Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
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I blinked, but I’m not sure for how long—or if I might’ve nodded off—because when I opened my eyes again, he seemed closer. I felt the heat of his breath against my cheek.
He was holding something—someone’s hand. It took me a beat to realize it was mine—my sterling silver ring, my clover-shaped birthmark, my week-old French manicure.
His lips drooped downward like a sad clown face. Something was wrong. His forehead scrunched up; there were deep horizontal lines etched into his skin.
He checked my pulse, holding my fingers upward. Were my veins always so blue? My skin normally so ghostly? Was I already dead? But dead girls don’t smile, and a smile came to my lips—I felt it crawl up my cheeks—as I looked at those brown, brown eyes so full of concern, and as I watched the tension in his jaw and the sharp angles of his mouth as it moved to form words. It was like watching a movie where I had a front-row seat, only I wasn’t sure where the seat was or how much I’d already missed.
Was I still in the trunk?
Were we past the inciting incident?
Or was this the final cut and his eyes were the last things I’d see?
THEN
7
I woke up in a bright white room with stark white walls. The furniture was white too—a table, a chair, a dresser, a mini-fridge.
I sat up. My head throbbed: a knifelike sensation that plunged through the bones of my skull. A musty smell filled the air. I recognized it right away, like rotted wood or decayed leaves. It was the scent of the honeycomb candles from Norma’s store. They were burning somewhere.
I looked around, trying to locate the source, suddenly noticing that I was lying in a bed—crisp white sheets, two square pillows. What was this place? Why was I here?
Breathe.
Breathe.
“Whatever you do, try your best not to panic.” Ms. Romer’s voice, back inside my head. “Be smart. Assess the situation. Figure out your best resources.”
The entire space seemed about as big as my dorm room at poetry camp, but with no windows and no doorknob on the door. Was this a basement of a house? Was that a pocket door? The candles weren’t burning here, but they were nearby for sure.
I reached into my pocket. My phone was gone. My blood turned to ice. This wasn’t happening.
This couldn’t.
Possibly.
Be happening.
Two bright eyeball lights shone down from the ceiling. They were caged with metal screens and secured with locks.
I stood up. My legs felt heavy. My feet tingled as they touched the floor; that was white too—painted cement. I shuffled to the door, felt all around the edges. It wasn’t made of wood. Possibly steel? Or iron?
I cupped a hand over my mouth. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Whatever you do, try your best not to panic. Be smart. Assess the situation. Figure out your best resources.”
A tall, slender cabinet stood to my right. It was attached to the wall with thick steel bolts, plus a chain. The fridge was that way too, and so were the table, chair, bed, and dresser—all secured to the walls and floor.
I moved across the room, itching at my forearms, scratching the back of my neck, then inside my ears. A side effect from the drug? Was that why my mouth felt so fuzzy? And why my skin felt so chilled?
Beyond the dresser was a doorway without a door. The space was open, about the size of a walk-in closet. I peeked inside, spotting a toilet, a sink, and a stand-up shower.
My eyes filled up again. My body began to twitch.
He was keeping me here. This was no fucking joke.
I scrambled to the door and beat my fists against it, screaming for someone to come—even if that meant him.
I kicked.
I beat.
I punched.
I smacked.
I did all of the things I was supposed to have done before he’d had the chance to take me in the first place. But it was too fucking late.
No one answered.
He never came.
There was just a nighttime silence too heavy to lift. I tried to breathe through it and felt a jabbing in my chest, cutting off my air. I sank down to the floor and tucked my head between my knees. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t possibly be happening.
I looked at the door again, noticing a cutout at the bottom— a panel that swung open and shut, like for a pet. It was small—maybe twelve inches wide by eight inches tall.
I moved across the floor and pushed the panel open. Propped on my knees, I used the strength of my elbows to try to wriggle my way through, but the sides of the opening pinched my biceps, dug into the flesh. Barely shoulder-deep, I felt a tingling sensation radiating down my forearms, burning my fingertips. I needed to find another way.
Lying on my stomach, I stuck my head through the opening. The top of the hinge ground into my scalp. Something sharp pressed against my ear. I peered around, spotting a pile of boxes stacked in the distance, as well as another room—about three yards away—across the hall. The door crack at the bottom was filled with light, as though someone were inside there.
“Hello?” I shouted.
No one answered. Nothing happened. And so I screamed like an animal—until my throat burned raw and I could taste blood on my tongue.
Eventually, I slunk back on the bed, rolled onto my side, and stared at the bright white wall as my mind continued to race. My heart wouldn’t stop palpitating. But somehow I was able to cry myself to sleep, returning to that temporary state of unconsciousness where reality doesn’t exist.
THEN
8
When I woke up again, I kept my eyes pressed shut, not wanting to see what in my mind I already knew: The white wall would be there, facing me, beside the bed.
And it was.
Totally real.
I touched it to be sure, dragged the nubs of my fingers across the cool, bumpy surface; felt the hot, bubbly tears fill the rims of my eyes; winced from the sharp, wrenching pain deep inside my gut.
I was going to be sick. Acid crept up the back of my throat and filled the crevices of my mouth. I threw up beside the bed, heaved until there was nothing else left, except hot, bubbly tears and cool, bumpy surfaces.
I got up and stumbled into the bathroom. A light went on overhead, as though by motion. I stepped in front of the sink. A mirror faced me, but it wasn’t made with real glass. My reflection looked distorted, my face and neck too long—like the image in a fun house. But still, the presence of a fake mirror … He obviously cared about vanity, and wanted me too as well, which explained the hairbrush on the hamper and the bar of soap on the plastic dish.
A bright red blob sat in the corner of my eye like spilled ketchup. A broken blood vessel; I’d gotten one before—from laughing upside down, reclining off the back of Shelley’s sofa during a backbend challenge that involved Thai noodles and gummy worms.
Was this one from crying too hard?
Or screaming too loud?
Or convulsing too much?
The blob had bled over part of the green iris, turning it brown, making me look like a monster with my ashen cheeks and my swollen red lips, like The Night of the Living Dead.
I shut my eyes again, trying to block everything out, even for a few seconds, still able to hear my mother’s sobs on the other end of the phone.
“Be smart.” Ms. Romer’s voice again. “Assess the situation. Figure out your best resources.”
I peered all around, wondering if I was being watched—if the guy who took me was sitting in front of a video or computer screen.
My lips stung. I licked them to check for bleeding, but everything tasted sour like the inside of my mouth. Still, I was pretty sure I’d bitten them in my sleep, that I’d dreamed of lip piercings and salted chips.
And running in the rain.
In my purple running shoes.
A long lock of hair fell loose from its bun. I poked it back in place, secured the rubber band with an extra loop, then turned toward a tal
l storage cabinet. Like the furniture in the other room, it’d been chained to the wall. I opened the door. Inside I found more bars of soap: the Saint Georges brand, the same one I used at home. The shampoo and conditioner were the kind I liked as well, from Studio M, at least twenty bottles of each. Stacked on the middle and bottom shelves were towels, washcloths, boxes of tissues, packages of sanitary napkins, and toilet paper …
I backed away, shaking my head. A weird gurgling noise sputtered from my throat. Just get a grip, I reminded myself. Assess the situation. Find my resources.
I started to pick through the items on the shelves, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Bottles were toppling out. My lungs were caving in.
Was that a container of facial cream? I recognized the green-and-yellow logo. And the name on the jar: Celestial, from Lush, also my brand. I heard myself wheeze.
Think, Jane.
Don’t freak out.
There’s a lot here to work with.
I went to grab a bottle of shampoo—to check the ingredients list for something I could use, something to inflict harm—when I noticed a pad of paper stuck to the inside of the door. It was a checklist for things I’d need to order—for items in the cabinet I’d eventually use up and groceries in the fridge I’d yet to weed through. I also found a scorecard of some sort and a tiny wooden pencil.
EARN STARS FOR BEING GOOD
Score 1 star each for the following chores:
1. Placing dirty dishes outside the cat door after the completion of each meal.
2. Depositing trash in the bag provided and leaving it in the hallway at least once per week.
3. Stripping bed linens weekly and leaving outside the cat door, along with any clothing items you’d like washed.
Please list your completed chores below, beside each star. After twenty stars, you can choose from the following prizes: a novel of your choice, a notebook and pen set, a deck of cards, a magazine (be specific on which type), a crossword puzzle or word-search book, or other item of your choosing.
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Desired Item: _________________________________
My head whirred. The room began to tilt. I grabbed the door for stability, but it wasn’t enough. My knees gave way. And my head hit the floor.
THEN
9
Sometime later, screaming jolted me awake. My eyes snapped open, but the room remained dark.
Where was I?
Lying in bed?
The surface beneath me felt stone-cold, brick-hard. The bones in my face ached. I lifted my head just as a female voice shouted, “It won’t happen again!”
I scrambled to a seated position, triggering the sensor light to click on. I was still in the bathroom.
The scorecard for the star points lay at my feet, along with the wooden pencil.
I crawled across the floor out of the bathroom and to the pocket door to listen. She screamed again—a tear-filled wail that radiated in my chest. I felt it in my gut. I think it shook the room.
I pushed open the swinging panel. A tray sat within reach, out in the hallway. I looked beyond it just as the girl screamed louder. My heart beat faster. I stuck my face into the opening, trying my best to see, but I only had a view of about five feet on both sides of the door.
“Please,” she wailed. “I won’t. I promise.” Her voice had blades. It tore me to bits.
I wanted to call out, wanted to rip right through the wall and tell her that she wasn’t the only one here.
A door slammed somewhere. Her voice got strangled. She sounded farther away now, maybe even on another floor.
Tears slid down my face as I remained curled up by the door, my mind racing, my muscles twinging.
It got.
Eerily.
Quiet.
There was only Ms. Romer’s voice inside my head: “In the unfortunate event that you do get taken to a second location, be sure to leave a trail of clues. They’re like bread crumbs for investigators and go quite nicely with the main dish of DNA.” She laughed.
But nothing was funny, because I hadn’t left a thing—not a mint from my pocket or the rubber band from my hair.
Had anyone seen me go into Norma’s shop?
Had Norma ever invested in surveillance cameras? She’d talked about getting them once, when the convenience store down the road had gotten robbed. But she never did go forward with the installation.
Or had she?
How about the toy shop across the street? Or the stationery store next door? Did they have surveillance cameras?
What did the scene look like after I passed out? Where had the guy parked his car? Behind mine, in Norma’s back driveway? Did he carry me out (and leave some of his DNA en route)? Or was I able to walk?
“Hello?” I shouted after what felt like an eternity, surprised to hear my voice, that I hadn’t gone deaf. That’s how quiet it’d become.
What was happening? Why was the girl no longer yelling?
“Hello?” I tried again, but it came out in a cough. My throat sounded splintered. I needed water.
I peeked through the cat door again. A pitcher sat on the tray, along with a stack of drinking cups. I slid it toward me and poured water into a cup, only it lapped over the rim.
I popped the lid off the pitcher and drank from the spout, my mind reeling, my head spinning. Everything felt fast, fast, fast, and at the same time slow.
Slow.
Slow.
The liquid tasted sweet. Why was my neck wet?
Where was my phone? Would the police be able to trace it?
I looked at the tray again. There was something wrapped in foil, as well as a bag of chips, a container of applesauce, and a bruised apple. I unwrapped the foil, able to smell the item inside—the charred meat, the doughy bun. The burger felt cold to the touch. A shriveled square of orange cheese sat on top, melted into the grease, along with a thick tomato slice.
My stomach grumbled in response. My mouth started to water. I gobbled the burger down, unable to chew it quickly enough, nearly choking in the process. Then I searched the tray for a spoon to eat the applesauce. There wasn’t any, so I used my fingers, lapping every last bit.
When I’d almost reached the bottom, the lights went out. I stomped my feet, hoping it would trigger a motion detector light like the one in the bathroom. But nothing happened. I remained in complete darkness.
I stood up and slid my palms over the wall, on both sides of the door—swiping left and right, then up and down—trying to locate a light switch, unable to find one. Why hadn’t I noticed a switch earlier?
I continued searching, taking side steps toward the cabinet, able to feel the wooden corner at my back. Still no luck.
I moved in the opposite direction—until my calf touched the bed. Was there no switch at all? Or was it outside the door? Was he right outside my room?
My whole body trembled as I pressed my ear against the door panel. “Hello?” I called; my voice trembled too.
If he answered, I’m not sure I would’ve heard him. It was too loud inside my ears: the pulsating of my heart, the rushing of my blood, the storming of my adrenaline.
Was he watching me? Controlling when I slept? Playing with my mind?
I turned away from the door and ventured a step, still trying to listen for any noises—the click of a lock, the scuffle of a foot. With my arms outstretched, I moved across the room. Finally, my hands found the open doorway of the bathroom. I stepped inside, tripping the sensor. The light over the sink went on.
I let out my breath, reassuring myself; I could stay in here for as long as I wanted. But I opted for the dark instead. I snagged the hairbrush and curled up by the cat door, fe
eling I’d be closer to the girl that way, only slightly empowered to know I could retreat to the bathroom for light if I wanted.
Wielding the hairbrush as my weapon, I closed my eyes and envisioned using the handle to stab at his eyes.
I pictured the blood.
And imagined his wail.
I replayed the scene at least a hundred times inside my mind, my teeth clenched, my body twitching, as I waited to hear the girl’s scream. I wouldn’t rest until I did.
NOW
10
I’m sitting in the waiting room of Dr. White’s office. It’s time to go in, but I’d rather eat dirt. My mother insists—on my going in, that is.
“I’ll be right here the whole time,” she says as assurance, though it feels more like a warning.
I step into the office and close the door behind me. Once again, the interior smells like honeycomb candles, like hay and burning leaves. I mentioned it the first time I was here—how much it bothered me—but clearly the problem is mine.
I turn to face the door and wrap my hand around the knob, so tempted to bolt. I could say I have a stomachache. Mom would know it’s a lie, but does the excuse really matter?
“Come sit,” Dr. White says, a cheery tone to her voice as though we’re two good friends just chatting over coffee. “It’s been a few weeks. I’m really glad to see you.”
I turn the knob, making sure that it works, that it didn’t automatically lock when I closed the door.
“Come sit,” she persists.
I picture a box of Kleenex and imagine counting up all of the tissues inside it as I pluck each one out.
“Is everything okay?”
Twenty-seven, pluck … twenty-eight, pluck …
“Come on, let’s talk.”
Twenty-nine, pluck … thirty …
“Jane?”
I swivel and scan the room, double-checking for windows. There’s a row of four on the sidewall. I move from the door and sit across from Dr. White. Behind her is a picture of women holding hands, all of them different ages, from various countries. Supposedly, Dr. White is all about girl power and women’s rights. It’s why my mother chose her; Dr. White would know how to fix me.