By David Anderson,
No other way out…
All that could be
made out of Sarah Pitzen in the picture was the pink blotch of her
face and blond hair spilling over her shoulders. On second glance you
could somewhat make out the red glow of her eyes, giving her a demonic
appearance. “I really took a shitty picture.”
John Clarkson, folded the picture twice and then tore it in half; he put his
side of the picture in his pocket and tossed hers in the garbage.
She glared at him, mouthing fuck you.
picture was fine.”
In a basement
barely the height of a crawl space, John, at 6-foot-one, had to hang his head
just to enter or leave. But it was perfect for Sarah, who was being kept there
against her will, handcuffed to the door, facing left in a sitting position.
Through a small, high window, enough sunlight shone into her eyes to make her squint.
“Shhh, hon! I need
to keep you down here until the deal is set.”
“This is my house! How do you expect to get away
that he had forged documentation indicating she was turning over sole
responsibility to her boyfriend because of imminent distress, which was believable,
considering her recent meltdown at work. In the documents it read: I, Sarah
Pitzen, being of sound mind and body, am turning over my property at
237 Maple Street to John Clarkson.
but why do you need to keep me down here?”
“The bank is
coming over and I said you were at your mother’s; I don’t need you squawking to
them. This will be over in 30 minutes, and then I’ll let you go. Sit tight!”
“If you make any
noise, I’ll simply cut your throat,” said John, lips curved into
a malicious smirk. “Since I can’t find the key, I’ll give you a saw to free
your hand later.”
A look of
desperation paired with anger grew in Sarah’s eyes; she wiped the back of her
hand against the crease of her forehead, where a headache was brewing. She had
a sinking feel that he was going to kill her regardless. That was why she
had lifted the handcuff key from him when he was shackling her to the
door. She had also just recorded everything he said on her cell. She’d
swallowed the key as a safeguard.
Seated in a
crouched position she pushed and pushed until a pain starting at her stomach
shot right down to her thighs. It was like someone sticking a vice around her
midsection and squeezing. A loud cracking sound was followed by a whistle from
her buttocks, then the pain passed. She looked down: amid a pile
of excrement, lay the key.
She removed the
handcuff and hid behind the door at the sound of John’s stealthy
footsteps. When John stuck his head in the room a baseball bat came down
hard at the base of his skull. Preceding the thud of John’s body the satisfying
wet crack made Sarah grin—one strike and
Sarah went to the
authorities and told them everything. Surprisingly, John survived the hit and
was sentenced to 15 years in prison for kidnapping and fraud (although he had
been rendered a quadriplegic). She wrote a book about her experience,
embellished it with a hint of the supernatural, and became an overnight
celebrity. Sarah put a “For Sale” sign in front of her house; she could finally
Five years passed.
Sarah now lived in a comfortable new home, its wood floors covered in lovingly
crafted throw rugs, sheer curtains, antique furnishings with what
looked like hand-carved workmanship, and, in the front hall, a
replica Elizabethan mirror. She always caught her reflection when she left
the house, her brown eyes staring back at her. Brown eyes? Her eyes were blue!
Her eyes skewered
by the light from the small high window, she looked up at her right hand
fastened to the door as the handcuff sawed into her wrist. She wasn’t going
anywhere this way. So she took out the lighter she’d lifted, wishing it had
been the key, and set the basement door ablaze.
David Anderson, firstname.lastname@example.org,
of Ontario Canada, who wrote BP #79’s featured works, “Feral
Rage,” “For Sale,” and “Last Leg,” is an
avid writer of horror and gore. With an extensive writing background, he
currently works as a freelance reporter for a couple of newspapers.