Chapter Text
It’s a very chilly night in Brighton, the city you decided to settle in for the time-being. It’s not remarkable by any means; a place like any other. The dingy motel you are staying at isn’t something to be amazed by either, but it’s exactly what you need; a bedroom and its bathroom. You’ve stayed here longer than in any other place, but unfortunately, that won’t be for long, given your current dire circumstances.
It was two days ago that you got the news you desperately didn’t wish for: you hadn’t made it past the job interview you had last week. The job requirements weren’t impossible to reach, as it consisted of being a server at a kids’ restaurant, but they likely found much better prepared employees for it. With how short your curriculum was, lacking a much needed experience, the true surprise would’ve been being hired anywhere that could offer you an income to at least afford rent somewhere.
There is no way you’d return to your parent’s house. You’d rather die from hypothermia than endure their psychological manipulation any further; after developing several mental disorders at their expense, and begging for your most simple needs to be fulfilled, you had enough. Your mental health is better now than when you lived with them.
And so, here you are: looking at the motel room ceiling’s mold stains, depressed enough to ugly sob, but too tired to do so. It’s your last night here, and you’re certain sleep will be a damn miracle; winter is getting near, your bank account is nearly full of cobwebs, and you know no one that could support you. You’re alone and homeless: that’s all you can think about.
Ѽ
You had one hour of sleep at most. You look like a zombie wandering in the town supply store the following morning. You’re looking for the most basic things you will need for your life on the streets: things easy to carry and that would prove useful, like a pocket knife and a lighter, and nonperishable foods.
You are absorbed looking at the different options of canned goods at your disposal when a charmingly deep, feminine, yet relaxed voice catches your attention. “Hey, excuse me…are you alright?” You almost have the impulse to answer ironically due to your frustration, but you contain yourself when you turn around: a woman has approached you. She’s around five-point-six feet tall, with gray curly hair, dark skin and piercing amber eyes; a traditional goth in all her glory. She can’t be older than thirty, and she’s looking at you with a warm but worried look.
“Y-yeah, sorry, I’m fine…” You mutter with a strained smile, trying to avoid unnecessary chatter. You don’t feel like telling a stranger about your problems, much less when it’ll result in wasting your time.
But she doesn’t seem convinced. “I don’t mean to be nosy…” She looks you up and down, not meanly, but trying to find any other clues to what might be happening to you. “...it’s just that I don’t remember seeing you in Brighton before.” She pauses and looks at your face again. “You seem anxious. Is there any way I could help you?”
Her words and demeanor have an effect on you: you aren’t used to anybody giving a damn about you, so such an exchange makes you reasonably emotional. You change your mind, as it wouldn't hurt to try to get help from this kind stranger; worst scenario, she has no means to help you, but since she’s willing, you might as well give it a try. “Uhm…the thing is…” And so, you explain your situation without getting too deep into details; family drama and situation of vulnerability.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that!” She looks at you sadly. “Say, why don’t you come live with me, for a few days at least?” At that, your eyes go as wide as plates; you expected help, but not to that degree. “Until you can fare on your own.”
You become flustered. “No, I don’t want to be a bother! I can always find a hostel or something if I need it.”
“Nonsense! My house has a spare room, and I don’t live alone, so we can help you for a while.” She gives you a friendly smile, full of pearly teeth; her fangs are sharp. “You really wouldn’t be a bother; you can help us with the house chores until you find a job, if not giving anything in return is what worries you.”
At her insistence, you decide that the best course of action is to accept her offer; you can’t spend any more of the little money you have left, you won’t have to leave in constant worry for your safety, you’ll have a roof over your head and a warm bed to sleep in, and all she asks for in return is for you to help.
During the walk to her house, which is near Brighton, up the Nashlake Hill, you learn her name is Rachel Waterman, and that she lives with her husband. You worry over him being okay with Rachel’s decision to take you in, but she explains that this is not the first time they help somebody out. That puts you somewhat at ease.
The house has two stories and a basement floor. The building is a bit old, which explains the antique appearance of the exterior, but it’s not like you care about that. The interior is pretty much the same: old, but well maintained and clean, with yellow floral wallpaper, purple tiled floors and decorations reminiscent of Halloween put on display; of course, that time is approaching, and they most likely enjoy it by the looks of it.
Since there’s no one else at the house right now, after a tour, she guides you to the vacant room. It’s all you need and more: a bed, a nightstand, a closet and a private little bathroom.
“Feel at liberty to take a shower after you settle in if you so desire.” Rachel suggests as she watches you take out the things in your backpack. “The private bathroom is for you to use, after all. I’ll go unpack the groceries in the meantime. Do you have any allergies or intolerances that I should know about?” You respond, and she leaves you be.
Which you’re thankful that she does, for it gives you a moment of peace to not only organize your things, but your thoughts as well. You don’t have many possessions; you put the few clothes you have in the closet, making sure to leave a fresh change outside. Your mobile phone goes on the bedside table, the charger in the drawer, and the now empty backpack in the closet as well.
The bathroom is not much different from the rest of the house, as it bears that vintage feeling to it; the walls are striped green, the tiled floor a salmon orange, the toilet, the sink, and the low bathtub with its curtain. Having brought in the spare clothes and leaving them on the sink, you take the ones you’re wearing off and hop into the shower; it works well, merely having to wait a little until the warm water arrives, unlike the ever cold shower of the motel. The soap, not the expensive type but still of quality, feels amazing against your skin, unlike the cheap bar that would leave your body feeling dry.
You can’t help but think how lucky you have been. With the extra time staying in this house would give you (which is not short, since Rachel insisted there is no rush for you to leave), you would most certainly find a good job and rent a small place relatively soon. You’re also wondering what kind of man her husband is; you certainly don’t want to give him a bad impression.
Once you finish showering and change your clothes, you go down to the kitchen and help Rachel cook lunch. “I left my dirty clothes in the basket that is in my bathroom. Is that alright, or should I bring them down?”
“No, don’t you worry. I’ll tell you when it’s time for laundry. Oh, and I’ve already called my husband to let him know you’re staying.” Rachel says without looking at you, busy cutting vegetables. “He won’t be back until the evening, so it’s just us two right now.” She gives you a beam. “Are the bedroom and the bathroom to your liking?”
So it’s during lunch that you get to know her further. Rachel explains that she takes care of the house when her husband is not at home, but that they run a costume shop together; whenever he takes the day off, she goes to work, but there are times in which they make plans together instead. She explains that you shouldn’t get into the basement rooms without asking first, since they use some of them as storage, and others require repairs. Out of respect, you have no intention to defy that request.
You spend the rest of the afternoon taking a nap, since there is nothing left to do around the house; Rachel noticed that you were tired, and told you she’d be down watching the television. When you wake up later, you make dinner along with Rachel, chatting with her. You‘re both setting the table when the front door opens and someone gets in.
“Ah, that must be Lorenzo.” Rachel says with a bright smile on her face; her husband. “Come, I’ll introduce you both.” She takes her apron off and hangs it on the wall, and you both head to the entrance area.
There’s two things that immediately catch your attention while he’s hanging his jacket: first of all, Lorenzo is tall, around six-point-five feet. Second of all, his abundant hair is to his shoulders, wispy and fluffy, a golden ginger. Those are his most striking characteristics.
Until he turns around, that is.
From what you can gather from the door frame you are nearly hiding yourself in, and once you register what your eyes are perceiving, you become perplexed: his face is covered with a mask. It’s a bit of an unsettling and specific accessory, for it’s a yellow bunny mask. The question that arises in your mind will have to be answered later, if ever, for you don’t want to be impolite to the one that currently makes sure you have a roof over your head.
Rachel gives him a kiss on the cheek as a greeting and chats with him for a moment, then beckons you to come closer. “This is who I met this morning.” She starts introducing you two, making sure to move aside so that you could see each other properly. “This is Lorenzo.” Likewise, she tells him your name.
Like his mask, his clothing choices are interesting: a black blouse with a green neck and purple bowtie, orange and yellow vertically-striped trousers and blazer, and green gloves and socks with black shoes. All in all, it’s quite a Halloween-y look, and his wife is not much different to him in her choice of unusual wardrobe.
And it seems like the surprises have just started, for then, Lorenzo speaks to you directly. “So you are the one that will stay with us for a while, hm? It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His voice is very deep, and he talks in a calm and clear voice. Like someone who is in no rush, with all the time in the world.
You feel a bit nervous for some reason. “I’m glad to meet you too, and thank you for, uh, letting me stay. I’m very grateful…I do hope I’m not a bother—”
“You are not.” Lorenzo cuts you off, like a knife through butter. “I would not welcome you into our home if you were. Rachel has told me about your situation, and I assure you, we’re very excited to help you out.” He has a thickly dominant air about him, despite the politeness in which his words are wrapped.
During dinner, the couple chats; he talks about the shop, she talks about her day. She does most of the talking, and smiles warmly at you whenever you cross glances. Lorenzo, although mostly silent, seems to be listening intently to his wife, but you have no way of knowing where he’s looking at with his mask on; even when he eats, the mask conceals everything. Rachel is at ease, while you’re a bit tense; this is normal, since they know each other and you’re a new addition to the house.
While you’re helping Rachel clean the kitchen, Lorenzo gone who knows where, you take the opportunity to ask Rachel the question that still jumps around in your brain. “Um, Rachel…can I ask you something?”
“Sure thing.” Rachel is happily doing the dishes while you sweep the floor. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t mean to be nosy or offensive, but why does Lorenzo wear that mask?” You inquire, hoping she won’t be offended.
“Well, dear, he’s self-conscious about his face.” Rachel responds with a sympathetic look. “But I can't tell you the details, since it’s not my place. Don’t ask him about it, okay? It would make him terribly uncomfortable.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. I understand.” And you leave it at that, because to dig further would be rude; she has shut down your inquiry for good.
After spending some more time with them in the living room, being asked questions about your future plans by Rachel, and just before you head to bed, Lorenzo decides to have a word with you; he accompanies you up to your room. “I wanted to remind you of something Rachel warned you about.”
That piques your interest. “Sure, what is it?” You find it difficult to look at him as he looms over you, and you can’t see his eyes.
“You see, there are rooms in this house I would like you not to enter without permission. Some of them are being used for our work, some others as storage rooms. The rest of the rooms in the basement are empty and would require maintenance and repair to be used.” Lorenzo pauses, staring at you. “Refrain from going down there, please. If you need anything, you may come to our room and ask. You know where we sleep, don’t you?” He asks while cocking his head.
“Yes, Rachel already gave me a tour of the accessible areas. I won’t wander around any other places.” You reply, wanting to appease him.
“Thank you, bunny. I hope you rest well.” And with that, Lorenzo takes his leave.
You stay there for a moment. ‘...Did he just call me bunny?’ Another quirk of his, you suppose.
While you lay in bed, you wonder if those are the real reasons they don't want you wandering around, or if they are mere excuses. In any case, it’s not like you’ll find out anytime soon, since you don't want to lose their trust and be kicked out. You can't help but giggle silently at the thought of them doing something weird in the basement, like in a horror movie. You fall asleep at ease, knowing it’s just a crazy idea, for even if they have their quirks, they have been nothing but hospitable.
Ѽ
You blink; the ceiling fan is barely discernible in the gloom. ‘...What time is it?’ You glance to the nightstand to check the clock: two in the morning. And the reason you woke up is because you’re freezing; the duvet is too thin for this time of the year. There weren’t any more blankets when you checked the closet, you know that for sure. Despite how much you dislike the idea of waking them up, you’ll have to ask the couple for another one. Out of your room you venture.
The darkness is quite dense, and you don’t know where the light switches are, so you have to use the little worn out flashlight that was in your room. You go to their bedroom to ask for what you came for, but to your confusion, the room is empty; the bed hasn’t even been used, as the sheets are neatly tucked.
“...Hello? Rachel?” You inquire out loud. You go down the stairs, thinking they might still be watching the television, or that they fell asleep on the couch. But the living room is as devoid of any presence as their bedroom was. “Lorenzo?” No answer comes. You go into the kitchen; nothing. You look out of the window to check the garden; not a soul in sight. Your confusion turns into uneasiness, noticing the eerie silence that fills the house.
Then, you hear something; you turn to look at the door you’re not supposed to pass through. The sound most definitely came from the basement floor. You know what they told you, and you know Lorenzo won’t be happy if you go down there.
The funny idea you got, the one related to their shared activities in the basement, comes back to you at the worst of times. The idea of trying the front door is appealing, but your instincts scream at you not to follow your whims. Somehow, you know that’s not an option.
You shake your head; you’re panicking for no reason. They must be reorganizing things down there, as many people do these kinds of things in a night frenzy, and they both seem to be that kind of people. In any case, you’ll have to go against the only rule; down the stairs it is.
The basement, as Lorenzo explained, is a long, dark corridor with three rooms. You try the first door and find it unlocked: the room is devoid of anything but the yellow wallpaper. That only feeds your growing worry. ‘Didn’t they use these for storage?’ You wonder to yourself, frowning. It must be one of the rooms that requires repairing; no point in stalling.
You get out of the empty room and try the second door, and you feel your heartbeat quicken: empty as well, but for a single frame hung on the wall. The photography in it has been cut. This definitely comes off as strange, because only one room remains to be checked, and the first two are empty; what they told you was a lie.
You exit the second room to try the third door.
You feel eyes on you as you grab the doorknob; you turn off the flashlight, as if to avoid catching someone’s attention. Just as you think you’re being silly again, true, bone-chilling fear envelopes you in its glacial cocoon when you hear your name being called from the inside, not once, but twice; Rachel’s voice. Hoping this turns out to be a big joke to remember and laugh about, or that they’re simply doing whatever in there, you open the door.
Darkness. The most inky, dense, blinding darkness you have ever seen, that you have ever been in. The most suffocating you’ve ever experienced. But it’s much better this way, for you’re not scared of it. What you’re truly afraid of is of what you’ll find once you turn on your flashlight. Those silly ideas don’t seem so improbable down here, not anymore.
There is no way someone can be as naïve as you’ve been, so blinded by too good of an opportunity that you’d ignore the obvious signs, so utterly and completely stupid. You should have seen it coming, inhaled the reeking odor of deceit as you now perceive that permeating and metallic stench entering your nose and staining your lungs. You should have known this was a grave mistake. But there’s no fixing it now, because when you turn around to grab the doorknob and bolt it, you realize it’s locked. You’re locked in here.
Gone is your last speck of hope. Looking forward, you turn on the flashlight.
There’s three chairs in front of you. There’s mannequins seated on them, wearing different costumes. But those mannequins are tiny, looking like they’ve melted, and their clothes are stained.
Wait.
What you’re looking at is not mannequins, but corpses.
Three of them. Little children, dressed in different costumes, sitting in their individual little chairs, lifeless and maimed. You know for sure, because you can smell their bodies decomposing. The reek of old blood and rotten flesh, paired with the gruesome sight, is unbearable.
“I will sing you a song, and it won’t be very long—,” The radio, which you notice just now on the floor, comes to life, all while you’re wondering what has been done to these innocent babies; they’re all mutilated beyond recognition, reduced to a disturbing exposition. “—‘bout a maiden sweet, and she never would do wrong.” Those dead, milky eyes won’t be a memory you’ll ever forget. “Everyone said she was pretty, she was not long in the city—,” Once you process what’s in front of you fully, and horror settles in at last, you decide to bolt it and tear down the door with your bare hands if you have to, ready to claw at the wood and leave your fingers raw if you must.
“All alone, oh, what a pity…” But someone that you didn’t notice was in the room with you is now blocking the way out, singing along to the old song. They’re tall, wearing a mask. “...poor little maid.”
Lorenzo.
You freeze in your tracks. You know you have to run, hide, but it’s of no use here; there’s no spots for you to use to your advantage. You wouldn’t have been able to if there were places to do so regardless, because you’re paralyzed in horror. His towering figure is nightmarish, inhumanly predatory.
Lorenzo tilts his head at you. The darkness that you were surrounded by a minute ago is pitiful in comparison to the eyes of his mask. “What are you doing here?” His voice sounds even deeper now. Aberrant, twisted, but still composed.
“What…what is this?” You question with a tremulous voice as tears run down your cheeks; your eyes are nearly popping out of your sockets with how open they were. “What the fuck have you done?!” You wail.
“I asked you to not come down here, did I not? You should’ve listened.” Lorenzo tilts his head the other way, too mechanical an action. “As an adult, I expected you to be able to follow simple rules better than a child would, yet here we are.” He sounds disappointed. “I’ll have to make sure that you learn your place.”
You don’t even have to consider the implications of that phrase; none of the scenarios it evokes in your mind are desirable. “No, p-please, don’t!”
“Then, you’ll get to stay with us, like you wanted to.” Lorenzo takes a silent step towards you; the long stride puts him at a much closer distance from you. “Doesn’t that sound delightful, bunny?”
You step back into the wall on the left as he keeps getting closer. “Please!” You beg, but it’s no use. “Y-you don’t have to do this!”
“But I do.” He reaches for his mask. “I must. You’ve left me no other choice.”
“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” You scream at the top of your lungs in one last attempt to save yourself; a pitiful strategy, as he continues approaching.
He takes off his mask, and to your culminating terror, he mock you with an exact copy of your own voice. “̵̟̤̪̬̮̀̈́͛̈́͘W̷̳̝͓̲̭̤̒̿̎H̶̨̢̛̼̟̻̓͆̾A̶̺͂͛T̸̹͊͊̎͒ ̵̗͇͓̫́̾̽̾̅͒̉T̸̫̆̓̈́͒̎̚̕Ḩ̴̠̖͙̟̭͖͍͒̈́̅E̷̺͍̋̾͌͆ ̸̡̣̰́̔́̆̋͠F̴͓̐̄U̸͚̮͕̮͊C̵̨̙͙̫̄̊̌͐ͅK̴̟̤̮͇͉͙̉͘ ̴̩̠͖̘̆͌H̸̥̥̤͓̹̊̓̈́̅A̵̡̛͚͐V̵̦͚̺͔̬̳̩̣͛̊̚E̶̦̒ ̸͚̫̝̘͋͛̚̕Y̶̡̛͓̺͎͉̾̀O̶͈͐͌̆̿Ų̸͇͍͆ ̴̢̲̻͚̗͉̒̐̓́̇͌͘͠Ḑ̶̂͝O̵͈̯̍̅͛NE—̵̛͔̻͔̫͔̱̗̈́͂̑̑͑͘͠”̶̟̺̙̦̍͘?!
You feel the back of your skull hit something.
You awaken to darkness and the nastiest headache you’ve ever had the misfortune to suffer. Your whole body aches from sleeping on the cold hard floor, in a posture akin to a shrimp’s. ‘...Where am I?’ It doesn’t take you long to remember, full dread setting in for the second time; you have messed up for good now. Of course it had been too good to be true; it serves you right for accepting such an offer from a stranger. Would’ve been better to go back to your parent’s house, now matter how dreadful it sounds.
You try standing up, but your arms are tightly secured behind your back with what you assume is tape; same thing with your legs. All you can do is wiggle like a pathetic worm. You also can’t scream, as your mouth is covered in tape too, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it wasn’t; this house is up a hill, in a private property, and you’re deep down in its basement.
While you ruminate on your imminent demise, blinding light suddenly invades the room, which does wonders to worsen your headache by stabbing through your temples with searing hot pain. After a few seconds, you manage to recognize that you’re in one of the three rooms of the basement, just not the one where the corpses are. Little mercies.
You focus on the culprit of the light being turned on. It’s him, unsurprisingly, but it still flares your fight or flight response. Then, it hits you: not only had he imitated your voice to perfection, but he had also taken his mask off, but you couldn’t remember what was under.
The killer approaches and crouches in front of you; he stays like that for five minutes, which feel far longer to you. You wonder whether or not his legs are cramping in that prolonged position when he speaks to himself. “What to do with you now?” His voice reverberates through the whole room with its depth.
Right; if he’s so impatient with children that he would kill them for wandering around, why hasn’t he killed you, a fully grown adult? You broke his rule, and you’ve seen proof of his murders, so it makes no sense. You could give him a few suggestions to his inquiry, but not only is your mouth still covered, he also won’t like them.
Lorenzo tilts his head this and that way, examining your still form. “You disappointed us, you know? We thought you would behave, given your circumstances.”
If you had any doubts before, thanks to his wording, now you’re certain the couple is in cahoots. There’s no way that the only one to blame is Lorenzo; Rachel lured you here deliberately, pretending to be kind and affable. You’re gonna get gutted like those poor kids, as they’re merely extending the fun. And to top it off, he’s mocking you for having no roof of your own.
“Rachel was especially hurt by your childishness.” Lorenzo stands up from his seat; his shadow bathes you. “But it doesn't matter.” He draws near, which makes you panic. “It’s not like you’ll leave anytime soon. You’ll have plenty of time to make up for your misdeeds.” He brings his left hand closer and ripped the tape from your mouth. “Anything you’d like to say?”
“Y-you…you are s-sick!” Is all you can manage to say. What else could you tell him? “How could you do that to those children?!”
Lorenzo chuckles, deep and reverberating. “Is it that important that they’re young? Snoopers come in a vast range of ages. They did exactly what I asked them not to do, and were punished, just like you will be.”
You begin to tremble. “W-what are you—?”
“You will not be fed for two days.” Lorenzo states, as if he were commenting that it’s raining. “I’ll only give you enough water to not die of thirst. We’ll see if you’re still defiant after that.” He declares with severity.
You pale; oh, how ready you are to plead now. “P-please, don’t—!”
“Begging will get you nowhere, dear bunny.” Lorenzo quickly cuts your begging short. “I’m only doing this for your own good and this house’s harmony. If you want to get on my good side, all you have to do is accept my punishment and learn from it. I’ll come back to check on you later.”
And with that, Lorenzo leaves, leaving you in complete darkness once more, with only your stomach’s complaints as a companion.
It‘s the beginning of the third day. You know, because it’s the first time in what feels like ages, your stomach gnawing at you and faint from hunger, that Lorenzo brings you nourishment: soup. You would drink it in one go, if it wasn’t because Lorenzo warned you against it. You would’ve told him to get lost, but you know better than to provoke him after what you just went through. It tastes heavenly, feels amazing in your poor belly.
Surprisingly, Lorenzo gives you free roam (except, of course, that room), but asks that you follow him upstairs for now. You think it reckless that he would leave you without any kind of restraints, but then, you remember that Rachel is also a part of this, and that the house is probably escape-proof; even your window has bars.
Rachel comes from the kitchen and seems relieved when she sees you. “Oh, dear! How are you feeling? I hope Lorenzo has not been too hard on you. You made him quite angry.” She comes closer and caresses your cheek, which contradicts the opinion of her that you had festered during your solitude.
‘Wasn’t she desirous to see me gutted?’ You flinch at the action. ‘She must be simply toying with me.’
“Don’t worry, Rachel.” Lorenzo appears from behind you, putting a hand on your shoulder; you almost jump and break the ceiling in fright. “She has learnt her lesson. Haven’t you, bunny?” He inquires, looking at you.
“Y-yes.” You respond immediately, tensing up unnaturally.
“Why don’t you take a shower? It’ll do you good. You’ll feel much better afterwards, you’ll see.” Rachel suggests, although it sounds more like a soft order; she’s not leaving room for arguments.
You do as you’re told, more out of fear than desire. Miraculously, they leave you be as you clean yourself. You check the bathroom, but there’s nothing sharp or that could otherwise be used as a weapon. The products are simple; soap, shampoo, creams, towels and a dryer. They probably expect you to lash out, and to throw them a bottle they can easily dodge won’t help your cause.
You’re so afraid of leaving the bathroom that Rachel eventually comes to check on you, waking you from your stupor by knocking and calling your name. “Are you okay in there? Do you need anything?” She inquires in that femininely deep voice of hers.
“Y-yes, I’m okay!” You answer, hugging yourself in case she barges in.
“Very well, just don’t stay in there for too long. Lorenzo won’t be happy if you do.” Rachel warns; that is enough for you to turn off the water and start drying yourself in haste. “I’ve left some clothes for you out here. Please, take a nap when you finish, and I’ll come for you when it’s dinner time.”
You do as you’re told. You’re so exhausted after staying alert for so long, barely closing your eyes and having a sorry excuse for sleep, that it’s not hard to fall into slumber, even if you’re still wary.
True to her word, Rachel comes back for you at dinner time; you’re so dozy when she wakes you with a gentle caress that you react to her presence far too late, when said reaction it’s no longer useful. You’re tense, knowing you’ll have to share a table with them both.
Rachel seems to pick up on your feelings, and although she ignores the actual reason, she tries to comfort you. “You don’t have to worry. Lorenzo is no longer angry at you. Besides, you need to eat. We don’t want him to punish you again, do we?”
‘Why is she not direct with it? Is she turning a blind eye to what’s happening in this house? No; she must enjoy manipulating me.’ But you won’t voice out your opinions; you want to get out of this place as unscathed as possible.
You’re seated at a fair distance from them, which doesn’t ease your nerves that much. Even if Lorenzo is not beside you, he’s still in front of you, and you have no way of knowing where he’s looking because of the mask that hides his eyes.
Neither of them pressure you into conversation. Sure, they look at you from time to time, making sure that you’re comfortable (as much as you could be given the situation) and that you aren’t left out. You dissimulate as best as you can, but your mind is working at breakneck speed. ‘When will they kill me? This is misery.’
Suddenly, you remember something: your phone. You had left it on the nightstand in your room four days ago, but you don’t recall seeing it before falling asleep today. ‘...They’ve fucking taken it.’ You feel the impulse of jumping from your seat and sprinting towards the front door, but you know better than that; it's surely locked with a key or a code you wouldn’t dream of finding anytime soon.
“You seem very focused.” You’re abruptly drawn out of your thoughts; Lorenzo is addressing you. “What’s the matter?”
“N-nothing.” You reply quickly, docile. “It’s nothing.”
“Hm.” Lorenzo hums. You’re certain that he’s not the least bit convinced, but fortunately for you, he stands up and takes the empty plates from the table instead of pestering you further.
“Are you tired, dear?” Rachel inquires; you shake your head. “I could make you some chamomile tea to calm your nerves. Wouldn’t you like that?” She stands up from the table.
You don’t have the energy to decline, so you let her prepare you the drink without complaint. You suspect she might poison or spike the drink with some kind of drug, but it wouldn’t matter; you’re at her mercy. When she brings it to you, you sip from the hot beverage, which does little to lower your anxiety levels. It tastes as it’s supposed to; sweet, but not overly so.
Rachel engages with you. “I know these past few days have been hard for you, sweetie. Try not to get on Lorenzo’s bad side again.”
You simply nod, and she smiles. You doubt her words, but don’t let her know. Even if she does care for you, it’s in her own twisted way. The best course of action, for now, is playing along. It's scary, because you don’t even know what game this is exactly.
You go to bed, the nap you took before dinner being far from enough rest.
Ѽ
You wake up very thirsty. You suppose this is due to the two days you’ve gone through without drinking healthy amounts, which has left you dehydrated. You didn’t need to go that much to the bathroom those days; there was nothing for your system to purge.
You go to the kitchen, and remembering in which cabinet the glasses are, you take one and fill it with tap water. While you’re gulping it down, you almost spit it and end up coughing as you choke on the liquid, because you notice Lorenzo leaning on the kitchen door frame.
He seems to be analyzing you. You don’t dare to keep drinking while he scrutinizes your form. “I’m glad my bunny has not decided to act up tonight.” He stands straight. “Keep it up, and there will be no problems.” And with that comment, he leaves to god knows where.
You drink the rest of the water and quickly shut yourself in your room, back against the door; though it’s already closed, your breathing is quick. You pray they continue being polite in regards to your privacy, but get away from the wooden obstacle that separates your room from the rest of the house just in case. Looking around while standing in the middle of the room, you remember that this isn’t actually your room; if they wish it so, no room in this building will be safe for you. The safety you feel in this one is barely hanging by a thread, a lie you’re willing to overlook for the sake of your sanity.
What are you going to do? How are you going to get yourself out of this one? It’ll only be a matter of time until you somehow make another mistake and end up being punished again. Lorenzo probably enjoys it; it is then, when you glance at the bed, you realize.
They didn’t give you something warmer to cover yourself with so that you’d have to look for them. They actually wanted you to check the basement, because their game required an excuse to punish you. Lorenzo might dislike his guests’ misbehavior, but he likely relishes in the reward he gives himself through the ‘necessity’ to fix the rudeness. And Rachel was likely the one to lock you in that third room with him; what you still don’t understand is how Lorenzo was able to imitate her voice, unless it was a recording of it coming from the radio.
In other words, the actions that lead to punishments are planned. If this theory is correct, you’ll have to be very careful, think ahead.
You sit on the bed, feeling how your weight pushes the mattress down; there’s three bodies in the basement. Perhaps more somewhere else, like the garden or the shed. If you free yourself and bring them justice, you’ll have to be more intelligent than those two, but it won’t be easy by any means.
You sigh; just when you thought life had smiled at you at last. You thought you’d made two friends, that you might have two people to rely on from this point onwards. You’re no better than those poor children.
The only good side to this is that you won’t die from hypothermia, you won’t starve, and you won’t have to defend yourself from potential rapists. Or so you think; neither Lorenzo nor Rachel have shown any indication of having such desires. You have no idea the state their love life is in, or why you’re still here, but neither of them have been flirty in any way, nor have touched you in undesirable ways. They seem to respect this space as your own as well, but that might change.
Feeling rigid with tension, you lower the sheets and lay on your bed; the mattress is perfect, the blanket’s warmth is heavenly, the pillow keeps your head raised. You can’t help but feel guilty for being somewhat grateful for being permitted to sleep here instead of in a desolate park, and being given food that fills your stomach.
One of the child’s faces comes to mind.
‘...No, that is preposterous. I have to get out of here; better to sleep on concrete than to remain a docile captive.’ You frown. You won’t forgive nor forget what they’ve done. Neither of them, for no matter how kind Rachel seems, she’s the reason you’re here, and she’s likely the reason those children are dead. You’ll make sure to expose her for what she is, to rip the smugness out of Lorenzo, and come out of this alive.