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Authors: Rita Herron
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and the mommy hugged her and shielded her face while the doctor gave the injection.
I told the Commander I wanted a mommy like that.
But he said my mommy died. I cried and yelled and called him a liar. Then he punished me by locking me in the dark tiny room he called the hole for hours until I cried myself to sleep.
When he let me out, I asked again about my mommy.
A sinister look crossed his face, then he drove me to the graveyard and showed me her grave.
He made me lie down on the cold dirt for hours and hours
.
Seven hours, he said, because I was number seven.
After that, seven became my number. Seven times I walked up and down my room before I crawled under the covers. Seven times I checked to make sure no monsters were under my bed.
Seven times I’d chant, “Yes, sir,” when he ordered me to walk to the basement.
Seven times I counted over and over in my head as he filled the needle with the drugs to make me sleep. And when I slept, and he played with my mind, I heard him calling my name, Seven.
I glanced at the newspaper picture of him I’d cut out and taped on the wall of my room, then stood and began my pacing regimen.
Seven steps across the room. Seven steps back. Seven times in one direction, seven times in the opposite.
A block just the size of the hole where I spent so many nights.
If everything he’d told me was a lie, was my mother really dead? Or had she left me with him to be killed over and over again?
I slumped down against the wall, the terrifying memories bombarding me. The shrill screams of the others. The cries and pleas, the children begging not to be taken to the basement.
My hand shook as I gripped the piano wire and wound it around my wrist. I clenched it tight and pulled and twisted with one hand, watching as it began to cut off my circulation.
Seven times I squeezed it, seven times I thought about lying on that cold grave as night set in, and ghosts rose from the ground and reached for me. I closed my eyes and tried to read the name on the tombstone, but shadows covered the name and I couldn’t make out the letters.
It was a good thing my mother was dead.
If she was alive, I’d kill her for leaving me with the Commander.
Chapter 6
B renda’s phone was ringing as she let herself into her condo. Hopefully it was Nick with more information on the murder, but the caller ID indicated that it was her father.
Stalling, she dropped her keys on the kitchen counter and opened the back patio doors. The moon shone dimly over the treetops, stars glittering like diamonds in the sky.
She had chosen the new housing development for its security and the fact that it had been built on one of the ridges that jutted out over the valley and hollows. Her patio spanned the length of her unit, offering a panoramic view of the mountains and Slaughter Creek. The last of the snow was melting, the buds on the trees bursting to life, the smell of spring wafting in the air.
Her phone buzzed again, and she clenched and unclenched her hands, dreading the conversation that inevitably waited.
But her father would send one of his goons over to check on her if she didn’t pick up. When the case had broken before, and he’d seen her name on the news story featuring Arthur Blackwood’s arrest, he’d insisted on hiring her a bodyguard.
She had adamantly refused and told him she would no longer answer his calls if he persisted.
The phone buzzed again. Resigned, she punched connect as she walked to her bedroom and slipped on her PJs. A strong odor hit her, and she glanced around. It smelled like…hospital soap.
She didn’t have hospital soap in her condo. In fact, the smell always made her nauseous, just as hospitals did. It was almost as if she had a phobia.
“Brenda, what took you so long to answer?” her father bellowed. “Your mother and I have been worried sick.”
“You’re always worrying, Dad.” Nerves on edge, Brenda checked the condo, but nothing seemed amiss.
She must have
I told the Commander I wanted a mommy like that.
But he said my mommy died. I cried and yelled and called him a liar. Then he punished me by locking me in the dark tiny room he called the hole for hours until I cried myself to sleep.
When he let me out, I asked again about my mommy.
A sinister look crossed his face, then he drove me to the graveyard and showed me her grave.
He made me lie down on the cold dirt for hours and hours
.
Seven hours, he said, because I was number seven.
After that, seven became my number. Seven times I walked up and down my room before I crawled under the covers. Seven times I checked to make sure no monsters were under my bed.
Seven times I’d chant, “Yes, sir,” when he ordered me to walk to the basement.
Seven times I counted over and over in my head as he filled the needle with the drugs to make me sleep. And when I slept, and he played with my mind, I heard him calling my name, Seven.
I glanced at the newspaper picture of him I’d cut out and taped on the wall of my room, then stood and began my pacing regimen.
Seven steps across the room. Seven steps back. Seven times in one direction, seven times in the opposite.
A block just the size of the hole where I spent so many nights.
If everything he’d told me was a lie, was my mother really dead? Or had she left me with him to be killed over and over again?
I slumped down against the wall, the terrifying memories bombarding me. The shrill screams of the others. The cries and pleas, the children begging not to be taken to the basement.
My hand shook as I gripped the piano wire and wound it around my wrist. I clenched it tight and pulled and twisted with one hand, watching as it began to cut off my circulation.
Seven times I squeezed it, seven times I thought about lying on that cold grave as night set in, and ghosts rose from the ground and reached for me. I closed my eyes and tried to read the name on the tombstone, but shadows covered the name and I couldn’t make out the letters.
It was a good thing my mother was dead.
If she was alive, I’d kill her for leaving me with the Commander.
Chapter 6
B renda’s phone was ringing as she let herself into her condo. Hopefully it was Nick with more information on the murder, but the caller ID indicated that it was her father.
Stalling, she dropped her keys on the kitchen counter and opened the back patio doors. The moon shone dimly over the treetops, stars glittering like diamonds in the sky.
She had chosen the new housing development for its security and the fact that it had been built on one of the ridges that jutted out over the valley and hollows. Her patio spanned the length of her unit, offering a panoramic view of the mountains and Slaughter Creek. The last of the snow was melting, the buds on the trees bursting to life, the smell of spring wafting in the air.
Her phone buzzed again, and she clenched and unclenched her hands, dreading the conversation that inevitably waited.
But her father would send one of his goons over to check on her if she didn’t pick up. When the case had broken before, and he’d seen her name on the news story featuring Arthur Blackwood’s arrest, he’d insisted on hiring her a bodyguard.
She had adamantly refused and told him she would no longer answer his calls if he persisted.
The phone buzzed again. Resigned, she punched connect as she walked to her bedroom and slipped on her PJs. A strong odor hit her, and she glanced around. It smelled like…hospital soap.
She didn’t have hospital soap in her condo. In fact, the smell always made her nauseous, just as hospitals did. It was almost as if she had a phobia.
“Brenda, what took you so long to answer?” her father bellowed. “Your mother and I have been worried sick.”
“You’re always worrying, Dad.” Nerves on edge, Brenda checked the condo, but nothing seemed amiss.
She must have
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