Never Die Alone

Today would be different. He slid the automotive keys into a front pocket of his jeans, then whistled loudly just as he opened the gate to the dog run and spied Red bounding from his shed. Smiling, he stopped to pet the bloodhound with his notched ear, the result of a tussle with a raccoon or worse, then followed the dog back inside. “Ya hungry?” He took down a plastic tub of dog food, measured out two cups, and checked to see that the water was fresh. It wasn’t, so he pumped a bucket from the long sink on the back porch, then returned to fill several bowls, not that the dog couldn’t make his way down to the river if he really had to.

“There ya go,” he said, once Red had buried his nose into the dry food. A stray, Red had landed here and stayed.

It had worked out.

“All good here?” he asked. “No trouble, eh, boy?” He rubbed the scruff of the hound’s neck. “Good. You stay out here and guard the place, y’hear?” Straightening, he pulled a second small key ring from his pocket and crossed the open space to the rotting back porch. Bullfrogs were croaking, insects were humming, and the warm Louisiana summer night smelled of the bayou. The kind of night he loved. If he didn’t have so damned much to do, he would have loved to sit on the ancient bench with the dog, crack open a cold beer, let the country air soak into his skin, and find himself some peace of mind.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Unlocking the door of the cabin, he felt the heat of the small interior. With the windows closed and boarded up and no insulation in the old pine walls, the cabin was an oven. Evidence of insects, wasps, and mice was visible on the floorboards.

All the better for the place to seem unoccupied, he supposed, and flicked on his flashlight to better survey the place. Boots creaking on the ancient dusty floor, he walked to the trapdoor and smiled when he noticed it hadn’t been disturbed, the lock in place. The only time the latch was open was when he was inside, doing his work, making certain everything was perfect. And it had cost him one twin.

But he still had the other. The weaker one who had proved a little more gutsy than he’d expected. He’d thought he could control her easily, but she’d proved to have a little fight in her, like her wilder sister, Zoe. He had known Zoe would be difficult. One always was.

They both needed to die, of course. Their birth times had passed, but he could still re-create the ritual. First, he would have to find that fucking Zoe and bring her back here. Then he and Myra would pick the appropriate date. That part was easy. And then he would wait for the exact time of her birth and kill her and her sister in the same ma

Dealing with the twins was a spiritual rite for him, almost religious in nature, though he didn’t consider himself a God-fearing man.

He unbolted the trapdoor, slipped the ladder down to rest against the floor, and braced the top rails against the edge of the opening. He tested the ladder with his weight and squeezed through the tight opening. As he descended, his body ached a bit where he’d been wounded. Carefully, he made his way down, rung by rung, as cool, earthy air hit his nostrils and the sound of quiet sobs greeted his ears.

She was scared.

Good.

He actually smiled, though his skin was so raw it was probably a grimace.

Maybe if she was frightened enough, she wouldn’t give him any more trouble. She’d be good and compliant.

As he swung his flashlight’s beam across the cracked floor, he found her cowering in a corner, looking scared enough to piss herself.

Perfect!

The room was as he’d left it, but the disarray and blood, the untidiness of it all bothered him. He, himself, was neat. Precise. Even though this underground room was just a work space and a prison, he kept it well-ordered. But now he didn’t like the broken light giving off its weird illumination, or the way his work had been strewn over the workbench in his struggles to dislodge Zoe as she’d attacked him.

No, the prison wasn’t right. Wouldn’t do.

Frowning, he glanced at Chloe in the corner. She’d been staring at him, he’d felt it, but now she shrank away, tried in vain to cover her body and avoid eye contact.

Weakling.

At least she wouldn’t give him any trouble, he decided, as he slowly removed his clothes, hanging his jeans and shirt on hooks in the wall, stripping bare before putting on his apron. It u

Taking care, he refolded Chloe’s clothes and felt a tightening in his gut as he did the same with her sister’s. The short dresses were so soft, a clingy material that felt like satin in his fingers. He couldn’t help but fantasize when he considered the smooth fabric stretched over their bodies, molding as it had to their skin. His cock twitched a bit as he imagined how the silken material stretched over their breasts, how it would feel to his touch, a bit of resistance between his palms and their nipples. He stole a glance at Chloe, at her boobs, so white, with blue veins visible and tiny, hard nipples that looked like buttons. Sexy buttons. A tingle invaded his crotch. He licked the edges of his teeth. Turning a bit, he gave her a gift, a quick glimpse of his cock, thickening with thoughts of sex with the two of them, their long, streaked hair falling over him, their mouths painted red, bright red, and ready to open to him. He let out a groan when he thought of those slick, scarlet lips and the joy they could bring.

Stop it.

He heard Myra’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room with him, his conscience sounding as shrewish as her cloying reminders.

You have work to do! The nagging voice never let up.

His dick started to shrivel.

Chloe recoiled farther into the corner.

With clenched jaw, he turned away from his prisoner and tied on his apron. There was no time for sexual fantasies. None. He had to feed her, just so she would stay alive. He had a straw, several water bottles, and a can of a protein shake that he’d seen the caretakers give his mother when she’d been living in a memory care unit in the nursing home.

A bitter woman to start with, Mother had only gotten worse as her decline into dementia had made her more nasty and critical than ever. Even when she’d no longer recognized him as her son, he had visited, watched her rot in that twin bed with its beige sheets, an afghan at her feet. Her scraggly hair had been tied away from her face in a thin ponytail and she’d squinted through thick glasses, trying to place him.

“You,” she’d finally said, nearly spitting as her roommate’s television blared from behind a striped curtain that rattled on metal hooks whenever an attendant whipped into the room and pushed the drapery aside to check on the residents. “You’re the bad one.”

“No, Mother.” He had shaken his head as he looked down at her, shriveled into half the woman he remembered. “I’m good. Your boy. Remember? I only do what’s right.”

Her eyes had narrowed suspiciously. “Are you my husband?” she’d asked.

“No, I’m not him.”

“Well, that’s what he said, too. That he did what was right. Oh, sure. Lyin’, cheatin’ son of a bitch.”

“I’m not my father. I’m your son.”

Her laugh had been a brittle, cold wind escaping in a hack from her lungs. “Son?” Her thin nostrils had flared, her pale face infusing with the color of the ribbon tying her hair. “I have no son.” With that, she’d turned away, closing her eyes and refusing to speak or look at him again. The ribbon had loosened over her wisp of graying hair, resembling a twisting rivulet of blood upon the institutional beige of her pillow.