahaw could leave at will without worrying about my escaping. I was chained inside and guarded by every creature that lived in the swamp, I thought. What was I going to do? Afraid of what Buster would do if he returned and I hadn't cleaned, I started to straighten up the shack. I picked up and folded all the clothing, most of it filthy. I gathered the dishes and pans and put them in the sink. The water was rust brown, but I washed the dishes as best I could. When that was done, I scrubbed the plank table, straightened up what little furniture there was, and made the cot bed. I found a broom in the corner. Half of it was gone, but there was enough for me to sweep the plank floor. I took a wet rag and cleaned the windows. I looked everywhere for my clothes, but I couldn't find them. I guessed he had thrown them into the swamp along with my watch and bracelet.

There was a small wooden box in the far right corner. I was hoping there was something in it, perhaps a tool that I could use to tear off this lock and chain, even though I didn't know what I would do once I was free of it. There was no other canoe outside, and I certainly couldn't swim in the canal with alligators and snakes just waiting. I had no shoes either, so even if I made it to the marsh, I would be terrified stepping through the tall grass.

There were no tools in the box, just a pretty linen tablecloth with hand-embroidered birds; but under the tablecloth I found some old sepia-tinted photographs. They were pictures of a pretty young woman standing barefoot on the grass in front of my greatgrandmere Catherine's shack. When I studied the face, I realized the woman resembled Mommy. Buster had claimed this was my great-grandpere Jack's trapper shack. I guess it was and this was my grandmere, Gabriel.

If only her spirit were here now, I thought, hoping for the only thing that could help me . . a miracle. There were pictures of an older couple who I imagined were my great-grandmere Catherine and my greatgrandpere Jack. In one of them, Great

Grandmere Catherine was holding a baby, who I imagined had to be Mommy. Seeing their faces and realizing who they were gave me some comfort and for the moment I felt a warmth and a sense of hope. Somehow, some way, I would get out of this horrible situation.

I put the pictures back and closed the wooden box. Then I stood up and gazed about the shack. Where could I hide? What could I use to defend myself? A trapper's long knife hung on the wall. I seized it. I had never imagined myself stabbing anyone, even the likes of Buster Trahaw, but when someone was desperate, even someone like me, she could reach down into places she never thought existed within herself and find the strength. I was sure of it.

Suddenly I heard his thin laugh. Then Buster shouted for his wife to come to the door. I put the knife back, intending to use it when I had the best opportunity, and then I tiptoed to the door and opened it just enough to peer out. I saw him poling up the swamp toward the shack, pausing every few moments to take a swig from his jug.

Tags: V.C. Andrews Landry Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net