The Quiet Little House

A Short Story by Nicole Maurer (AKA XxTwistedIvyxX)

A quiet old lady sat happily on her porch.  The humid July Georgian heat creating tiny droplets  on her heavily wrinkled forehead. A strange mysterious glint hid behind kind, sea blue eyes. The aged wooden porch creaked under her weight and a smile found it’s way onto her onto her gently wrinkled face.

No more than five feet away, a brood of dark haired children ran – giggling loudly, on the sun scorched lawn.  Taking a swig of sweet tea, she grimaced. Grimaced as the whiskey tainted liquid hit the back of her throat. Crow-footed eyes watching the brood with a hawk like diligence.   The heat.  She was not as young as she once was and it was tiresome. Her eyes settled on two particular children. A boy and a girl.   The boy was ten and the girl six, both stood out from the other grand children, their eyes the only set of brown in the family. The only two that needed glasses. The girl snatched a big red ball from her brother, who yelled in frustration.  His hand reared back.

Oliver!” The boys wide eyes snapped to his grandmother on the porch.  “What did I say about boys hitting girls?” She rose a gray eyebrow.

“Only sissy boys hit girls.” He looked down at his ‘Iron Man’ sneaker clad feet in embarrassment.  “Sorry Me-maw.”  A smiled filled her sunken in wrinkled cheeks.

“Don’t be sorry, baby.” Her heart melting as she store at the child.

Mid -Winter 1962:

Bethany Montgomery sat quietly on her small twin-sized bed. Her long ashy brown hair tied into a french braid.  Mans plaid pajama pants cuffed around her ankles.  Her ice blue eyes store coldly at her comforter.  The brown and pink paisley, it was pretty.  She liked it. At a glance she looks well-taken care of, clean well-kept.  Her skin naturally fair and freckled was paler than it had ever been before.

When would he be home? Maybe, he’d let her watch the television tonight. That was if he didn’t get to wrapped up with his newest addition. How long had she been here? Months? Years?
Longer than any of them.  She was special.  At least he said so.  A simple decision, so stupid really. Walking to her car alone, at mid-night.  She should have known better. But alas, after screaming and crying for what felt like years, she accepted this. Her life.

He, Thomas that is, was not really that bad. Of course she knew Doctor Delinger from the hospital.  All the candy strippers  had crushes on the young handsome doctor. Maybe it was that perfect slicked back blonde hair, or his kind brown doe-like eyes. She never would have guessed what lurked behind that cleverly crafted facade.
She was his first. He’d told her that himself. She was special.  He took her, a hard blow to the back of the head and it had been light’s out.  He didn’t actually think he could do it. He did, and he was proud.

When she was first thrown in the basement, the basement she now called ‘home’, she’d cried, screamed and begged.  Not that it did any good.

Oh Christ! Would that woman ever shut up!? Bethany snapped the hard-cover of her book shut. Her present. She was a good girl. Those high pitched wails coming from the blonde  on the other side of the basement were giving her a headache. Truth be told; there was a time not so long ago that she would have pitied the woman. She, of course, had been that woman at one point. But every bit  of sympathy she possessed had been lost to her.

A cold and empty shell of the woman she had once been, her loyalty had new found placement.  She was special, after all.   She wasn’t like them. He was her world now, everything she had now belonged to Thomas. He did everything for her. He feed her, clothed her and he was her link to the world that lurked outside.  The quiet little house on its’ quiet little street.

Shit. When would that woman just shut the hell up already? All she wanted was some peace and goddamned quiet. Quiet, before he got home. Before he made her really wail.   Slamming her book down at the foot of her bed, she huffed.

“Stop it.”  She groaned. She bare feet trembled against the cold concrete slab beneath her feet.   Shuffling to the woman against the wall.  Her face bloodied and bruised, her wrists chained painfully to the sound-proofed cinder block.  Her blonde hair matted and stringy.   “I said: shut up!” She screamed. A small hand cracking against the already battered face. Only causing the woman to wail louder, her gasping, breathless sobs.  With a roll of her eyes, she turned her back on the woman.  “You’ll only make it worse.  He’ll be upset if you keep that up.” Bethany said softly, mostly to herself.

“Honey; I’m home.”  A pleasantly  masculine voice called down the stairs. The overhead lights blinked to life, as Bethany blinked her eyes trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.  The wooden stairs creaked under his weight. The wails subsided, as the woman in the corners eyes widened and she tried to scurry against the wall.  Seemingly, trying to disappear into the wall.   “I hope you ladies have been playing nicely?” Thomas said.

 Thomas, a man in his early thirties with a sharp angular features, and wheat colored slicked back hair, finished his descent into the dingy, musty basement.  His crisp white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows. Tugging off his smart black tie, he crossed the room.  His looming frame staring down at Bethany.  A soft large hand reaching out, his finger tips sliding across her cheek, lingering over the full flesh of her lips.

“Go make dinner. The door is unlocked, do not come down here.  I will come up when I’m done.” Leaning down; he placed a chaste kiss against her forehead.

     Bethany busied herself  in the kitchen.  The stuffed cabbages simmering in a large steel pot on the stove, she took a shower.  Toweling off, she slipped into one of Thomas’s discarded button down shirts.   Combing her hair, anything to block out the sounds from the basement. The screaming, the crying, the sounds of flesh cracking against flesh. The pain filled wails though soft, seemed deafening. She could not escape them.  Starring into the blue eyes staring back at her in the mirror over the sink.  The eyes staring back were harsh and accusing as tears streamed down her cheeks. Why was she crying again?

As if on some form of auto-pilot; she stood there, combing her hair, staring at her own reflection. The screams had stopped long ago. Nothing but silence the small bathroom.  The tears on her cheeks had dried.

“Everything alright in here?” The door creaked open, as Thomas stepped in.   His hair askew and hanging in his eyes. Fresh, damp blood spattered all over his shirt. What a mess. How would she ever get that out?  Nodding wordlessly, she wiped at her cheeks with her fingers. “Why are you crying, Bethie?” His voice softened as he shut the bathroom door.

She shrugged as he stripped out of his dirtied shirt.

“I dunno.” She muttered. Her gaze fixed on the tiny white tiles beneath her feet.

“You’re not like them,” He said earnestly.  His arms wrapping around the trembling woman, hugging her against his bare chest. “You’re special.” he muttered over and over into her hair in a slightly crazed chant. “ Your the only thing I care about.” His lips ghosted over her temple.  “You’re the only thing I love.” They trailed down the column of her neck.  “You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.” His lips crushed against hers.

As he kissed her the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth,  his hands pawing at her body.  Her eyes slid shut. Feeling him. Her hands slid over the smooth, toned planes of his chest.  He groaned, his lips trailing all over. Her cheeks, eyelids and her jawline. Sinking to his knees, he grinned devilishly up at the flustered woman. Her cheeks pink, her eyes glued on him.  Hoisting aa short but shapely calf over his shoulder, he smiled. His lips blazing hot fiery trails up the flesh.  His fingers gripping her narrow hips, they bit into her flesh almost painfully. Slowly, agonizingly he reached the apex of her thighs.

“You are so special.” He whispered. Bethany’s eyes rolled back in her head as he kissed, suckled and lapped at her  swollen heat.  A soft sigh escaping her lips as her head jerked back smacking against the drywall, her fingers lacing themselves into his soft hair. Growling in an almost animalistic way, he lightly sunk his teeth into the small bundle of nerves. Squeaking, she thrust her hips against his mouth, her toes curling, as fire pooled in her belly.

Her eyes tightly shut as she gasped, as a dirty, bloodied finger invaded her body. The leg around his shoulder tightened;  her whole body tightened.  Bethany screamed as a wave rushed over her; stars burst in front of her eyes.

 Thomas smirked, roughly hoisting her up, pressing her firmly against the wall, his black dress slacks falling around his ankles. Her legs trembled, wrapping around his narrow waist.  Burying her face in the crook of his neck.  Sweat and strange scent of blood filled her nostrils. She rose her eyes. She store over his shoulder into the mirror. She watched herself with dull eyes. “You’re special.” He grunted entering her in one fluid motion.

Bethany woke in the middle of the night to crash, followed by screaming and a few loud pops. Curling against the headboard, she cowered. Should she move, should she scream? No, wrapping the terry cloth robe at the foot of the bed around her body. Thomas’s robe. Slowly, unsure, she crept down the hall. The loud noises in the living room, becoming even louder. Red and blue lights flashing against the wall, through the large windows.

Her heart stopped. Thomas.  Thomas laid in the middle of the living room on the brown shag carpet.  His black glasses crooked and a bloody gaping hole in the middle of his forehead.

 “Ma’am?” A tall man clad in a dark blue uniform spoke. But his voice was hazy and unclear. Her eyes fixed on Thomas.  Shoving past the uniformed men she sunk to her knees, tears streaming down her face.

“Ma’am; you can’t!” Another man hauled the young woman to her feet, dragging her away.  She fought, kicked, screamed. A few more men from the crowd that were traipsing around the home. Her home. Thomas’s home; store wide eyed, mouths gaping.  A few hushed voices, whispering as if there was some big secret.

She stopped fighting,unable to anymore.  Big fat tears streaming down her face, she crumpled under her own weight.  Landing heavily on her knees. She cried. Cried for herself, cried for the woman– women in the basement.  She cried for Thomas.

“Miss?  Are you Bethany Montgomery?” A officer with kind eyes and a handsome face, squatted down in front of her. Reaching out as another officer handed him a small photo.  “ Miss. Montgomery…” He affirmed softly. She sobbed.  Her head in her hands, her fingers threading into her hair.

It was over.

“Miss. ?”

It was over. Now everyone would know.

“Bethany, you’re safe now.” The officer pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms.

It was over. Now everyone would know; what happened in that quiet little house, on that quiet little street.


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