Black In White by JC Andrijeski - Haunted Halloween Spooktacular

Halloween Fiction - The Chair

by JC Andrijeski 

Devonfights…

She fights at first just to be there. Just to…

Keep her eyes open.

If she closes them…

Well, if she closes them for too long, she’ll die.

That should motivate you, Devon…

One of them doesn’t really open, though. Not anymore.

She can hear it.

A steady drip, drip, drip under the bolted down chair whereshe sits.

She’s…tied. Tied up…

Ankles handcuffed to the front legs. Wrists handcuffedbehind her, the chain wrapped through the metal back support of a heavy chairwith no padding. She hears the sound, like a light, tapping hammer against herskull.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Each drop hits more liquid.

More liquid every minute.

…a growing pool. It lays below her, mostly under her seatwhere it drips down from her sliced thigh and the larger gash in her abdomen.It’s already soaked through her blackpants. She doesn’tlook at the pool…

She doesn’tlook at it.

Her elbows touch behind her, trembling.

Well, shaking maybe.

Shock. She must be in shock. The body kind of shock. Somepart of her wants to fight or flight… at least until she collapses in front ofthe sliding glass doors of an emergency room.

They left her here.

Bastards just left. Didn’t even bother to finish her off.

Devon’s eyes drift up, to a metal shop lighthanging on a long, half-chewed wire from the ceiling. The ceiling lays highabove. Cross-beams with rivets, a broken catwalk. Corrugated tin roof withholes and sheet-metal walls. Cement floor. The expanse and size of it are clearto her suddenly, even in the dark… even with only one eye. It’s a modern-day cavern. An empty,rusted-out ruin.

Warehouse.

Jeez… cliché, much?

The smile doesn’t linger on her swollen lips.

Where, though? Where is she? Should she try yelling? Is itworth it, spending time and energy trying to get the gag off to yell?

She doesn’thave a lot of time. Has to choose wisely.

The warehouse is empty… vast.

She hears doves somewhere. Pigeons? They fuss and coo andrustle feathers against metal and more feathers. The sound comes from up high,echoing down to her. She imagines she sees them, huddled next to framed, dirty,dust-covered windows. Shafts of broken sunlight slant down, illuminatingdancing dust motes. None of that light touches her.

It’squiet. Really damned quiet.

No cars. No voices. No footsteps to echo.

Would anyone hear her, if she yelled?

Probably not, she decides.

Why would they have left her here, alive? She tries tothink about this, to make sense of it, then realizes the answer is simple. Shedoesn’tmatter. She is nothing to them. It amused him to leave her alive, so he did.

She’sprobably not in the city at all, not anymore.

Her mind finds and scuttles other possibilities. She wastesmore time, trying to remember the ride out here, in case she gets a chance toreport in. How many of them took her. What they looked like. She didn’t see shit on the drive here, or asthey dragged her inside. She tripped a few times. On metal edges, steps, maybe.She didn’tsee anything that could help her now.

She’dbeen terrified.

They whipped the bag off her face…

Nothing but the hanging light, those tools, rough hands…

Screaming.

It went on for a long time.

Questions. She won’t remember those, either.

…she tried to listen. Before that. She tried to…

She hadn’tbeen trained for this. No one told her this might happen.

First job. Big deal first job, working for the president.

Just a noob. A rook.

A red shirt.

She tries to make a report. To herself. A report on whathappened…

…three men forced a black bag over my head at approximately7:15 am. I ’ djust reached the edge of the perimeter on our secondary check, at the southeastcorner of the UN building on East 42nd and 1st. I was overpowered, drugged,then blindfolded with a bag before being marched down the emergency stairwell I ’ d been patrolling. They took outsidethe building through a lower access door, where I was almost immediately shovedin the back of an unmarked van…

Well. Her mind said “unmarkedvan.”

She remembers a sliding door, the grating sound before itslammed shut with a muffled bang and the snick of a lock. In the movies it’s always an unmarked van...but itcould have been some suburban minivan, for all Devon knew.

Maybe with a “My Kid is an Honor Roll Student”bumper sticker…

Distraction. She doesn’t have time for distraction.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She doesn’tknow much about the human body, but she knows it needs blood.

Hers is running out. Too fast.

No one is coming.

They’dcut her…

Christ. How did this happened?

Wrong place, wrong time.

…but she can’tthink about that anymore, either.

Her one, good eye scours the space again.

Heavy wooden table. Dirty, covered in tools.

Devon doesn’twant to look at those tools, given that most are covered in her blood. Shemakes herself stare at them anyway. Some are sharp, sure...most are sharp,rusted, like a horror movie or something from the Tower of London. A fewblunter things. She can’tsay for sure, but doesn’tthink any of them would help her get out of the chair. Not with no hands. Notfast enough.

A spark ignites somewhere in her mind.

Keys.

He’dsnorted, staring at her with those hard, slate-like eyes.

He’dbeen finished. Worked up a sweat. Probably a calorie deficit day for him. Likegoing to the gym.

Orange-tinged blond hair sweated to his forehead and neck.Face, neck and upper body speckled with small and large red dots, largerpatches of the same fluid on the sleeves of his blue t-shirt and his hands. Hemade a show of wiping those thick, hairy hands on a dirty rag before he left.

She’dalready been counting down the minutes.

Maybe he had been, too.

Or maybe the clock had already stopped, from hisperspective.

He’dleft the keys.

Well… sort of.He’d thrown them across the emptywarehouse.

He did that casually, too, tossing them in a high arc, liketossing a bottle opener to a friend at a party.

They went far, though.

Devon heard them land. She hears it again now, a distantthunk in her head as she fights to remember. She hears them skitter across thecement a few feet...or maybe a few yards...like a distant replay.

That bastard grinned at her after he did it. Teeth yellowfrom smoking. Face broken with a darker scruff than that pale. Blond hair.Between that and his darker roots, he must have bleached his hair, come tothink of it.

Distraction.

He threw the keys… that was right before he left.

She thinks she remembers the direction. She thinks…

Devon bites down on her lip. Hard.

The pain forces her eyes (eye?) open once more.

It brings her mind briefly, sharply, back into focus.

You ’ renot going to just sit here and die, Devon.

You ’ renot going to play some stupid wait-and-see denial game… like some fatalisticass, waiting for angelic intervention…

That time, she doesn’t think.

She starts to rock the chair.

She starts to rock it for all she’s worth.

 

* * *

 

It’s difficult at first.

Side to side. Baby steps.

Then wider swings.

The legs teeter a few times, chunk down. Make her flinch.

It takes a few, good seconds to get her rhythm down...

Then it’sa little scary. The chair starts to sway for real. Those legs chunk downharder. Land less steadily.

Some part of her still winces back.

Some part of her doesn’t want more pain.

Death, Devon.

Death is worse than a little pain, damn it…

…she makes herself do it, anyway.

When that final rock tips her over the edge, she’s startled. Like some part of herstill doesn’tsee it coming.

Her body tries to catch it in reflex…

It can’t.

She lands, hard, exhales in a pain-filled grunt.

Moaning, she gasps. Winded. She lays on her side, panting,wasting oxygen, moaning, feeling like she just wants to die. She’s sure she’s broken her arm. It feels like shejust hit it with a hammer.

She did, more or less. On purpose.

It feels like an eternity of time she’s wasted.

She can see it now, though. She’s half-laying in it.

That pool of blood. It’s big.

Scary big.

It motivates her.

She starts to writhe inside the bindings of the chair. Shetried to pull the chair with her, across the cement floor.

On her side, she can move her body, like a snake. It hurtsher abdomen. It hurts enough to distract her from her throbbing leg, from herarm. She can even move the arm under her, but hit hurts like hell.

All of it hurts like… well, it hurts a heck of a lot.

More than anything she cares to remember.

She does it anyway.

She’sgoing to get across the floor. No matter what.

If they find her dead, she won’t just be sitting in a chair.

She won’tjust be sitting over a pool of her own blood.

* * *

Atfirst, she thinks she’snot getting anywhere.

It’sslow. Really slow.

She looks back though, when she has to rest. She sees asmear of blood, coming mostly off of that cut he made in her leg. A lotprobably off that hole in her abdomen, too.

She looks forward again, moving.

Writhing. Gasping.

Nothing ever hurt so much.

She’stired.

She doesn’twant to think about being tired.

She doesn’twant to think about what it might mean.

She’sreally damned tired, though.

She fights to see through the one eye. It’s fogged a bit now, not really workingright. She blinks, fighting to clear it. It works, but not really.

She can’tget tired.

She can’t...

The first time she snaps out, she realizes she’s been lying there. She doesn’t know how long. Dozing...

Time for a nap, Devon? Really?

…but it scares the shit out of her.

She’sfading. She has to hurry.

She writhes faster across the cement floor, groaning alittle from the wounds that have stiffened just enough to remind her she’s been lying there.

She makes it a few more feet.

A few more.

She’llstop, just for a second.

Needs to rest.

Needs to…

* * *

“Hey! Hey, lady!”

Devon’s head lolls on her neck.

The ground hurts. Something sharp there. Glass?

A nail.

Light in her face.

Really bright.

It’sdark in here. Really dark.

She’sstill tied to the chair.

“Whatcha doin’ down there, lady?”

The voice slurs, then laughs. The laugh echoes, a hollowpinging against the metal insides of the cavernous space.

Devon blinks up, unable to shield her eyes from that light.Her wrists are still cuffed to the back of the chair.

She’sstill tied to the chair.

Panic fills her.

A memory of that drip, drip, drip…

She fights to speak. “Help,” shewhispers.

“Lady, you’re bleeding a lot. Damn. A lot…that’sreally fucked up…”

“Help me…”she whispers. “Please…help me…”

She fights to move. Maybe to plead with him.

Maybe just to show him she can’t.

“Hey,” hesays. “Whatyou doing in here, lady? What happened to you?”

She has the absurd desire to laugh.

Then to scream at him.

He laughs again, maybe at the look on her face.

Devon feels sick, dizzy. Is this real? Is someone reallyhere? Is she dead? Dreaming on a gurney in some emergency room?

But no. The chair. The chair is still there.

She wouldn’tdream the chair.

He doesn’tseem right, either. High, maybe? Maybe he has a phone.

Then she sees it.

He’susing the phone to look at her. Using the light on the phone…

Hope turns into anxiety, clutching at her chest.

“Please,” shewhispers. She fights to make more noise, to speak. She clears her throat,swears she tastes more blood, then fights away the image. “Please,” shesays, a little louder. “Please…call someone… please…”

“Callsomeone?” That off-key laugh. “Who you want me to call? Who done thisto you, lady?”

She fights to see him through the bright light. She staresat the phone…

It is maddeningly out of reach.

“Please,” shewhispers. “Please…call someone. Please…”

Another voice startles her.

It is louder, deeper.

“What thehell?” it says. “Whoare you talking to…?” A longer pause. Then new voice gets close enough to seepast the light. “Jesus Christ… Rudy! What the fuck are you doing?Don’ttouchher!”

 He sounds disgusted.Afraid.

“What are youdoing, man?” he says, angrier now. “Get awayfrom her. Seriously, man. That is gross…”

The first one crouches down, so that he’s closer to her.

Devon smells alcohol on his breath, smoke.

The face she sees is young, shockingly so. Younger thaneither of the voices she thought she heard. She sees rounded cheeks, large eyeswith dilated pupils. She can’tmake out many features.

He’slike a happy ghost. An apparition.

“Leave heralone, Rudy,” another voice says. “You don’t want to piss off whoever did this toher…”

“Fuck, man!”the first one says. “Chill,okay? She’sbleeding!”

“I know she’s bleeding,”the deeper, angrier-sounding voice says. “Just leaveher alone, okay? Leave her there… and don’t touch nothing.”

“We can’t just leave her,” the first voicesays. “Can we?”

Devon hears doubt in his voice.

That doubt scares her.

Terrifies her.

“Please,” shesays. She fights to make her voice louder. “Please… Ihave money. I can pay you…”

“Money?”A note of interest grows in the first voice. “How much?”

“A lot…”

“Here? Yougot it here, lady?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No. In mybank. But I promise, I––”

“See?”the angry voice says. “Shedoesn’thave shit. She’llsay anything right now...you can’tbelieve her, man!”

“No,” Devonpleads. “No…I promise. It’s true…”

“Come on,”the angry voice says. “Iain’tcalling no cops. No way.”

“You can callafter you leave,” Devon says. “Secret. Won’t tell. Don’t tell them your name…”

“No!” the second one snaps.

He seems to be looking at her, but she can’t see him past that ring of brightlight. She can only feel the weight of his stare.

“I’m on parole, lady,” he says. “No offense,but you’realready dead. No one can help you now but God.”

“Keys!” Devon blurts. “Do you seekeys? On the ground? Anywhere?”

“Keys?”the first voice pipes, interested again.

Devon realized only then that he’d fallen silent.

“Yes.” Devon nods. She turns back towardshim, away from his angry friend, fighting to speak. “Yes. Please look. Please. I’ll say I found them. I promise I will.I won’ttell anyone about either of you…”

“On thefloor?”

“No!” the angry voice says. “Come on, Rudy. Let’s go. She’s giving me the creeps.”

“I can lookfor a minute, man. Chill.”

“She’s already dead.”

“One minute. Chill, man.”

Devon sees the first one, the one with the phone, wanderingaround the empty space. She cranes her head and her right eye towards theflickers of light and reflection on random metal surfaces as he shines hisphone screen around, aiming it at different spots on the cement floor.

A few seconds later, he lets out a jubilant laugh.

It echoes up to the metal rafters, bouncing against thewalls of Devon’shead.

“Hey! I see ‘em! I see your keys, lady!”

“Here,” shemanages. “Please…bring them here, Rudy… please…”

Angry guy mutters.

Clothes rustle somewhere over where she lays, like he’s folding his arms, or maybe shovinghis hands into his pockets. The material is light, noisy, like a windbreaker ormaybe a nylon jacket.

“Bitch knowsyour name, man,” he says.

“Whose faultis that?” Rudy says cheerfully.

Devon hears a jangling sound as he scoops up the keys. Likemusic.

She listens as he brings them over to her.

She hears footsteps…

Then his face is near hers again, grinning like he just wona prize.

“You want ‘em by your hand, lady?”

“Uncuff me.Please.”

“No, Rudy!”the second voice snaps. “Leavethe bitch her keys, and you did your good deed. Let’s get the hell out of here. Now.Before someone sees us and figures what you did.”

The first one leans down, placing the keys clumsily in herfingers behind her back. Devon reaches for the slick ring. Grasps hold of coldmetal with all of her might. She gasps, fighting tears, even as the kidwhispers in her ear.

“Sorry,lady,” he tells her. The smell of his breath still makes her wince. Pot smokeand cheap booze. “Sorry.I hope you get out of here okay…”

“Call,” shebegs him, whispering back. “Please, when you get out of here…just… call someone. Even with the keys, I won’t have time, Rudy. I won’t get out of here in time… please callsomeone for help…”

He grins at her again.

Devon only sees emptiness in those hazel eyes.

She never gets a good look at his face. All she sees arethose hazel irises blackened by too much pupil. Teeth that glow nearlyflorescent behind the blue-white panel of his smartphone.

“Please,Rudy,” she pleads, her voice a shadow now. “Please. Helpme. Don’tleave me here to die… please… I don’t know where I am…”

But it’sdark inside her cave again.

They’vealready gone.

 

* * *

 

Sheloops the key ring through two of her fingers.

Grips it there. Wills it to stay.

Using her free fingers, she feels over the surface of thecuff, looking for the hole. A notched opening, a tiny square merged with a tinyrectangle. She finds it on one cuff. Holds a finger there.

How much time does she have?

An hour? Maybe two?

When did they pick her up?

When did he ask the last question?

How long had it been since he stuck that knife in herthigh? He left it there, for awhile. It might have bled less then, with theknife in it. He left it sticking out of her, until he was ready to leave…

She gasped, gripping the key with all of her strength asshe fought it closer to that tiny, odd-shaped hole.

There are other keys on the loop of metal, though.

Three keys. One for each set of cuffs.

Is she holding the right one?

33.333% chance that she’s holding the right one.

She prays. Like a child, she prays it’s the right key. As if that will solveall of her problems. As if that’sgoing to end it.

She won’tdrop the keys.

That much she knows.

She won’tdrop them.

Adrenaline, feeding her blood. Maybe killing her faster.Maybe giving her just enough for a last try at life.

She positions that first key over the hole. It goes in. Shecould cry with relief. She grips it, though. She grips it tight. She twists.She twists it… carefully. It won’tunlock. It won’tmove.

Her hands are slick. Wet. Hot. She’s doing it wrong.

Wrong? Or is it the wrong key?

She fights with it. Wills it to open.

Wrong key.

Her mind screams it. It screams it in the dark, pointing ata ticking clock, at the drips of blood she can no longer hear coming out of herthigh and out of that wound in her belly.

Focus.

She bites her lip again, tasting more blood.

Next key.

66.66666% chance that this one is right.

Process of elimination. Odds keep getting better.

Better for one.

Worse for the other.

She’sout of time.

Time…

* * *

Itis the third key.

100% chance of being correct.

Even so, when the lock twists, she almost cries out indelirious relief.

She’dhalf-convinced herself it would be wrong. She’d half convinced herself it would bethe match that fell in the snow…

To Build a Fire.

…but it turned, and she felt the metal fall away, and letout that cry, waking the doves in their high rafters.

She felt the cuff fall open and then she could move herarms.

Not broken, after all. Just hurt a lot.

Still gripping the keys, she moved like a geriatric. Shedidn’tpull her arms. Even with her hurt abdomen, she pulled her body forward,dragging her arms after her.

She still held those damned keys.

She might never put them down. Ever.

No time to waste.

She dragged her arms forward, crying, in spite of herself.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She leaned forward. Fumbling in the dark. Dark like nolight ever existed.

But that’snot quite true, either.

She can see an orange light… through those dirty windowsabove the sheet metal walls. She can smell the dirt on the cement floor, andpiss, and she can see that light.

She’snot dead yet.

Left leg first. Maybe because it feels urgent. It’s the leg that got stabbed. She has toget it free. Now. Right now.

She fumbles for the hole. Finds it.

She kept the key in the lock of the cuffs that had lockedher wrists to the back of the chair. It dangled from her wrist on the hand thatdidn’tlook for the keyhole that still held her to the metal chair.

66.6666% chance of being correct on the first try.

That time, it worked on the first try.

She freed that leg and groaned, holding onto the last key,key number three, the one that would finally free her from the chair. Shegripped it tightly in her fingers. She held it as she gripped her free ankle,tears running down her face.

Thinking. How to move her body. She fell apart from thechair strangely that time, still tied to it, but at a weird angle now.

She tries to think her way through where she is.

She tries to rewind her way back through the dark.

Wrists free. Fall forward.

Left leg free, fall to the side.

She wraps around herself, dragging the chair. It makes ahollow, scraping sound as it grates across the cement floor. The sound echoes.She pants, and that echoes, too. She feels a nail there, something she shouldn’t step on.

She’sstill gripping the key.

The last key. The final key. She holds it like the holygrail, gripping it with fear in her wet, hot, throbbing hand.

The answer to her final problem.

She may never let it go.

100% chance of being right.

Black In WhiteQuentin Black Mystery Book OneJC Andrijeski
Genre: Urban Fantasy Mystery RomancePublisher: White Sun PressDate of Publication: September 9, 2015ISBN: ISBN-13: 978-1545436714  ISBN-10: 1545436711ASIN: B01554ZHH6Number of pages: 268Word Count: 76,755
Cover Artist: Damonza
Tagline: Meet Quentin Black: Private Investigator. Psychic. Possible murderer.
Book Description: 
Gifted with an uncanny sense about people, psychologist Miri Fox works as a profiler for the San Francisco police. When her best friend, homicide detective Nick Tanaka, thinks he's finally nailed the serial murderer known as the "Wedding Killer," she agrees to check him out, using her gift to discover the truth.
But the suspect, Quentin Black, isn't anything like Miri expects.
He claims to be hunting the killer too, and the longer Miri talks to him, the more determined she becomes to uncover his secrets.
When he confronts her about the nature of her peculiar "insight," Miri gets pulled into Black's bizarre world, and embroiled in a game of cat and mouse with a deadly killer--who might just be Black himself.
Worse, she finds herself irresistibly drawn to Black, a complication she doesn't need with a best friend who's a homicide cop and a boyfriend in intelligence.
Can Miriam see a way out or is her future covered in Black?
THE QUENTIN BLACK MYSTERY SERIES encompasses a number of dark, gritty paranormal mystery arcs with science fiction elements, starring brilliant and mysterious Quentin Black and forensic psychologist Miriam Fox. For fans of realistic paranormal mysteries with romantic elements, the series spans continents and dimensions as Black solves crimes, takes on other races and tries to keep his and Miri's true identities secret to keep them both alive.
Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/jcKdbAYADcY
Amazon

Excerpt:

I tilted myhead, still smiling, but letting my puzzlement show.

“Why are youtalking to me at all?” I asked finally.

“Why shouldn’t Italk to you?” he said. “I’ve already told you that you’re the first person towalk in here that I thought might be worth my attempting to communicate.”

“Because I’mfemale?” I said.

“Because youseem to be less of a fool than the rest of them,” he corrected me at once.

“But you saidNick had a mind?”

“I said he had amind of sorts. Not the same thing at all. Although, given the nature of hisintellect, he has undoubtedly chosen the right profession for himself.”

I smiled again.“I’m sure that will be quite a relief for him.”

I heard laughterin the earpiece that time, right before Nick spoke up.

“See if he’lltell you his name,” he said to me.

“Certainly, ifyou really want to know,” the suspect said, before I could voice the questionaloud.

“My name isBlack. Quentin Black. Middle initial, R.”

I stared at him,still recovering from the fact that he’d seemingly heard Nick give me an instructionthrough the earpiece.

Clearly, hewanted me to know he’d heard it, too.

“You heardthat?” I said to him.

“Good ear, yes?”he said. Smiling, he gave me a more cryptic, yet borderline predatory look.

“Less good withyou, however. Significantly less good.”

He paused,studying my face with eyes full of meaning.

I almost got thesense he was waiting for me to reply—or maybe just to react.

When I didn’t,he leaned back in the chair, making another of those graceful, flowing gestureswith his hand.

“I find that…fascinating, doc. Quite intriguing. Perhaps that is crossing a boundary withyou again, however? To mention that?”

I paused on hiswords, then decided to dismiss them.

“Is that a realname?” I said. “Quentin Black. That doesn’t sound real. It sounds fake.”

“Real is allsubjective, is it not?”

“So it’s notreal, then?”

“Depends on whatyou mean.”

“Is it yourlegal name?”

“Again, dependson what you mean.”

“I mean, couldyou look it up in a database and actually get a hit somewhere?”

“How would Iknow that?” he said, making an innocent gesture with his hands, again withinthe limits of the metal cuffs.

Realizing Iwasn’t going to get any more from him on that line of questioning, I changeddirection. “What does the ‘R’ stand for?” I said.

“Rayne.”

“Quentin RayneBlack?” I repeated back to him, still not hiding my disbelief.

“Would youbelieve me if I said my parents had a sense of whimsy?” he asked me.

“No,” I said.

“Would youbelieve that I do, then?”

I snorted alaugh, in spite of myself. I heard it echoed through the earpiece, although Iheard a few curses coming from that direction, too.

I shook my headat the suspect himself, but less in a “no” that time.

“Yes,” Iconceded finally. “So it is a made-up name, then?”

The man callinghimself Quentin Black only returned my smile. His eyes once again lookedshrewd, less thoughtful and more openly calculating.

Even so, hisweird comment about “listening” came back to me.

Truthfully, hewas looking at me as if he were listening very hard.

The thought mademe slightly nervous.

About the Author:
JC Andrijeski is a USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of gritty, character-driven, “real”-feeling paranormal mysteries and apocalyptic fiction. Her books have strong romance subplots, found families, and often a metaphysical bent. JC has a background in journalism, history and politics, and loves hiking, people watching, yoga, meditation, weird tourist destinations, the beach, coffee, birds, snails, and tacos. She grew up in the Bay Area of California, but travels extensively and has lived abroad in Europe, Australia, and Asia, and from coast to coast in the continental United States. She’s now living and writing full-time in Hollister, California.
Website: https://jcandrijeski.com 
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Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/jcandrijeski Amazon: https://geni.us/JCA-Amazon
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