Chapter 1
1
“Where do you think you’re going? You said we’d be together forever.”
She continued to back away from this monster of a man, shuddering at the sight of his lustful gaze. They’d be together forever? She’d said no such thing. There was no way in hell she’d ever stay with a man like this. Not after all he’d done, and especially not after what he’d done to her poor kitty. Just the sight of the cat’s mangled remains had caused her to vomit.
She flinched as he held out a hand to her, offering a gentle smile in place of his lecherous gaze. A shiver ran down her spine at the sight of it, and the tears welling in her eyes only fell harder; she hated that gentle smile even more than the lust and anger that dwelled in his dark eyes.
“Come back,” he murmured. She shook her head, attempting as much of an angry glare through her trembling and tears as she could muster. Appearing brave or unaffected was always a front she put on whenever a guy tried intimidating her, and she hated how she couldn’t manage either of those masks with this man.
“Go to hell!” she shouted, wiping at her face. “How could you do that to my cat?”
“Because it didn’t like me,” he said, his tone casual compared to the scowl that now clouded his expression. The way he said this made it sound like this was something she should’ve already known. “I know you saw it hiss at me this morning. You even scolded it.”
“You sicko!” she yelled, shaking her head and taking another step back. She darted a brief glimpse at the shelf on her right, the one that held the family knick-knacks. Her eyes landed on a little clay teapot, something she’d made in her sophomore year art class in high school. It was sizable enough, almost the size of a cantaloupe; it’d do some damage…hopefully. She just needed to wait for a moment of distraction before grabbing it and hucking it at him.
“I’m not sick,” he asserted. “Everyone knows the sickos get locked away.” He turned away from her, as good of a distraction as any, and she began slowly inching toward the shelf, her eyes switching between him and the little sculpture. “If I was sick, then how come I wasn’t locked away?” Because you evaded the police, you sociopath, she thought as she swiftly grabbed the teapot and hurled it at him.
Her eyes widened in horror and her shallow breathing intensified as he immediately glanced up and caught the sculpture with both hands. He’d been looking away this whole time, and the moment she went to throw it, he glanced back at her and caught it without issue. It caused her fear to mix with anger.
He stared down at it for a moment before he turned his attention back up to her, the eerie calmness in his features causing her previous mix of anger to melt away. If he looked this calm, it only meant a more severe rage would follow.
“You’re throwing things at me?” he asked as his face predictably darkened. The darkness she always dreaded from him, that always scared her and made her want to turn and run. Before she had a moment to fully react, he threw the teapot back at her. She managed to duck in time and watched it fly over the railing, flinching and voicing a soft whimper when she heard the crash as it shattered on the floor below.
“Come on, we’ll talk about this back at my place.” The sound of this forced her fearful gaze back to him as he reached a hand out to grab her arm, and she managed to scramble away from him and stumbled down the stairs. I have to get to a neighbor, she thought, mentally cringing at the sound of his footsteps lumbering after her. I have to call the pol—
Her mother’s purse. She’d almost tripped on it as she came down the stairs earlier, having previously forgotten that it’d been left behind. Her mother typically wouldn’t leave her purse behind for something like her dad’s birthday—usually only for quick shopping trips or trips to the gas station.
She’d almost tripped on it before, and had actually forgotten it was there now; this confrontation upstairs practically purged it from her memory. Her foot came down on the purse, and she felt a pop of pain as it twisted to the side. All she could manage was a fleeting hope that it didn’t get sprained as she fell forward, her head bashing on the floor.
Paralysis for a brief moment, then she pushed herself up on her elbows as a red haze of pain settled throughout her forehead, paired with the disgusting feeling of a warm liquid dripping down her face. A horrifying feeling she’d hoped to never feel again.
Her chest tightened in shock and confusion at the sight of blood pooling before her, and only now did she fully register that her head was bleeding. Where had the blood come from? Had the fall split her head open? Then she noticed the shattered remains of the teapot spread out on the floor, some rather large and sharp, scarlet-glazed pieces directly in front of her.
She weakly winced at the sound of his now slow and steady footsteps continuing down the stairs. He was speaking to her, but his voice sounded distant and warbled. No, she thought as her vision darkened. She tried to crawl away, but her body felt heavy and her brain felt light and fuzzy. I can’t…pass out now. He’ll…
She couldn’t even finish this thought as she finally fell unconscious, managing a fading glimpse up at him as he stood over her.
2
Opening her eyes seemed like more of a chore than it should’ve been—it was like they were glued together. When she finally managed to pry them open, her blurry vision began to make out the sight of a streetlight that shone in through a window. The light was enough for her to see something caked on her lashes. It was like some cheap, mahogany mascara.
…Blood? She blinked a few times in confusion. Yes, blood. This confirmation made her chest tighten in anxiety—where had the blood come from? She fought to recall any previous events to explain it, and thought she could remember herself falling. But had she fallen on something, or had this fall split her head open? Wait, I…I remember that, she thought. She’d thought that before, right after seeing the blood begin to pool.
The next thing that registered in her mind was the sight of her hands bound to the arms of a chair, a sight which did nothing to calm her rising anxiety. Her breathing became heavier as she leaned forward and found that her legs were bound as well. She’d been kidnapped! Immediately, she began tugging at her bound wrists, desperate to escape. Someone had taken her! Were they going to harvest her organs? Oh, she didn’t want to think of that—she was plenty scared already!
“Oh, you’re awake,” that familiar voice spoke up. And she remembered: yes, she was kidnapped. By…wait, what was his name? She knew him, she did! She wouldn’t have suffered nightmares about him for two years and feared the day he’d find her again if she didn’t know him. So why couldn’t she remember his name?
His voice had come from behind her, and her bound wrists made it difficult to turn and look at him.
He was easy to make out in the shadows, standing over a table and setting out an array of tools. The darkness made it difficult to discern what these tools were, and she squinted her eyes to make out their shapes. She thought she could see a set of pliers, a bag of something, and two small spheres. And…was that a pallet…and paint tubes?
“I didn’t think you were gonna wake up just yet,” he said, coming over into the light. She pressed her back against the back of the chair, desperate to be as far away from him as possible. Of course, this did nothing as he simply stood beside her, offering a nonchalant smile. All she could do was look him up and down in utter fear. The way he looked now was different compared to how he looked back then: he’d gone for a simple disguise of changing his hair color and style, and she stupidly hadn’t recognized him up until this point. “Don’t worry, I think I have some painkillers or something that should help.”
“…Help with what?” she choked out, glad that she wasn’t gagged. He chuckled softly at her question, then knelt down beside her and placed a hand over her bound one, gently tracing circles over the top of it with his fingertips. His eyes—that same lust-filled gaze that formed a pit in her stomach.
“I got this idea from a horror story I saw on the internet,” he started, chuckling again. “I’m gonna turn you into a doll.” He’d said this in such a casual tone that it didn’t register in her mind right away. When it did, her eyes widened in horror as tears threatened to well up again.
“What?” she squeaked, despite herself. She really hoped he meant doll as in prisoner and not turn her into an actual fucking doll. “A doll?” He nodded, now trailing his fingers up the length of her forearm. Her skin crawled at his touch, and she wished she could either shove or kick him away.
“Yeah. That way, I can keep you forever,” he explained, placing a hand to her cheek and brushing the skin under her eye with his thumb. “Won’t that be wonderful?”
“No,” she whimpered, horrified. “No, it won’t.”
“Don’t worry,” he assured in a soft, gentle voice. “Like I said, I’ve got those painkillers. They should help.” He leaned in and planted a kiss on her temple, earning a disgusted moan from her in response, then nodded before returning to his feet and heading back to the table. Her heart was racing in her chest, to the point where it started to hurt, and her skin felt numb, that pins-and-needles sensation spreading throughout her hands and feet. Her panic only worsened once she spotted him grabbing one of the shapes from the table.
“But…I don’t wanna die!” she sobbed. That caught his attention, and she saw him turn to look back at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
“You aren’t gonna die,” he retorted in a quiet, disbelieving tone. “In that story, they didn’t seem to be dead. Couldn’t speak or move, but they seemed to be alive.” He shrugged his shoulders as he said this last part, though she hardly paid attention to that. His words lit a fire in her brain.
“Just because it’s in some scary story on the internet doesn’t mean it would apply to reality,” she argued, this new fire of rage growing and spreading throughout her body. You can’t be this stupid, she thought. I know you’re fucking smarter than this! You can’t be stupid enough to believe turning me into a fucking doll won’t kill me!
He set down whatever tool he’d picked up and came back over to her, offering an unwavering ignorant stare.
“All the stuff that happens in that story aren’t really things that’d kill you,” he said. “Eye-gouging doesn’t kill you if you’re able to stop the bleeding.” She froze at the sound of this comment, her panicked rage almost instantly doused by his words.
“What…what else happens?” she asked, though she was positive that she wouldn’t like the answer. The idea of his planning to gouge out her eyes was proof enough of that fact.
“Pulling out the fingernails, sewing hair into the scalp, sewing the mouth closed and into a smile,” he listed. “Stuff like that.” Well, he’s not wrong, she thought. If you’re able to stop the bleeding and know what you’re doing, it wouldn’t kill you. Then she realized what she was thinking and shook her head. Maybe she was stupid.
“But…the shock from the pain would be enough to kill someone,” she blurted out, making him jump a little. “Did you ever think of that? If the pain is great enough, it can cause someone to let go and just die.” Was all that true? She supposed it probably would be. People died of shock all the time.
He stared at her for a moment, dumbfounded.
“Huh, I didn’t know that,” he breathed, placing a hand on her head. “You’re always so smart, Kenzie.” At least she’d managed to convince him not to go through with this demented procedure, but there was still the fact that she was being held captive by him. She needed to find a way to escape.
Playing into his delusions was something she preferred to avoid, considering it’d make his obsession with her worse—she’d learned that from experience. And considering he had been literally moments away from turning her into a doll, that definitely wasn’t the best tactic for escape. Instead, she decided to put on some innocent charm, allowing her welling tears to begin trickling down her cheeks as she turned a pleading look back up to him. This had worked on him before.
“Please don’t kill me,” she whimpered. “Please.” She had to fight a victorious smirk as he offered a reassuring smile and knelt down to look her in the eye. He placed his hands on her cheeks, wiping her tears away with his thumbs before leaning in and planting two kisses on her face.
“I’d never do that to you,” he whispered in her ear. He pulled back and offered another smile before standing again. “I’ll be back.” He turned and left her side, returning to the table and grabbing a few of the tools. As he was moving to leave the room, one of the objects in his hands—the bag of something, probably fake hair from what she could see—brushed against one of the spheres. It rolled off the tabletop and traveled along the floor until it stopped by her feet, staring up at her with its little glass iris.
At the sight of it, she felt her panic begin to worsen, though she fought to keep a level head so she could figure out how to escape. She thought she could remember seeing an article somewhere about how to get out of these types of duct tape bonds. She leaned down to one of her hands and started licking under the tape, something about making the glue give way. A successful tactic—after a moment, she was able to slip her hand out. She managed a quick breath of relief before picking at the bond on her left hand and undoing it. She did the same for the ones on her legs.
She paused. Were those footsteps? She stopped and listened. Yes, those were footsteps. He was coming back! She hastily pulled off the rest of the tape, then pushed herself to stand back up, fighting the light-headedness that came with such a forced action; clearly, her head wasn’t much better yet.
A sudden thought came to mind—she thought she could remember wondering if she’d sprained her ankle before. She rolled both. Nah, they were fine. No sprains here.
She looked down at the chair she’d been strapped down in. It was one of those fancy wooden chairs that all grandmothers seemed to have in their houses, the ones with fancy carvings patterning them. It looked like it’d do a decent amount of damage, more than the teapot would’ve. She picked it up and lugged it over to the doorway, remaining hidden behind the wall, and managed to raise the chair above her head.
He pushed the door open and came in, briefly managing to lock eyes with her as she brought the chair down hard on his back, knocking him to the ground and breaking the chair in the process. She dropped what remained of it in her hands and watched him for a moment. No movement, so he was probably unconscious. She hoped she’d hit him with enough force to break his back.
She stepped around him and ran down the hall. When she found what must’ve been the front door, she paused at the sight of her reflection in a window, then looked down at herself. All she had on was a white blood-stained cami and undies. How had this eluded her attention before?
“Where are my clothes?” she wondered aloud. She looked around, trying to find something to cover herself with. She tried a door. A closet. She sifted through its contents before settling on a dark-blue blazer. Much too large for her—in fact, it seemed too large for him; was this not his house? Whatever, she brushed off. This was enough to cover herself with for the time being.
She was going to attempt to look for a bedroom, maybe find a dresser and slip on some pants. Then she heard his groans of pain from the room she’d left. No, she needed to leave NOW.
She bolted out the door and ran down the street, hearing him calling out for her to stop. She looked around as she ran; all the windows were dark and the street was dead.
…No, not completely. She heard a car engine start somewhere ahead of her, and she ran toward it. She could hear him still calling out to her, and that scared her into quickening her pace, making the adrenaline rush in her system
The source of the noise was a rusty pickup truck, and she ran toward it and climbed into the truck bed. The driver didn’t seem to notice. How was that? She crawled up to the back window and peeked in.
The man inside had a pair of black earbuds in his ears (even through the window, she could hear how loud his music was playing) and he seemed to be sending a last-minute text. When she saw him move to put the phone down, she ducked back down so he wouldn’t see her.
As the truck began to back out of the driveway, she could hear that psycho calling out to her again, closer this time. She peeked up and saw him hobbling toward the truck. Well, it was good to see that her hitting him with that chair did some damage to him—he was limping.
Then the truck drove down the road, and he faded into nothing but a silhouette on the sidewalk. She sighed and ducked back down, looking at what else lay in the truck bed. A rather large tarp covered the majority of the items, and a quick peek underneath revealed a tire iron, a spare tire, and a toolbox. Perhaps this guy was a mechanic or something.
She glanced up at the sky, trying to get a good idea of what time it might’ve been. It seemed to be getting light, so she assumed it must’ve been at least five or six in the morning.
She crawled under the tarp and tried to get warm. A difficult task, considering the inside of the blazer was all satin and became freezing when introduced to cold air. She curled up into a shivering little ball, tucking her hands between her thighs in an attempt to warm them.
The idea to ask the man in the truck for help never occurred to her. All she cared about was getting away from that psycho. And now, that goal was coming to fruition.
