I reach for my phone but remember it’s in my bag, still in the car.
“Help!” I bang on the door. “Help me!”
It’s no use. The asylum is full of people screaming from morning to night. Even if someone heard my pleas, they’d think I’m a crazy patient.
The smell of rising damp makes my stomach churn. My knees sting, and a warm trickle of blood oozes down my leg. My eyes adjust, noting the only shred of light comes from a tiny half-centimeter gap around the edge of the door.
I have to pull myself together. I grapple around, running my hands over the walls, trying to focus on what’s in front of me. It’s a grounding technique I learned from a therapist, only I never expected to use it after being locked in an underground cupboard.
What kind of parent does this to their own flesh and blood? No one ever questions the sanity of a psychiatrist, but he blurs the line between sane and crazy. How long can you spend around people who’ve lost their mind without losing part of your own?
“Bricks,” I say, choosing to fill the silence than let it stretch out. “Breeze block.” The space is compact. Ten feet by six, if that. “Concrete floor.”
My shoe hits a steel bucket when I rotate. I kneel to inspect it and get assaulted by the pungent smell of stale urine. I retch,retasting the apple shot from earlier. Well, I guess that answers my question about going to the bathroom…
I carefully nudge the bucket. Despite the foul odor, it seems to be empty, judging by how easily it rattles, and I push it into the corner away from me.
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’ll be over soon.”
My words bring me no comfort. Dad wants to frighten me, not cause actual pain. All I have to do is stick it out until morning. He’ll be back then and use this exercise as a teaching opportunity. Until then, I can get through a few hours being alone.
“Boo!” a male voice comes from somewhere above. It reverberates through me like a lightning bolt.
I inhale sharply, holding in air and hoping he’ll go away if I stay quiet.
“I know you can hear me,” the voice says.
His playful words don’t match the underlying cruelness to his tone.
I’m a mouse that has walked straight into a trap that’s about to snap.
I slap my hands over my mouth, struggling to control my breathing. I know what kind of people they lock up in here. Some patients have committed the worst crimes imaginable: murder, rape, and there’s even a cannibal rumored to be in residence.
“You can’t hide from us,” a second voice says. It’s deeper than the first, with a slight drawl to his accent, making him sound almost bored.
“What’s wrong?” a third guy asks. He’s British, which instantly makes him seem less intimidating. A Brit instantly conjures an image of a hero from an Austen novel in my mind. “Are you scared?”
“Let’s find out,” the first says.
I name them in my head. One, Two, and Three. Giving them names helps make them less scary than abstract figures.
A bolt from the ceiling falls at my feet. The tinny ping echoes around the tiny space, followed by the torturous scrape of more screws being loosened. I squeal as a sheet of metal lands to my right with a bang. They’re in the ceiling, coming down a vent.Fuck.
“I love it when they scream,” Three purrs, dashing my hopes of him being the next Mr. Darcey. Even a cute accent can’t make that sentence sound good.
“Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” Two says. “We only want to welcome you.”
Their voices grow louder as bodies shuffle along metal above my head.
“Help!” I scream, breaking my vow of silence to pound against the door. They already know I’m here, so what harm can it do? I hear desperation in my hoarse voice, but I don’t care. There’s still a chance Dad is close by. “Help me!”
“Save your breath,” Three urges. “No one listens when you scream here, except for me.”
Help isn’t coming.
CHAPTER
FIVE
