Page 83 of Ghost Hunted

He pauses at the bedroom door. “Yeah, baby?”

“Please, please don’t leave me here. I don’t want to stay here like this. I don’t deserve it.”

“Really?” His voice is grim. “I’m pretty sure you do deserve it. You deserve a whole lot worse. But I love you, so this is as bad as it’s going to get.” He marks a pause. “Behave, Lia. I’ll be back later.”

With that, he slams shut the door, leaving me in a turmoil of emotion.

I’m lost, and the worst thing is I know it. I’m not at a stage yet where I’m blissfully unaware of my mind being blank. Maybe that will come, and I half wish it would. But for now, I’m aware that I’m slipping. And it’s an awfully long drop till the bottom.

I’m lost, and I’m trapped, and I’m alone. And I don’t even have my bazooka. I lean against the side of the cage, the cold bars pressing into me, and tears slowly wind their way down my face.

I want to die.

_

I never once touch the notepad. I don’t need to. I’m losing everything, but that name is ingrained in my memory. Maybe it’s because he wore the metal mask for so long, and my mind seems to latch onto metal things. Maybe it’s because his cruelty has burned itself into me. Or maybe it’s something else.

I don’t touch the food or the drink either, and it means that the large plastic bowl remains thankfully empty. Maybe I’ll just starve. That would probably be an uncomfortable way to go. I would have preferred something fast and intense, rather than to slowly slip all the rest of the way down. But I’ve got a collar around my neck, a very short chain—far too short to try to use it to strangle myself—and nothing else I can reach for. The pen itself is made of plastic, and the paper is just paper. At best, I could give myself a papercut.

Slow and painful seems to be the only way out of this place.

When the door opens at last, I raise my head quickly. “Logan.”

He doesn’t answer, and he’s back to wearing a mask. I don’t know why: I named him. But I’m too tired to ask.

Even though he hurt me, I need him. It’s probably only because I’m so lonely, but the warmth of his body also does something to me. Now, I relax when I remember the effect it had on me. My heartbeat picks up as he fiddles with the large door, and then opens a toolbox from which he draws out a big electric saw. He flips on a switch, and it emits a loud noise as he slowly cuts through the bars.

I wonder why he’s doing that. After spending so much time and money on the cage, why is he destroying it?

I don’t have time to wonder much longer. He enters the ruins of the cage, reaches for my chain, and takes out the keys that had been left on the nightstand by the door. He unlocks my collar. Then his hand closes around my wrist, and I suddenly realize something is very wrong.

He doesn’t smell like the other guy. Like Logan.

And he’s cold, not warm.

Though he’s masked, I can tell he’s trying to avert his eyes, as if my nakedness makes him uncomfortable. He drags me after him, and I try to twist out of his grip, my stomach sinking as I start to grasp just how wrong this is.

Something about the other guy—about Logan—relaxed me. Even though he kept me in a cage, I somehow knew that he didn’t want to hurt me. I felt safe with him.

With this man, it’s the opposite.

But he’s just as strong. There’s no escaping him. All I can do is gasp, “My bazooka… I need my bazooka…”

I’m aware I sound like a broken record. But, barring actually having the weapon, speaking the word helps.

It allows me to cling to the remnants of my sanity.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask him, as he throws me into the back of the car.

He doesn’t answer.

“Tell me or I’ll kill you!”

I spring from the back, trying to wrap my hands around his neck, but he forces me off him, pushing me down beside him, his hand forcing my head down until I have no choice but to give in.

25

Logan