My subconscious didn’t want to let me wake, part of me expected to be dead so it was with some surprise when a disembodied hand slapped me awake. Everything round me was dim and gray; I saw the vague outlines of walls that looked lumpy, mottled. It was cool and damp. My feet were hanging over the edge of something and my hands were tied and pulled back over my head. I was horizontal or nearly so. My mouth tasted horrible, dry, parched, and my head pounded. I felt ill, nauseous, puked and it hit someone in the chest.
They jumped back with a curse and some of it fell on me, steaming, stinking and disgusting.
A tall man, heavily built with great whippy muscles stood there; he was dark haired with gray tinted through it and light brown eyes in a high forehead and pinched face. He was no more remarkable in his appearance than the next-door neighbor or grocery manager. I thought he was there to rescue me.
“Help,” I said faintly and he smiled.
“Yes,” he spoke with a soft Midlands accent. “You’ve come to help. I see you’ve been injured several times. Your name is Aidan?” he touched me lightly on the chest and belly, his fingers cold on my bare skin. That’s when I realized I was naked. I screamed and the sound echoed through the rooms and mocked me.
“Ah, Zane was right,” he crowed. “You’re perfect. Upper class, young, untouched. Your aura is pure gold and scarlet with a crown of blue. I’ve never seen one like it. Zane says you died twice. Is that true?”
I kept screaming and tried thrashing about but the moment I moved, all my weight was on the manacles about my arms and I slid down the tilted plank. My arms pulled my chest up and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. He let me scream and struggle until my voice became gasping pants but he didn’t touch me.
“You must be hungry. Zane overestimated how many roofies to give you and you’ve been out for two days. I gave you water but I was afraid you’d aspirate if I forced too much. Thirsty? The drug does that to you.”
“What are you going to do to me?” My words shook, came out fear filled and tremulous. “Are you going to stick your cock up my arse?”
He laughed. “Among other things, dear boy, but not for a week, yet. We’re saving you for the Feast of Samhain’s.”
“What?”
“We worship Satan,” he explained. “Alastair Crowley, the Beast. The end times are near. To hasten it, to bring the Great Master to Earth to rule now and forever, we need a pure, perfect sacrifice to bind him here. I think you might be it.”
“You’re mad!” I burst out.
“What, you’re not going to deny the existence of Satan?”
I shook my head. “He exists. I’ve seen him in mens eyes too many times now.”
“Have you? I never have, only taken him as the truth; only felt him in some dark, deep place in my soul. I believe but like Doubting Thomas, I want to put my fingers in that hole, feel and taste the blood.”
“You would not survive the encounter.”
“How do you know? By faith? Intuition? Or did you meet him in some esoteric place?”
“You are a fool.”
“Who’s hanging from a hook waiting to be sacrificed to the Dark Lord? When you’re hungry and thirsty, call for your lord to provide. Maybe he’ll hear you. Ta, I’m off to work.”
“What do you do?”
“Assistant Prosecutor to the Crown, dear boy. Wear the wig and the robe. Criminal Barrister. Have a pleasant day. Scream all you care to, no one can hear you down in these cells. We’re next to the Army Proving Grounds. Aircraft and big lorries just ruin the quiet neighborhood. My people think I’m mad to stay here. Ta.”
He sauntered out of my sight and I saw he was dressed in a three-piece suit, now stained with my vomit. I hoped he smelled me all day.
He left the lights on. The room was a cell---no more than eight meters by eight, bare of anything but rocks piled neatly atop each other with little mortar between them. Different colors, mostly bluestone and granite. The floor was packed dirt, no windows, the door wooden with wrought iron bands and hand hammered hardware bolting it together. The lock was one of those big, ancient iron skeleton key types which I had learned to pick at home in my own cells buried beneath the Manor and if I could get out of the manacles.
I couldn’t see them but my hands were close enough together that I could feel them. Not modern handcuffs that ratcheted tight, these felt like the broad metal cuffs that were used in the 1800s. I thought, being small boned and slender, I could slide my hands through. I squeezed my thumb into my palm to make my hands smaller and twisted. As soon as I tried to pull them out, something inside clicked and sharp spikes dug into the entire circle of my wrists and held the flesh. To attempt to pull against it would shred my hands to the bone.
Blood flowed, coating them, making them more slippery yet I could not pull them out. I sobbed as it burned and throbbed. After ten minutes of torture, my hands went numb. I tried to take the weight off by sliding my legs to either side of the board and pushing up against the floor but he had calculated my height, the length of chain so that my toes barely reached and after a few minutes, my legs couldn’t take the strain; cramping up. I had to let go and hang from my hands again. After two hours, the board tilted by itself and I was lying flat on my back. The relief was enormous and I fell asleep, unable to do anything but be grateful for the respite.
My stomach complained waking me from a deep, troubled sleep. I had no idea what time it was. I was hungry, very thirsty and had to pee. I just let go and what came out was dark, smelly and hit the dirt to puddle on top before it slowly sank in. The smell of piss lingered and I wondered how I was going to crap when I was stuck on the board. I could roll onto my side but I was afraid if I rolled off, I wouldn’t be able to get up again. I drifted and the slow hours passed.