Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I plant my fists on my hips, summoning my best theater-kid bravado. "Very funny! Love the sound design, ten out of ten for atmosphere!" My voice cracks embarrassingly on "atmosphere," betraying the false confidence like a squeaky violin string in an otherwise perfect symphony.
The silence that follows feels judgmental. Like the darkness itself is rolling its eyes at my pathetic attempt at nonchalance.
This is just Giovanni's theatrical nonsense. Probably ordered a "Dungeon Ambience: Volume III" CD from some specialty horror prop shop. "Guaranteed to Make Your Hostage Question Their Life Choices." He's probably got a little remote control upstairs, timing each sound effect for maximum psychological torment while he sips espresso and scrolls through his murder playlist.
CRACK.
Oh god.
My brain unhelpfully flashes back to last week, that first meeting in his office when I nervously word-vomited a joke about spanking punishments within ten seconds of meeting him. The memory hits like a brick to the forehead. I literally slap my own head, groaning. "Don't manifest it, Emmaleen."
Which of course only makes me think about it harder. My imagination helpfully provides a detailed scenario where Giovanni introduces me to his collection of antique disciplinary implements. "This crop belonged to Catherine the Great. This paddle was hand-carved by Machiavelli himself."
CRACK.
No no no. I'm not doing this. I grab hold of the doorknob, suddenly convinced that maybe Giovanni didn't really lock it. Maybe it just looks that way. Maybe it's a trick latch, part of his whole smoke-and-mirrors routine.
I jiggle the knob so hard it sounds like I'm playing maracas in a particularly aggressive salsa band. Nothing. I pull harder, throwing my shoulder against the door like I'm auditioning for a cop show. Still locked.
I can practically see Giovanni on the other side, lounging in some ridiculous leather armchair, sipping something pretentiously expensive while watching me on hidden cameras. Probably critiquing my form. "Poor technique. No follow-through. I'd give it a three out of ten for dramatic effect."
CRACK.
"Screw this," I hiss, aiming a frustrated kick at the bottom panel. Not hard enough to break anything—I'm not insane enough to destroy his property when he's already demonstrated a casual attitude toward homicide—but enough to make my toe throb in protest.
Now I'm hopping on one foot, swearing at my ancient sneaker like it personally betrayed me. "You shelter closet rejects!" I yell up at the ceiling, addressing both the shoes and the mismatched outfit I cobbled together this morning. "You were all part of the conspiracy! Designed to make me look ridiculous while I'm being terrorized by discount Patrick Bateman and his sound effects!"
CRACK.
The absurdity of blaming my secondhand clothes for my current predicament hits me, and a hiccup of laughter bubbles up from my chest. Thank god for that, because otherwise the pressure building behind my eyes would definitely turn into tears, and I refuse—absolutely refuse—to give Giovanni's surveillance cameras the satisfaction.
My giggles trail off, leaving nothing but empty space and the sound of my own breathing. The silence feels like a physical weight pushing against my eardrums. It's the kind of quiet that makes you check if you've gone deaf—except for that goddamn CRACK that keeps punctuating the darkness at perfect intervals.
The worst part isn't even the noise. It's the complete absence of Giovanni's smug voice. No taunting. No explanation. No villainous monologue about how I've fallen right into his trap. Just... nothing. Like he's forgotten me while he goes about his day, answering emails and ordering hits on people who cross him.
I press my back against the door, my pulse jackhammering in my throat as I stare into the pitch blackness below.
"This is fine," I whisper, and my voice sounds pathetically small. "Just trapped in a murder basement. Tuesday things."
CRACK.
I hug myself. Two options here: stand by this locked door like an idiot until I die of dehydration, or venture down the horror movie stairwell like an idiot and die more quickly from whatever waits below. Either way, I'm an idiot. Might as well pick forward motion.
"Fine," I announce to the darkness, to the imaginary audience watching my demise on some twisted reality show. "I'll go be eaten by the bogeyman. At least then I'm not waiting for him to text me back."
I press my palm against the cold stone wall, edging my right foot forward until my toe finds empty space. The first step. I wobble slightly, heart spiking as I imagine tumbling head over heels down a flight of stairs I can't even see.
"Stupid sadistic staircase," I mutter, steadying myself. "Designed by architects who graduated from Torture R Us University."
I take another step, then another, keeping my hand firmly against the wall. "This is the part of the movie where you all scream 'DON'T GO DOWN THERE,' and I ignore you because the screenplay demands it," I narrate, my voice embarrassingly loud in the enclosed space.