Baked Scribe Flashback : High Class
The house itself looked like a ruse, a poorly stitched drape, hastily chosen to conceal whatever lurked beneath. Every object in the room looked like it had been in the exact same spot for centuries, moved only to be dusted when the need arose. Even the cart that Bree was using was made out of wood that looked like it could have once been the masthead of a sailing vessel, carrying explorers across the ocean into new frontiers.
She picked up the Steuben pitcher and poured a fresh glass of scotch. It was the third time she had served this particular self-absorbed asshole, the one with the annoying tie, and each time, he had demanded a new glass. Bree wondered where he was depositing his empties, unwilling to endure the humility of using the same vessel twice. She was surprised that he didn’t call for each glass to be destroyed, after experiencing the honor of his mouth.
This job with the catering company was only a few months old, but Bree was already starting to look for something different, less demeaning. As if she didn’t already feel subhuman on a daily basis having to go through life under the scornful gaze of the financially endowed. It was worse to be in a job that actually made her subservient to them.
She noticed that the scotch was starting to run out, so she began pushing the cart towards the kitchen. There had been strict instructions to not serve the spirits from the original bottle, that the liquid required the aeration that only the decanter could provide. Bree didn’t really see the point. It seemed to her that a six hundred dollar bottle of scotch was just as impressive in the factory sealed bottle. Why waste the time to transfer it to a “fancy” bottle, which made it look like an over-sized container of perfume?
The hallway leading from the library to the kitchen was long, and curved around the outside of the house. This was Bree’s fourth trip and, for some reason, each time seemed longer. Each door in the hall was closed but, she was sure she could detect movement from within. Once or twice she heard the hushed tones of voices and breathing, cresting frantically over the strain of box springs.
For the first time that evening, she came across a door that was open.
It wasn’t a normal door, and she hadn’t noticed it on any of her previous trips. This was a bookshelf, set into the wall that was now hanging ajar. It looked like it had swung open on its own on hinges that she wouldn’t have been able to spot, even if she had been looking for them. Unable to help herself, she reached out and pulled it open further. There were steps, spiraling down into darkness. Before she was even conscious of doing it, she took a step forward and down. Even through her shoes, the stone beneath was incredibly cold, as if she was stepping into an icy embrace.
As she walked down, the stairs spiraled around several times and the illumination from the main hallway was quickly lost. Just as the darkness was about to become total, she found a torch, mounted on the wall. She took it carefully, waving it slowly from side to side and wincing as the flames sparked and crackled through the air.
She definitely wasn’t imagining the frigid draft coming up to greet her from below. There was proof enough of that in the flickering flames of the torch. The air was also starting to whistle as it washed up over her, and again, there was the sound of hushed voices. Several voices speaking as one, possibly chanting.
With a lurch, she realized that she had reached the bottom. She heard and felt gravel crunching under her feet as she walked, and could just make out the sound of water dripping somewhere all around her. A great gust of wind swept over her, snuffing the flames of the torch. She tossed it aside and continued on.
An orange, flickering light was somewhere ahead in the distance. She walked towards it, running an open palm against the rock wall to keep from losing her balance. She heard wet splashing noises from below, and felt cold water rushing up her legs. The voices were getting louder now, but it still sounded distorted to her, the words unfamiliar.
She stepped through a stone archway into a cavernous room and the scene that unfolded in front of her stretched out across the lifetime of a single moment.
No more than fifty feet inside the entrance was the mouth of a simple, cobblestone well. Surrounding it were a dozen men, all naked and lying face down on the floor, facing the well while supplicating and averting their gaze from whatever was about to emerge. Red smoke was starting to billow out from the darkness below and Bree drew in a breath at the sudden sensation of disembodied, conscious thought zeroing in on her.
The smoke came up and out of the well like water pouring over a causeway. The voices of the men rose to a fever pitch, and before Bree could think to run, she was engulfed as the smoke rushed forward to claim her. The brief pleasure she took in that fleeting moment of weightless disorientation was quickly transformed into a wave of the most intense pain she had ever conceived. It felt like her skin was liquefying and melting off of her body.
Bree screamed until her head was twisted violently to the left, and she felt something snap within her neck. Her arms lost whatever control she had had over them, and they flopped uselessly to her sides. As her feet left the ground, she had just enough time to take in the waning moments of conscious blackness around her before being smothered in the eternity of perpetual, unconscious dark.
