Page 142 of Stalker

I was being philosophical again, but Cassandra’s thoughts and words of passion and salvation fueled me.

Once we were close, a single warm glow coming from under a partially ripped-off wooden board covering a window was the only indication we were correct. Then again, we knew we were. All three of us had an uncanny ability to smell fear and weakness.

The place reeked of both.

I kicked open the door, the three of us spilling inside. We’d handled formations before. Whether our moves had been stylized into our games, or we’d learned a thing or two from the creator’s 3-D visionary tools would remain a mystery.

Once inside, I was struck by the quiet.

“Just like when we were children,” Zach said. “Always quiet.”

Perhaps one day the three of us would sit down over a bottle of scotch and reminisce about what few memories we could collectively put together.

Or maybe we’d spout one off every year over celebrating the man’s death. Either way, what little we were able to remember was another reason why we were here.

But the main one was all about the three women who’d managed to crawl, fight, claw, and hunt their way into our lives. They were truly the reason we were alive and thriving.

We separated, moving from one room to the other, but there was only one place that made logical sense for where he’d be holding the women.

The basement.

I could see my mother’s terrorized face when she’d caught me with my hand on the doorknob. I’d already figured out the lock even then. It had been the first and only time she’d been rough with me, her scolding including a quick slap on my butt.

That was something a child didn’t forget.

But the look of fear lingering in her eyes had remained long after the incident.

Maybe our minds had simply blanked out images of the house and any concept of normalcy for protection.

The crash and burn of those protections was something else that kept us going.

Even if we hadn’t discussed a single tactic to use. We were already a well-oiled machine.

The basement door was ajar, the way I’d found it that last time I remember seeing it. As I pulled it open, the repulsive stench of mold and blood mixed with a cleaning agent still permeated the walls. With the weapon in both hands, I carefully walked down the stairs.

I’d surmised there would be a handy group of tools waiting in the basement for whatever struck the mood I’d be in after this was finished.

As soon as I reached the landing, I felt both my brothers right behind me. Once on the main floor, I finally heard sounds. Whimpers. There was something cathartic about being here, enduring whatever ending our father had determined would be appropriate.

Or perhaps I should say beginning.

I rounded the corner where a tall, rusted metal pillar stood, noticing there were still boxes that had been here for decades. A house of terror and sin. A slight light permeated an opening and even before I walked all the way in, I was shocked how large the space truly was.

There were seven women all wearing matching black sweatpants with hoods shoved over their heads.

Seven. Not eight.

Hissing, I turned in a full circle, immediately heading to every part of the basement tossing boxes and crates, anger swelling to the point of sheer madness.

“Stop! He’s not here,” Zach exclaimed.

I continued tossing everything I could get my hands on, hoping to find Cassandra locked away. But our father was too clever, his sick game taking another turn.

When he’d managed to take what belonged to me away.

The moment she’d stepped foot outside the house, he’d altered the game.

Dear fucking God. I blamed myself.

---