Page 8

CHAPTER

FOUR

ERIN

I struggle into an upright position, getting thrown around without a seat belt. A particularly violent turn sends my head crashing into the window. Dad doesn’t check whether I’m okay. His icy stare penetrates me from the rear mirror, watching with a look of disapproval that makes me want to hurl.

“You lied to me,” he says.

“I…” I could make up an excuse, but he’ll only see through it. His job has made him a human lie detector; well versed in sensing changes in people’s body language and tone. “I’m sorry, okay? It won’t happen again.”

Apologizing is all I can do. Hopefully, if I sound sincere enough, he’ll let it go. What started as a fun night has turned into a nightmare. Was it worth it?

“No,” he agrees. “It won’t.”

We halt at a stoplight, and he sniffs the air.

“You’ve been drinking,” he says. A statement, not a question.

Nothing sobers you up more than your dad crashing a party.

“Only a little,” I admit, not that it’ll make any difference. He’ll likely force me to attend Alcoholics Anonymous on a weekly basis.

“I’m disappointed,” he says. The light turns green, and I’m thrown back again as he hits the gas hard. “After everything I’ve done to keep you safe, this is how you treat me. You broke my trust. A trust that I gave freely. A trust you’ll have to earn back.”

“I will,” I say. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“I know you will.”

We drive past Stonybridge Academy and should take the next right, but he keeps going.

“You missed the turn,” I remark feebly.

“No,” he replies. “I didn’t.”

“But our house is that way…”

I’m tipsy, but I haven’t completely lost my sense of direction.

“We’re not going home.”

A lump forms in the back of my throat, and I blink away tears. Crying has no effect on him. Whenever I hurt myself as a child, it was Mom who kissed my grazes better. He sees crying as a sign of weakness. Tears won’t help me now.

Our town, Pasturesville, is close to a rocky mountain range, yet still within commutable distance to the nearest city, which makes it a popular neighborhood for families.

When Dad takes a left, leading away from the town, I realize where we’re heading.

The dirt track crawling up the side of the mountain is always deserted.

Locals have dubbed it the ‘highway to hell’, and more suspicious folks tell stories about how the devil touches everyone who travels up it. Maybe there’s some truth to that.

“Can we go home, Dad? Please?” I bargain. “I made a mistake, okay? I’m sorry, I?—”

“Your words are meaningless after your actions tonight, Erin.” He tsks and shakes his head.

“How can I believe anything you say after you lied to me? You’re lucky I arrived before you caused our family further embarrassment.

It’s bad enough that you went out dressed like a common whore, but drinking too? I expected more from you.”

I pull my dress lower, but the fabric keeps bunching, making me extra conscious about the amount of thigh I have on show. I shouldn’t have let Mia talk me into wearing this outfit, no matter how good I felt in it.

The road narrows as we continue, curving with the mountainside.

Various signs along the sides of the road warn trespassers away in bold text.

They needn’t have bothered putting them up.

No one comes here willingly. Beyond the trees, I glimpse the double chain-link electric fences that are there to prevent people from going in, and more importantly, to stop patients from getting out.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

Terror roots me to my seat as we approach Sunnycrest Asylum.

“I told you, Erin,” Dad says ominously. “I’ve been too lenient with you, and look where it’s got me.”

He lowers the window and swipes his work card to gain access, jolting the gates into life.

A security guard looks up from his post for a brief second as we drive by.

He recognizes Dad instantly and waves a donut in our direction, not noticing me in the back of the car.

It’s not unusual for my father to work late, and he’s often called in during the twilight hours.

I consider slamming my fists on the window, but it’ll only make Dad angrier. Besides, the guard will never question his boss if he wants to keep his job.

Sunnycrest Asylum is a C-shaped building made from concrete slabs.

Although we’re at a higher altitude, that doesn’t explain the change to the air here.

The building is a vortex of misery, radiating a sinister aura that makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.

Dad created it to treat, and contain, the criminally insane and most troubled youths in the country.

Sunnycrest has a top-of-the-range security system.

I can’t remember the exact details, but I’ve eavesdropped on enough of my parents’ dinner parties to know that it cost multiple millions.

No one gets in or out without special clearance, and technological advances have made it virtually impossible to leave the facility from the inside, meaning they’ve been able to cut the costs of the security detail outside.

“Get out,” Dad commands.

I don’t move, hoping this is a twisted joke. If he wants to scare me, he can consider it done. He marches out and storms to my side of the car, opening the door and grabbing my arm to force me outside.

“Dad, please,” I beg.

My voice echoes around the courtyard, but I’m not the only one shouting. Wails from within carry through the whistling winds.

“Come with me,” he hisses through gritted teeth, dragging me to a door labeled ‘Authorized Access Only’.

“Can we go home?” I plead. “I don’t like it here.”

Although we’re the only people around, I shiver, unable to shed the feeling of being watched. Tiny windows with steel bars are evenly spaced on the asylum’s walls. I don’t look up, too afraid to see who is looking back.

“You should have thought of that before you went to that party,” he says.

He continues past the door and skirts around the back of the building. I stumble, struggling to keep up with his pace. There are no lights back here, and we come to a stone staircase that looks to lead into an underground basement.

“Move.” He shoves me in front of him, forcing me to take the stairs first. I try turning around, but he blocks my path. He can easily overpower me, so fighting is pointless. “I said, move.”

I gulp, taking cautious steps until I reach the bottom.

“Here.” He passes me a rusty key from his shirt pocket.

I look at it in confusion. “What?—”

“Unlock the chains,” he commands.

Heavy chains and a lock block the door. I turn the key, hoping it won’t open, but it does with a small click.

“Now remove the chains,” he instructs.

I loosen them, and they drop to the ground with a clang. He then pulls a lanyard from under his shirt, which holds many fobs, keys, and cards. He doesn’t go anywhere without it, and I’m pretty sure he sleeps in it too. With it, he opens the door.

He nudges me forward. “Inside. Now.”

I can’t see anything, only darkness stretching into the unknown. He has to be kidding, right?

I attempt to bargain one final time. “Please, can we just go home?”

He sighs, losing his patience, and pushes me with a force I don’t expect. He propels my body forward, knocking me off my feet. I break my fall with my hands, narrowly avoiding smashing my face into the cold concrete. Before I’m back on my knees, he shuts me away from the outside world with a slam.

“Dad!” I crawl to the closed door and bash it with balled fists. “Let me out! Please! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have lied. I’ve learned my lesson.”

He chuckles on the other side of the metal. Ironically, it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh for a year—aside from the fake one he uses when trying to impress visitors.

“You’ve not learned anything yet. This is what happens when you defy me,” he says. “You will thank me for this later.”

Tears fall down my cheeks in fat blobs and make my eyes burn from the running mascara.

“Please!” I whimper. “I want to go home.”

“Obedient children get nice things,” he says. “Bad behavior must be corrected. I’m doing this for your own good. I’ll be back when you’ve had time to think about your actions.”

Chains rattle, and I swallow the rising vomit as realization hits. He’s really leaving me here.

“Don’t leave!” I scream. “Come back!”

He doesn’t answer.

I reach for my phone but remember it’s in my bag, still in the car.

“Help!” I bang on the door. “Help me!”

It’s no use. The asylum is full of people screaming from morning to night. Even if someone heard my pleas, they’d think I’m a crazy patient.

The smell of rising damp makes my stomach churn. My knees sting, and a warm trickle of blood oozes down my leg. My eyes adjust, noting the only shred of light comes from a tiny half-centimeter gap around the edge of the door.

I have to pull myself together. I grapple around, running my hands over the walls, trying to focus on what’s in front of me. It’s a grounding technique I learned from a therapist, only I never expected to use it after being locked in an underground cupboard.

What kind of parent does this to their own flesh and blood? No one ever questions the sanity of a psychiatrist, but he blurs the line between sane and crazy. How long can you spend around people who’ve lost their mind without losing part of your own?

“Bricks,” I say, choosing to fill the silence than let it stretch out. “Breeze block.” The space is compact. Ten feet by six, if that. “Concrete floor.”

My shoe hits a steel bucket when I rotate. I kneel to inspect it and get assaulted by the pungent smell of stale urine. I retch, retasting the apple shot from earlier. Well, I guess that answers my question about going to the bathroom…

I carefully nudge the bucket. Despite the foul odor, it seems to be empty, judging by how easily it rattles, and I push it into the corner away from me.

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’ll be over soon.”

My words bring me no comfort. Dad wants to frighten me, not cause actual pain. All I have to do is stick it out until morning. He’ll be back then and use this exercise as a teaching opportunity. Until then, I can get through a few hours being alone.

“Boo!” a male voice comes from somewhere above. It reverberates through me like a lightning bolt.

I inhale sharply, holding in air and hoping he’ll go away if I stay quiet.

“I know you can hear me,” the voice says.

His playful words don’t match the underlying cruelness to his tone.

I’m a mouse that has walked straight into a trap that’s about to snap.

I slap my hands over my mouth, struggling to control my breathing. I know what kind of people they lock up in here. Some patients have committed the worst crimes imaginable: murder, rape, and there’s even a cannibal rumored to be in residence.

“You can’t hide from us,” a second voice says. It’s deeper than the first, with a slight drawl to his accent, making him sound almost bored.

“What’s wrong?” a third guy asks. He’s British, which instantly makes him seem less intimidating. A Brit instantly conjures an image of a hero from an Austen novel in my mind. “Are you scared?”

“Let’s find out,” the first says.

I name them in my head. One, Two, and Three. Giving them names helps make them less scary than abstract figures.

A bolt from the ceiling falls at my feet. The tinny ping echoes around the tiny space, followed by the torturous scrape of more screws being loosened. I squeal as a sheet of metal lands to my right with a bang. They’re in the ceiling, coming down a vent. Fuck.

“I love it when they scream,” Three purrs, dashing my hopes of him being the next Mr. Darcey. Even a cute accent can’t make that sentence sound good.

“Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” Two says. “We only want to welcome you.”

Their voices grow louder as bodies shuffle along metal above my head.

“Help!” I scream, breaking my vow of silence to pound against the door. They already know I’m here, so what harm can it do? I hear desperation in my hoarse voice, but I don’t care. There’s still a chance Dad is close by. “Help me!”

“Save your breath,” Three urges. “No one listens when you scream here, except for me.”

Help isn’t coming.