Of course the door is locked. That doesn't stop me from pounding on it and rattling the old door knob. I am fairly certain that I am shouting all sorts of obscenities through the door, but the buzzing returns to my ears and time disappears in the darkness. When reality rushes back, my throat is dry and scratchy, so I assume I was still yelling.
But I can't be certain of anything at all.
I slump down on the basement stairs. Utter weariness has crept into my bones, a weariness of the grave. I can't remember the last time that I ate or drank—let alone took a shit. My sanity is dripping down a drain and I can't stop it.
A sigh escapes me as I consider my sticky situation. I helped a woman who turned out to be psychotic. I was drugged with some unknown substance and—for all I know—am still being drugged. And now I'm locked in a basement.
My life has become a horror shit show. I won't be surprised if an evil clown pops up at any moment.
Since meeting Freddie, a hazy unreality undulated through me. But my senses are starting to return and the effect makes me long for the unreality. Because fear is eating into me. Not a fear heightened by a dangerous drug, but the fear of a rational mind. The kind that reminded me over and over again that I am likely going to die.
The horrible unfairness almost chokes me. I do one decent thing by helping Freddie and now I am going to die. The otherworldly aspect of the encounter now seems far away and everything makes sense in the worst way. This is a cult that wants to protect its secrets. And what better way than sticking me in a basement? Either I was never getting out of here or I was never getting out of here alive.
They wouldn't even have to do their own dirty work. I will rot away and be forgotten by the world.
I get up. I am not ready to give up so soon. Not now that reality is forcing me back into the land of wretched wakefulness.
I go down the steps of the basement, each step creaking a little too loudly. I reach the bottom and slowly start looking for a light. There are several switches, but none of them seem to work. A cold chain brushes against my face and I tug on it. A flickering, fading light bulb gasps to life. It's dim, but gives me a better look at my surroundings.
This is a cold, cement basement out of every horror story. No windows. Almost nothing to see in this desolate dungeon masquerading as a basement. I would almost prefer skeletons and drooling men to this disturbing reality.
There is no way out and I don't know what to do. I want to run up to the door and start pounding until they let me out or I magically knock the door down. But exhaustion chains me down and I slump down next to one of the cold walls.
"I could use a hallucination for company," I croak.
Nothing. Even insanity has abandoned me.
I slump my head to the side and something catches my eye. There is writing on the wall. Red marker or—more likely—blood.
The words offer no comfort and certainly no hope.
AWAKE. AWAKE. AWAKE.
Perfect. Those words will certainly keep me awake.
Occasionally the hallucinations creep back, but without the earlier potency. Translucent tarantulas crawling over my skin and burrowing deep inside. Ghostly goblins lurching across the floor, my death written on their twisted faces. Hellish heckles tearing into me for my stupidity in following these people.
But all of it faint, like watching an old TV. Fuzzy and indistinct, a jumping picture always reminding you that what you are watching isn't real.
Eventually images and noise vanish and I am left only with a flickering light bulb and my tangled thoughts.
At least I thought the hallucinations stopped. At one point I close my eyes and when I open them, I am lying on the floor. My ear is pressed against the ground and the faintest noise echoes.
THUMP.
My body jolts, but it's too worn to move. I remain still and listen intently. All I hear is my own ear scraping against the floor. The silence is almost louder than my own breathing.
THUMP.
A shiver runs through me. It doesn't sound like a banging. It reminds me more of a drum.
It reminds me more of a heartbeat.
I press my ear harder to cement floor when a loud creaking noise tears through the silence. I raise my head just in time to nearly get blinded by a stream of light. But a dreadful dissonance destroys the silence. A hellish crashing sound with tinny echoes. A terrible shudder runs through me.
I blink, trying to locate the source of the noise. But a loud slam echoes through the basement, taking the surplus light. I rub my eyes as I realize someone had opened the basement door, thrown something down and shut it again.
While I lay around like an ass.
Frustration nearly chokes me, but I want to know what was thrown down. If I'm lucky—and I know I'm not—maybe it was some sort of food container.
And phone.
But, as I suspect, I'm not lucky. I inch toward the stairs and see the item buried in basement shadows.
Chains.
I back away as if it is a pile of snakes. I look up at the darkened door and try to shout. All that comes out is a sandy whisper. I cough for a minute and try again.
"What the hell is this?"
I should be asking that about my voice. There is no way anyone would hear me even if I was right in front of their face.
I grimace and pull myself up. The chains clang slightly as my feet brush against them. But I ignore them and slowly start climbing the stairs. Everything swims, but I think it's more exhaustion and hunger than any residual tripping.
I slip on one of the steps—there is a crack on it—and nearly lose my balance. It takes a minute to steady myself and I resume my climb to the top. Even more slow and deliberate this time.
At the top, I almost fall down again as I pound on the door. My hands come down much more weakly than they should, but I persist. "Hey! HEY! What the fuck? You leave me down here and then throw some chains down? Let me out!"
A few raspy obscenities slip out before my banging peters out. I sit down on the first step and let out a defeated sigh.
"Do you want to call Emily?"
The crisp, businesslike voice of Rachel is the first human sound I've heard in so long. I turn toward the door, as if hoping it will swing open.
It stays shut.
"Didn't you promise that last year?" I ask.
I wince at the needless needling. I just want to get out of there, but I'm fairly certain my sanity has deserted me. I couldn't figure out another reason why I would say something so foolish that might push her away.
"I had to fight for this, Mr. Hill," Rachel says. "Michael was adamant that the call not be made until Freddie's concoction was no longer affecting you."
The urge to bark back at Rachel almost overwhelms me. I take a steady breath. "And starving me?"
"That is standard for all of our initiates," Rachel says indifferently. "If you survive past the point of nature, you are chosen."
What fucking bullshit.
"I get it," I lie. "So I...what? I passed?"
"Not yet."
I roll my eyes.
"But you will be allowed the call."
I don't allow hope to blossom. I'd rather rip the petals from hope than grasp a flower that will quickly wither. But that doesn't mean I'm going to refuse.
"So give me the phone," I say, as graciously as possible considering the circumstances.
"Robert doesn't trust you."
I try not to scoff. "Robert doesn't trust me? I didn't do anything to all of you and Robert doesn't trust me?"
"You've tried to hurt some of us."
"I was drugged!"
"The reasons are irrelevant," Rachel says coldly.
The reasons are very relevant, but I bury my face in my hands and try to muffle a scream. "So what does this mean?"
"Put the chains on," Rachel says.
My head shoots up. "What?"
"Willingly chain yourself and you can have your call."