This piece of writing has mature content. Reader's discretion is requested.
I do not write these words alone. My hand may hold the pen but the thoughts do not belong to me. They belong to your late husband. Of late, he has been visiting me, asking for my help with his dilemma, a problem of which he has given me little or no idea. He just tells me that you will know exactly what he's talking about.
He says he misses you, but that you have not to worry about him as he is happy where he is and that he still watches you from his mirror world. He says he will wait for you and mentions some unfinished business? He does not elaborate on what that business could be, I suppose you will know though. He says the ring you've been searching for is in the cellar, that he put it there because he knows how you loved the way he'd turned it into a games room for you. He says that you should go there on the first anniversary of his death as he intends to visit you then. He asks if you will wear the red satin dress he bought you at Christmas and the steel bracelets he made for you.
He says that you should be brave and that you will make it through this. He sends love and kisses and asks if you still offer your heart as he gave his to you?
I write you this note at his request. Maybe now, he will leave me in peace!
J. B. Robinson
She put down the handwritten note and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are full of fear because she knows exactly what the letter means. And the anniversary of his death is only a day away!
She walks across the room to the drinks cabinet. With a shaky hand, she pours herself a large gin & tonic. She drinks it over in one gulp then pours another. She takes a seat on the sofa, picks up her cigarettes, takes one out and lights it. She takes a long, hard drag, holds it for a moment, then exhales. The smoke swirls lazily to the ceiling. She has one day to come up with a plan.
That night she spent in restless sleep. Sleep plagued by memories. Memories of a man she had never loved. She only married him for his money. He was a successful businessman. His handsome looks and deep, dark, hypnotic stare, helped to seal many a deal. And his arrogance always insured he got the best price. He was rich beyond his means and would often flaunt it on whores to feed his kinky habits. That was how she had met him. Some of the other prostitutes who worked the streets with her, refused to entertain him, but she was willing to go that extra mile to please this handsome man who paid a handsome ransom. She very quickly became his favorite.
After a while, he'd asked her to marry him. She was unsure at first, but her greed soon persuaded her that it would be to her advantage. At first things were fine, she could put up with his little kinks while wallowing in her newfound wealth. But soon the little kinks became more and more perverted. Perverted to the extent that it hurt her to pleasure him. The cellar, or games room as he liked to call it, was a masochists haven, filled with chains, whips and paddles, the steel bracelets being shackles that left her helpless to his games of pain.
Sometimes he would leave her hanging from her steel bracelets for hours on end while he entertained clients upstairs, always making sure he gagged her so as she could not disturb his little soirees. Many times she had tried to flee, only to find the doors locked and windows barred. She had become a prisoner in her own home!
She awoke, still tired and weary but unable to get back to sleep. She felt drained of all emotion, her mind numb, and seemed to get dressed and go downstairs on autopilot. She poured herself a gin & tonic and lit a cigarette and sat at the end of the sofa. She looked at the discarded letter she had read the night before and her emotions came back. She cried. She couldn't stop crying. As sobs racked her body, so too did fear rack her mind. She could find no way to halt the haunting, and she knew that he would keep his promise to come back for her. She knew that he knew she couldn't call the police, that would be unwise and only attract the wrong kind of attention. Besides, the line was down anyway, had been for sometime now. She could flee the house, but then she'd tried that before, but for some reason, every path she took led her back here. She was still his prisoner.
She needed a plan, a way of stopping him from hurting her, from haunting her. She thought of killing him. But how can you kill someone who's already dead? Maybe she could urge him into the light, or to the dark abyss that undoubtedly held his name in its register. She had to think of a way to rid herself of this twisted, evil scumbag!
All day long she paced the floors of the house, thinking of ways to be rid of him. She knew in her heart that the answer lay in the cellar, yet still she could not bring herself to go there, not just yet anyhow. She spent the day on an endless stream of gin & tonic and cigarettes.
She woke up on the sofa where she had fallen asleep. It was 2 am. She lit a cigarette and drained the last of the gin & tonic from the glass. Her eyes were drawn to the cellar door. She stared at it for a while as she smoked the cigarette. She stubbed it out, stood up and walked towards the door. It opened with a click, she flicked the light switch and descended the stairs slowly. Her heart was beating fast and a cold sweat ran down her spine. When she reached the bottom, she turned to her right. He was still there. His corpse still hanging from the shackles, the long, sharp shard of mirror still sticking in the rib cage. Her mind raced back to a year ago.
She was hanging from the shackles, the steel bracelets, her naked body writhing from his torment. Mascara lined tears streamed from her eyes. The pain he inflicted held no sexiness for her. She watched as he drew back the lips from his teeth. She could do nothing as he sank them into her left b****t, drawing blood, the ball gag in her mouth stifling her screams. He laughed at her pain. It excited him, and his desires aroused, p.v.c. leggings being proof of that. She hated him, loathed him, she wanted to cut off his p***k and stuff it in his mouth!
He rammed a coarse toilet brush up her inner part, then brought the mirror over so she could see how much she turned him on. Her pain was his pleasure. He licked blood from her nipple before attaching battery operated wires to both nipples and sending a shock through her body. She writhed in pain. He turned the switch again and again until she passed out. He left her hanging there, unconscious, while he went upstairs and made himself tea.
When he heard her moan and the chains rattled, signaling that she had recovered consciousness, he finished his drink and went back down to her. She looked at him with eyes full of fear and hatred. He laughed at that. He picked up a cat-o-nine tails and drew it across her private area, all the while staring into her fearful eyes. He yanked the toilet brush out of her inner part then lashed her b*****s with the whip. She cried in agony. He laughed with excitement. He lashed her again and again, drawing blood from her tender skin. His excitement no longer containable, he erupted in a seminal fluid. He had exhausted himself.
He was very pleased with himself. He left her hanging there a while longer! Later that day he returned and freed her from the shackles. He handed her a plate of mashed potatoes, but no cutlery was offered to eat it with. He pushed her to her knees and made her eat like a dog. He made her lick the plate clean. When he bent to pick the plate up, she lashed out at him, catching him on the left temple with a fisted hand, the heavy gold ring on her finger acting like a knuckleduster. It stunned him. He fell against the mirror which crashed to the floor, shattering to pieces. With sheer instinct she grabbed a shard of glass and plunged it into his heart. He was dead in a matter of seconds. She fell to the floor exhausted and was asleep almost as quickly.
When she woke up, her heart was still filled with hatred. She dragged him over to the wall and put the bracelets on his wrists, his very own steel bracelets. She then pressed the button on the hoist and raised him until his feet were no longer touching the ground. Then she left. And now she was back, and he was still hanging there!
As she stood there watching him, a shiver went through her. She wanted to leave but couldn't move. Fear gripped her as he began to reanimate from the rotting corpse that he had become. His features were once more handsome, his body once again, muscular, and his evil, staring eyes and contorted sneer, as frightening as ever.
"Don't you love me anymore, Samantha?" He asked her.
She couldn't answer him.
"What's the matter, cat got you tongue?" He spat.
With that, the cat-o-nine tails rose from the floor and lashed her body. He laughed at her pain.
Her head started spinning, or was it the room? It was like she was in a vortex, spinning faster, faster, faster still. The room became a blur. Everything seemed to merge into one, and still she spun. She could hear his cackling laughter but she couldn't see him. And then suddenly, the spinning stopped. It stopped so abruptly that she felt as if she were being yanked out of her body. Only the shackles on her wrists stopped her from falling. He had somehow changed their places!
"I loved you, Samantha," he said, "I gave you my heart and look what you did to it." He nodded toward the shard of mirror sticking in his rib cage. He took hold of it in his right hand and pulled it slowly out with a sickly slurping sound. She cringed with terror as he held it up before her eyes and said, "It's time for you to return the favor!"
He plunged the shard of mirror into her chest, but he didn't stop there. He followed through, pushing the full shard into her body, twisting and turning, making the hole big enough for his fist to fit through. He grabbed hold of her heart and pulled it from her chest, held it up to his face and licked it. She watched as he did this, wondering why she felt no pain, how she could possibly be watching this happen.
And then she looked away. She looked to a corner of the cellar. There was another corpse there.
More memories flooded back.
After she had left him hanging in the cellar, she had tried to flee the house. But the doors were locked and the windows were barred. She searched the house for the keys, but could find them nowhere. She was a prisoner in her own home. The house was isolated, no one came near it very often. He'd obviously picked an ideal location for his little nights of perverse entertainment. She tried screaming but there was no one around to hear her. She could only hope that someone would eventually stumble on her plight.
There were enough groceries to last a few weeks if she rationed herself. She did, but still no one had come by, she was still trapped. Trapped and isolated. With nothing to eat, she grew weaker with each day. Desperate, tired and starving, she went back down to the cellar, intent on feeding on his corpse. But too much time had passed, the flesh was rotting and inedible. She crawled on the floor looking for rats, mice, spiders, anything that would take away her hunger, there was nothing. Filled with despair she had crawled into a corner of the cellar and waited for Death to come for her. He never did.
Oh she died alright, but Death never came to take her away. She was still here, still trapped. Still a prisoner in her own home!