No One Will Believe You
He’d grown use to the stink of his own body, the pungent reek of human filth, and the smell of rotting food. The house was dark, even during the day. He’d painted the windows with the dregs of paint cans from the garage, turning each into a chaotic collage of a half-dozen colors. The faint glow of the TV no longer connected to the internet was the only light.
His walk had become a scuttle, his movements like a beaten dog awaiting the next blow of its master’s hand. The slightest sound caused him to start, a gasped whimper escaping his lips. Once, two or three days ago, he had tried to leave the house, but the touch of the door handle burned his hand like a stovetop. A malignant laugh from somewhere inside the home came in response to his scream of pain.
How long had this been happening? A week? Two? He’d lost track of time in the dark. Outside he could hear the howl of leaf blowers, the traffic on the street, a jet passing overhead, jetsam from a world of sunlight and normalcy.
He did know how it began and suspected how it would end. It started the night he put on the watch he’d bought on Etsy, a curious model of uncertain make, but so unique it was bound to make a few of his fellow managers jealous. The dreams he experienced that night were horrific, filled with visions of dirty forms locked in a filthy cellar. Their eyes had the same haunted looks he was sure his own now showed. They too had undergone the same suffering at the hands of their shared tormentor. He knew that now.
He crawled across the carpet, keeping close to the wall like a rat. As he did, navigating the filth-encrusted carpet by feel alone, his hand touched his phone. He’d hurled it into the darkness some days ago after his efforts to call for aid were answered by the formless voice of his enslaver. No one will believe you, the voice growled, mockingly.
He knew that now. Even he struggled to believe how quickly the world which was his on a silver platter had tarnished, tainted by the spectral form he now shared his once-opulent home with. He began to weep, tearlessly, his dehydrated body unable to spare a drop of moisture.
From the kitchen, he heard a clatter and the ringing of stainless steel as something knocked the Italian-made knife block off the counter and onto the floor. No one will believe you, so why put off the inevitable? There’s only one way out of here. Come here and see. There are so many options. Filleting knife? Butcher’s knife? A dainty paring knife? The voice fell silent, but he could feel the entity waiting.
Slowly, still crying tearlessly, he started to crawl towards the kitchen.
