Freedom. He blinked at
the random thought. Must mean something to somebody. It was nothing, here in
the dark, the bricks cold and hard against his back, underneath him. The
darkness was all consuming, empty. Loneliness ate his faltering courage.
The lock rattled at the
top of the stairs, sending his heart leaping into his throat. "Hello? Will
you talk to me?"
He cringed at the
pleading note in his voice, clamped his lips closed on the words desperate to
tumble out. He swallowed hysterical laughter. He'd spent days, weeks—could be
years—down there, without a word from another soul. Would he die down there
with no one to know but his captor?
Tears fell hot on his
face, startling him. He hadn't cried in a long time. When had that been? Oh,
not a good memory. His son, tall enough to look him in the eye, said he hated
him, snagged the keys and put the car around a telephone pole at seventy miles
an hour. He should have hid the keys, the beer, his despair. Funny, he hadn't
shed a tear since then.
But he wanted to feel the
sun on his face! The wind kissing his cheeks. Fresh air filling his lungs. He stretched
his arms and froze, ice shivering through him at the weight of chains on his
wrists. He'd forgotten them, put from his mind the times he'd twisted and
tugged until his wrists bled, to no avail. There was no loosening the chain
from the iron ring fixed in the stone floor.
"Annie," he
mourned in the dark. I'm sorry. She
had warned him about hiking alone, but he could never resist a secluded trail,
the crest of the next hill. He hadn't been aware of the man following him until
the footstep behind him and the rock at the back of his head sending him into
blackness and pain.
He leaned his head back
on the bricks, sighed, desolate with the thought that darkness would be his
last sight when he would give his life to see Annie's face one more time.
* * *
Tom gave another tug on
the rusted padlock. "Wonder what's down there?"
"Here." Neil
handed him a brick from the tumbled fireplace.
Tom looked at it,
uncertain. "I don't want to knock the roof down on us."
They'd hiked farther
than they should have, stumbling on the dilapidated old shack by accident,
hidden in a grove of old oak trees by the river. It leaned heavily to one side
and Tom would never have gone in if Neil hadn't teased him into it.
"Just open the damned door. I want to see
what's down there." Neil nudged him with an elbow. "Maybe there's a
body down there."
"More likely an
old wine cellar," Tom said hopefully. They'd grown up on horror stories of
the serial killer in the area who used to chain his victims in basements,
torturing them for days before gutting them. It was rumored he'd drowned while
trying to avoid a police chase, leaving victims behind unaccounted for. But
they were only stories, right?
A sudden, inexplicable
panic seized Tom and he swung at the lock, the crash and clank loud in the
quiet summer afternoon. Boards creaked overhead, but he didn't care. He needed
to get the door open, right now. He swung again, bashing at the lock again and
again, ignoring Neil's shout when something crashed to the floor behind them.
"Dammit, Tom, just
stop!"
Tom shoved his friend
away, swung one more time, the lock springing open with a snap. Dropping the
crumbling stone, he wrenched the door outwards. A cold draft wafted up from the
darkness, brushed against his face, heavy with despair, loneliness. And then
joy! Overwhelming, wild, a spirit winging free from fetters that had weighed
its soul forever.
"Dude, what is it?
What did you see?" Neil shook his arm.
Tom looked at him, his
friend's face made blurry by the tears filling his eyes. He shrugged
helplessly. "I didn't see anything, only felt…"
"What? Man, tell
me. You're scaring me. What did you feel?"
Neil's brown eyes had gone
wide with concern, his grip on Tom's arm painful. Tom swallowed the hard lump
in his throat. How to describe…
"It felt like freedom,"
he whispered, voice trembling with unbearable gladness.
Dianne is the author of
paranormal/suspense, fantasy adventure, m/m romance, and anything else that
comes to mind. Oh, and a floral designer, which is the perfect job for her. When
not writing, she can express herself through the rich colors and textures of
flowers and foliage.
Amazon
Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Dianne-Hartsock/e/B005106SYQ/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1361897239&sr=8-1
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