Page 53 of The Vanishing Place

That morning a kerosene lamp, only a quarter full, and a book had been waiting for her when she woke up. A bloody Bible of all things. Effie had sworn and kicked it under the bed.

Over the past twenty-four hours, Effie had tried shouting out and throwing things at the door, but the voice never returned.

She’d searched every inch of the room that she could reach, cursing when the chain pulled taut and the padlock dug into her ankle bone.

She’d spent hours in the dark, mapping the shapes and edges of her prison, searching for a source of light or something she could use as a weapon.

Anything that might help her. But her efforts had resulted in little more than a child’s crayon and an old rusted fork.

She stood in front of the boarded window, using the lamp for light, and tried to prize the boards loose with her fingers.

If she could just force one away slightly, a few millimeters, perhaps she could find something to lever it open.

She dug into the wood, her arms shaking, but the tips of her fingers tore and bled, and the rusted nails held tight.

“Fuck.”

Effie slumped back, defeated. She turned off the lamp and sat in the dark, breathless and bleeding, as the minutes passed and the fist in her stomach clenched tighter.

Too tight . Effie groaned and leaned forward, curling into a ball, but the pain deepened, getting worse.

As she rocked, heat crept through her, burning in her muscles.

“Something’s wrong,” she murmured. But her words bled out into the black air with nothing to catch them, with no one to make them real. “I don’t feel well.”

Effie held her stomach and shouted, her voice thick with anger, “ I know you can hear me. ”

Then she lurched forward and spewed over the floor.

Twice she convulsed and emptied—the second attempt more bile and saliva than anything of substance.

Eventually, the cramps eased. Effie wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

Groaning, she lit the lamp and glanced around the room, half knowing what she was looking for.

There .

“You cowardly fucker,” she murmured, the words foul-smelling on her tongue.

The cup of tea . He’d put something in her fucking tea.

Effie grabbed the bed, using it to pull herself up. Holding her stomach, she stumbled around the sour puddle of vomit and lifted the empty cup from the desk. She ran her finger around the inside, the smooth ceramic dusted with something gritty, then she hurled it at the wall.

“Stupid.” She swore. “Stupid.”

As she turned, she noticed a corner of white paper poking out from under the saucer. Her stomach tensed again, and she grabbed the paper. The writing was different from the previous note, the tight block capitals neater and more uniform.

READ THE BIBLE. IT WASN’T A REQUEST.

Effie scrunched the note in her hand and threw it into the vomit.

“Screw you.”

Exhausted, she curled up on the bed. And at some point, sleep took her.

—

When she woke up, there was no food. No water. Nothing to clean herself with.

There was no food the next day either. Just a small jug of water.

On the third day, dehydrated and filthy, Effie reached under the bed and grabbed the Bible.

As she held the small book, tears trickled down her cheeks, and the thick drips of salt congealed on her parched tongue.

She hated that she needed him. That without him, she would starve, that her stomach and head and bones would ache with it, and she would die.

Trembling, she opened the cover and flicked to the first of the bookmarked pages.

Each contained a strip of paper and an underlined passage.

1 Corinthians 11:3—The head of every man is Christ, the head of a wife is her husband .

Effie flicked to the next one. Then the next.

1 Timothy 2:12—I do not permit a woman to teach or exercise authority over a man; rather, she is to remain quiet .

Shaking, and not willing to read any more, she tossed the book aside. Her thoughts churned, hot and thick and confused, and a tightness spread through her chest.

“Hello.”

A voice echoed in the void between Effie’s ears, lost in the mess of her thoughts.

“Hello.”

The voice again—female. Soft and far away. Real. Perhaps.

“Are you there?”

The voice dragged Effie from the tar in her head, and she blinked the darkened room back into view. Then she pulled her shattered self toward the door.

“Hello,” she panted. “Yes, hello. I’m here.”

“Did you read it?”

“Yes.” Effie’s heart thumped. “Yes.”

She waited. But there was no reply.

“Hello.” She strained against the chain. “Are you still there?”

There was a shuffling of feet. Then silence.

“Please,” Effie begged. “Please. I just want to talk.”

But the woman had gone, and Effie was alone again.

Rotting in the dark.

—

In the morning, there was food. It must have been slipped through the door when Effie was asleep. Food and water and basic cleaning supplies.