Beneath Blackwater River by Leslie Wolfe (love story books to read txt) 📕

Why would Herbert Scott shoot Jacob Sharp? What the heck was going on?

41Halloween

He’d left a couple of hours ago.

There was little else to do for Kirsten than think. How she got into this mess. What had happened to lead her there, at the house of horrors, reminding her of Dickens and his Great Expectations, a place frozen in time, just as it was frozen in the absence of heat. What kind of man keeps a house like that, untouched since whatever screwed him up, only to have a place to imprison girls like her?

She knew the answer to that question, although she was too afraid to say the words, not even in the most private confines of her own mind. In the depths of her unsettled gut, she knew what he was, and how her own Halloween story would end.

It was Halloween, and she’d been captive for four days. No matter how hard she’d tried, what kind of tools she’d used, she hadn’t been able to break free from that forsaken place. The windows were indestructible, taking the force of a kitchen chair thrown at them with all her might, without as much as a single scratch. The door, missing a handle on the inside, was locked with several deadbolts. Even the hinges were soldered into place, making sure she couldn’t remove the nails that held them together.

And since last night, she’d been without food.

At first, he’d taken an interest in her well-being, feeding her, fixing her sandwiches himself. But then, after he’d caught her disobeying him, he’d cut all the power to the house and stopped replenishing the fridge. The heater worked just for the duration of his stay there, and so did the lights. Once he left, darkness and freezing cold took over, leaving her in a heap, bundled under stale-smelling blankets, wearing clothes who’d belonged to others like her, and shivering incessantly. She couldn’t tell if it was the cold rattling her body and clattering her teeth, or if it was fear, sheer terror staking its claim as she lay on her side, trying to answer the one question that had kept her awake for the past few days.

How would she die?

It was no doubt how her ordeal would end; the man wasn’t one to let girls like her walk and risk having them bring the cops for a visit to the house from hell. No… She’d die at his hands. But how?

There were moments when the prospect of dying sounded almost good, a release, an escape from her prison. Death meant he wouldn’t touch her anymore. She’d never have to bear the weight of his body crushing her, the smell of his breath, the feeling of his restless hands against her cold, wet skin.

Death meant she wouldn’t be cold anymore.

Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to slip away for a moment, but then snapped back to reality, fully alert, startled by her own thoughts. She stared at the hammered roosters hanging on the kitchen walls, mementos from another era, a time of plaid tablecloths and ruffles and ridiculously cheesy wall art. The roosters held no answers for her, although they might have witnessed many like her meeting their demise.

Would she suffer? Would she scream, like she’d done the nights before when the pain had proven to be unbearable? Silently, she prayed for a bullet to the head, but the image of that big knife he carried with him all the time kept inserting itself into her weary mind.

But she’d be free… And she’d see her mother again.

“Mom,” she whimpered, her eyes filling with tears she didn’t think she still had in her. “I’m so sorry… I should’ve stopped at the hospital. You would’ve believed me this time. I know you would have.”

The sound of her own voice filled the cold silence with some shred of proof she was still alive. Maybe her mother could somehow hear her, could feel her words and know she was saying goodbye.

There was no hope left.

The night before she’d tried her last trick: she’d dressed up like the girl in that portrait, even did her nails with the same shade of polish she’d found in a drawer, and had applied lipstick that had probably belonged to her, its label yellowed by time, but its strawberry scent still alive under the cracked surface of the stick. She’d combed her hair just like hers, all brought onto her right shoulder, tilting her head just a little bit.

She’d thought she could maybe make him fall in love with her, with Kirsten, just like he’d been in love with the girl in the portrait. They’d have dinner together, like on her first night. He’d stay a little longer, even if the thought of that sent shivers down her spine, but at least she’d have heat and light. They’d watch TV, and she’d listen to him talk about his day. They’d hold hands, and sometime soon he’d take her for a walk. Then she’d run. Fast, hard, not looking back, until she reached the highway, until she found people who could help her.

Then she’d waited.

When he’d set eyes on her the night before, he was transformed for a while, his jaw slackened, his eyes fixed on her as if she were an apparition from beyond reality. He’d folded her in his arms, whispering senseless words in her ear. “Mira, oh, Mira,” he’d said, “how much I missed you.” He’d kneeled at her feet and she’d put her hands on his head, gently touching his hair, trying to keep his fantasy alive. He’d taken her hands and kissed them, breathing the scent of her skin, savoring her touch.

Then he’d looked into her eyes. Within a mere moment, the all-consuming love on his face died, the emptiness left behind filled with instant rage. He pushed her away so hard she fell on her back.

“You’re not Mira!” he shouted, grabbing her by the shoulder and lifting