secured it was new. The key was one of many on the key ring he always carried. Unlocking the door, he pulled it shut behind him as he passed on into a taller, earthen chamber. With relief, he stretched to his full height. Keeping his head low for so long occasionally gave him a crick in the neck.
“Come on,” he said to the dog, which wagged its tail. Heading for a wooden door, he pulled it open and led the dog into another room in which the floor, ceiling, and all four walls were made of large, hand-carved stones. This room was as old as the tunnel, and as forgotten by everyone but him. Years ago, he had turned it into his own private playroom.
“Hello, Cassandra,” he said genially to the girl who awaited him there, sitting naked on the side of the cot he had so thoughtfully provided for his guests. Lank-haired and dull-eyed, she didn’t even bother to jump to her feet at his entrance anymore. She just stared at him dully through the iron bars of her cage.
“I’ve brought you a pet,” he said, smiling at her as he turned on the battery-powered camper’s lantern that he kept on the table in the part of the room that was separate from the cell. The glow from the lantern cast his shadow on the wall, and the shadow reflected the truth of him with surprising accuracy: it looked sinister, which he emphatically did not in real life. He was pleased with the image, which included the little bow-leggedbeast at his feet and the rope which connected them. The light did not quite reach the corners, but there was enough illumination to do what he needed to do.
Glancing reflexively around, he saw that everything was just as he had left it. His big leather recliner, his TV, his remote control, his collection of videotapes, the photo gallery of his guests. They were all there, pictured in life, death, and every stage in between, affixed to wooden strips that he had secured to the walls. He had recorded the metamorphosis of each of them, from the first of his victims to Eric, Cassandra’s erstwhile boyfriend, who was the last, except for the collection of pictures of Cassandra which was not quite finished. Her portfolio began with the picture he had snapped on the night he had brought her to this room. She was beautiful in that picture, wide-eyed with fright but smiling bravely at the camera because he had ordered it. Soon he would take the last shot in her series: the look on her face as death claimed her. It might not be as conventionally pretty as the first, but it would be more fascinating. The difference in the way people died intrigued him. Some prayed, some did not. Some kept their eyes closed, others looked death in the face. All of them, every single one, screamed their lungs out at the end. Death was such a pure thing, so cleansing. He didn’t know why everyone seemed to fear it so.
He did not. When it came, he would welcome it. But he was not ready to welcome it yet.
“Here dog,” he said to the dog, who was looking up at him with near-worshipful brown eyes. He led the animal closer to the wall, picked up one end of an iron chain that hung from a ring set into the stone, and wrapped that around the dog’s neck, working with it until it was secure, then padlocking it in place. The dog hunkered down on its belly, not liking to be chained, but made no effort to escape.
Knowing what was coming—after all, she had seen what had happened to Eric—Cassandra started to cry, dry heaving sobs that sounded like they hurt.
“Don’t you like your pet?” he said to her reproachfully. He tugged on the chain once, twice, just to make sure the dog could not getloose, then, as he caught the animal’s eye, patted him on the head again.
“Good dog,” he crooned, moving away to the storage cabinet where he kept his supplies. The dog strained after him, already his loyal friend. Removing a can of kerosene and a box of fireplace matches, he retraced his steps until he stood just out of the dog’s reach. It looked adoringly
“Come on,” he said to the dog, which wagged its tail. Heading for a wooden door, he pulled it open and led the dog into another room in which the floor, ceiling, and all four walls were made of large, hand-carved stones. This room was as old as the tunnel, and as forgotten by everyone but him. Years ago, he had turned it into his own private playroom.
“Hello, Cassandra,” he said genially to the girl who awaited him there, sitting naked on the side of the cot he had so thoughtfully provided for his guests. Lank-haired and dull-eyed, she didn’t even bother to jump to her feet at his entrance anymore. She just stared at him dully through the iron bars of her cage.
“I’ve brought you a pet,” he said, smiling at her as he turned on the battery-powered camper’s lantern that he kept on the table in the part of the room that was separate from the cell. The glow from the lantern cast his shadow on the wall, and the shadow reflected the truth of him with surprising accuracy: it looked sinister, which he emphatically did not in real life. He was pleased with the image, which included the little bow-leggedbeast at his feet and the rope which connected them. The light did not quite reach the corners, but there was enough illumination to do what he needed to do.
Glancing reflexively around, he saw that everything was just as he had left it. His big leather recliner, his TV, his remote control, his collection of videotapes, the photo gallery of his guests. They were all there, pictured in life, death, and every stage in between, affixed to wooden strips that he had secured to the walls. He had recorded the metamorphosis of each of them, from the first of his victims to Eric, Cassandra’s erstwhile boyfriend, who was the last, except for the collection of pictures of Cassandra which was not quite finished. Her portfolio began with the picture he had snapped on the night he had brought her to this room. She was beautiful in that picture, wide-eyed with fright but smiling bravely at the camera because he had ordered it. Soon he would take the last shot in her series: the look on her face as death claimed her. It might not be as conventionally pretty as the first, but it would be more fascinating. The difference in the way people died intrigued him. Some prayed, some did not. Some kept their eyes closed, others looked death in the face. All of them, every single one, screamed their lungs out at the end. Death was such a pure thing, so cleansing. He didn’t know why everyone seemed to fear it so.
He did not. When it came, he would welcome it. But he was not ready to welcome it yet.
“Here dog,” he said to the dog, who was looking up at him with near-worshipful brown eyes. He led the animal closer to the wall, picked up one end of an iron chain that hung from a ring set into the stone, and wrapped that around the dog’s neck, working with it until it was secure, then padlocking it in place. The dog hunkered down on its belly, not liking to be chained, but made no effort to escape.
Knowing what was coming—after all, she had seen what had happened to Eric—Cassandra started to cry, dry heaving sobs that sounded like they hurt.
“Don’t you like your pet?” he said to her reproachfully. He tugged on the chain once, twice, just to make sure the dog could not getloose, then, as he caught the animal’s eye, patted him on the head again.
“Good dog,” he crooned, moving away to the storage cabinet where he kept his supplies. The dog strained after him, already his loyal friend. Removing a can of kerosene and a box of fireplace matches, he retraced his steps until he stood just out of the dog’s reach. It looked adoringly
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