“WHAT DO YOU MEAN BYOUT OF TOWN?”
“This measure may seem extreme to you now, Gwendolyn,” Eliza said in an eerily calm voice. “But in time, I hope you will see the wisdom in it. The necessity behind it.” She paused. “In time, I hope you will forgive us.”
“FORGIVE YOU?” I was really starting to panic as the reality of my situation settled around my shoulders. With effort, I managed to lower my tone a fraction, so I was only half-hollering. “Forgive you for what? You’re not really planning to keep me here, are you? Please, tell me you’re joking!”
The trio exchanged another lingering glance amongst themselves, then turned away in a whirl of black fabric. In unison, they slipped their hoods back up over their heads and began to move toward the far side of the basement.
“HEY!” I yelled after them as they began to walk away from me, again struggling furiously against the binds on my wrists. “Wait! Where do you think you’re going?”
They gave no response. They didn’t even pause. And then, in the space between two blinks, they seemed to disappear into thin air, fading into the dense shadows beyond the altar’s pool of light, leaving me utterly alone.
There must be some sort of passage out of here. A storm cellar door, perhaps. A secret tunnel.
Unless… they really could do magic.
“You can’t just leave me down here!” I called to the empty void, my voice cracking with rising panic.
But they had.
Those horrid, unhinged….
Witches!
As full quiet descended in the wake of their departure, I took stock of my situation.
Okay. No point in panicking, Gwen. It’s really not so bad. You’re unharmed, for the most part. Sure, you’ve been witch-roofied, tied up, and held hostage by three paranoid, paranormal octogenarians who think your blood is the key to unlocking an ancient curse they laid upon a rival sect of dark pagans…
A half-laugh, half-cry bubbled up my throat, a byproduct of sheer hysteria at the ridiculous nature of this whole scenario. All laughter dissipated as the quiet of the empty basement echoed back at me. On the stone altar, the candles were burning low. I wondered how much longer the wicks would last before spluttering into darkness. The basement was already unpleasant; I had no desire to still be here when it was plunged into pitch black.
With fresh urgency, I tugged at my bindings until my skin was raw and my bones were smarting. But I was bound fast, unable to gain even a millimeter of slack in the heavy, braided rope. I was officially stuck until they came back for me. Goddess only knew how long that would take. They weren’t exactly spry spring chickens. I could be here forever. I might actually perish down here without any food or water. Assuming I didn’t lose my mind from sheer boredom before dying of thirst. They could’ve at least left me some reading material to pass the time. Or a nightlight to keep the ghosts at bay!
The left side of the space held nothing but a few empty, half-rotted storage crates. On the right, a rickety set of wooden stairs were bolted to the stone wall. They looked like they’d been built by the original settlers of Salem back in the 1600s. Not very promising, as escape routes went. A lump of fabric bundled on the bottom step caught my frantic eyes — my camel coat and patent leather tote bag, I realized with a rush of foolish hope.
Was my phone still inside my bag?
There was a good chance they’d ditched it back in the gutter of that alleyway outside The Witches Brew. But on the off chance it was still inside… I had to get to it. Somehow. I had to try, at least.
Rocking back and forth in my chair, I hoped I might scoot it across the floor or maybe tip it over and splinter the wood arms, setting myself free in the manner of a badass secret agent heroine of a spy movie. Unfortunately, since I was not a badass secret agent and this was reality, I soon realized the chair was made of oak so heavy, it might as well be the Iron Throne, forged of a thousand melted swords. No amount of squirming lifted the legs off the ground. My struggles only succeeded in stealing my breath, sapping my strength, and breaking my spirit.
Hellfire and brimstone.
Hope fading, I craned my neck to examine the cobwebbed wood planks high overhead. The utter lack of sound left me with little confidence that anyone was up there; that anyone would hear my screams for help. That didn’t stop me from trying, though.
I screamed and screamed and screamed until my throat was hoarse and my lungs were aching, until the word ‘help’ had lost all meaning, morphing into mangled, guttural muddle of letters that barely made it past my lips.
After that, I screamed some more.
Chapter Nine
He’s a walking red flag. Thankfully, red is my favorite color.
- Gwen Goode, justifying a recent crush
Glass shattered somewhere overhead.
I jolted awake at the muffled sound. In an instant, I sat upright in my chair, spine ramrod straight. I’d slumped over as I slept, worn out by what felt like hours of screaming and struggling in vain.
Maybe notentirelyin vain…