Andrea turned and ran from the room in floods of tears. She knew there was no point in trying to talk him down now. She knew that, once in one of his moods, there was no talking him down. You just had to let him get on with what he wanted to do or else feel his wrath too.
Johnny stormed into the dining room and slammed the door behind him. Without taking the time to look around the room he punched the wall as hard as he could — in his mind the plaster was his father. In his mind the crack in the plaster was a crack in his father’s face. The blood, from his knuckles, also belonged to his dad — in his fragile mind. He hit the wall again. And again. Each punch working out more of his frustration and anger at not being able to stand up to his own father. He knew someone had to. He knew someone had to put him in his place. For the sake of the family. He just wished he were strong enough. He went to swing at the wall again and suddenly froze when something, in the room, caught his eye. Slowly he turned to face the dining room table; a large oak table in the middle of the room with enough chairs, around it, to seat the entire family.
On the table, with two tall candles on either side of her, was Charlotte – naked, bound by restraints holding her wrists and ankles — a ball gag in her mouth and make-up smudged down her pretty face from the tears of fear which leaked from her eyes uncontrollably.
He stormed over to her and spat in her face. “This is your fault,” he whispered so as not to alert the rest of his family that he was talking to the dinner, “if we hadn’t picked you and your friends up… If we hadn’t…” he stopped talking and just stared at her naked body, suddenly overcome by lust. “I’m not gay!” he hissed at her as though she had been the one to name call him in the first place. “I’m not.”
Charlotte squirmed against the restraints as she felt her captor clamber up onto the table next to her. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing. She kept her eyes closed tightly. If she couldn’t see him, perhaps he wasn’t really there? She knew it wasn’t the case. She knew but hoped nevertheless.
He whispered in her ear, “I’m not gay. He wants me to prove it?” His gravely voice sent a shiver down to the base of her bare spine. “You smell good,” he continued, “Fresh… A hint of fear. Fear is good.” He nuzzled her neck and breathed in deeply — taking his time to take in her natural scent. “Mmmm…” he laughed, “….Good enough to eat. Good enough to fuck.”
He kissed his way down her chest. He stopped long enough to give her nipples a little flick with his tongue. She let out a sigh; one of surprise and not pleasure.
The restraints were straining as she pulled and twisted against them harder – straining, but not giving.
Her captor kissed down her stomach, another flick of his tongue — this time across her belly button. Hardly a pause before he continued moving southwards. A kiss against her pubic area. A small moan escaped his lips. A small whimper of panic, as she realised what was to come, from hers. He moved lower until his head was between her legs. A pause. She could feel his rancid breath against her vagina.
The restraints still refused to budge from her desperate squirming.
He breathed in deeply and sighed once more.
She clenched, bracing herself for what was to come; another flick of his tongue. Perhaps an experimental probing of his index finger? Nothing came. She opened her eyes and looked down. He was still there, between her legs. He was looking up at her. His eyes almost black in this light. Soulless. The lust and hunger overshadowing previous thoughts of despair and hatred for his father. He smiled.
“You smell great,” he repeated. He continued looking at her as he moved himself lower. He stopped just before he reached her knee and promptly ran his tongue up the inside of her quivering thigh.
The damned restraints not allowing any freedom. She couldn’t help but whimper. Tears of fear turned to those of disgust as they ran down her pale cheeks.
He stopped when he reached her vagina again.
A lick of his lips.
“Salty. Your fear tastes salty. One can only imagine what that’ll do to the flavour of…”
He ran his hand up the inside of leg, where he had just licked. Whereas his face had stopped just before her vagina, his hand didn’t. His determined fingers ran across her labia.
“Please don’t…” she mumbled around the ball-gag but he ignored her. His fingers forcing themselves to slowly part her lips. His breath so close that she knew it was only a matter of seconds before she’d feel his lips against her skin again.
He suddenly stopped and withdrew his fingers.
She opened her eyes in time to see him climb from the table with a look of shame on his face. His eyes back to a more normal colour as though he had come to his senses — brought back, with a bump, by his own guilty conscience.
“No,” he whispered — more or less to himself. “No.” He turned and hurried from the room, closing the door behind him.
Charlotte couldn’t help but let slip with a sigh of relief even though she knew it was far from over. She called out, “Somebody help me!” despite knowing the chances of anyone coming to her aid were slim.
Tammy was in her bedroom, against Dan’s corpse, crying on the soiled bed. Suzanne was sitting on the side of the bed trying to comfort her.
“What’s happened?” she asked. “What is it? Tell me…” Suzanne didn’t need Tammy to say what was causing the tears. She knew only too well. She had been in the same position herself. She recognised the limp that Tammy walked with when she passed Suzanne’s bedroom to get to her own room. It was a limp she had walked with on many occasions — usually late at night after her father had paid her a visit, drunk on the taste of flesh. For him to attack Tammy without even a hint of the taste of flesh, without even taking a taste of what was to come… Clearly he was already in a frenzied mood. Suzanne put her arm around Tammy but still Tammy didn’t say what was wrong. She just buried her face against Suzanne’s chest as though it was a safe haven from any monsters looming.
There was a gentle knock on the door.
“Come in,” Suzanne called out — she hoped that, whoever it was, they’d be able to have more success in calming Tammy down.
Johnny pushed the door open, “Can I come in?”
Suzanne nodded. Johnny stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, after a quick look to make sure his father wasn’t nearby.
“Are you okay?” he asked Tammy. He had partly felt responsible for what had happened. It had been his idea to tell their parents what Tammy had done — not that they had had much of a choice. She didn’t respond. “We need to do something about him…” It didn’t matter that Suzanne heard him. He knew she had suffered at the hands of Robert too. They all had. “We shouldn’t have to live like this… In fear of him…”
“It’s not him,” said Suzanne.
“Bullshit, who else is it?”
“You know who.”
“No, I don’t believe in that. And you don’t either,” he retorted.
“Maybe we should,” she continued.
“Believe in what?” asked Tammy, wiping away the tears from her cheeks.
“You don’t remember the stories dad told us as we were growing up?” asked Suzanne.
She shook her head.
“Don’t even start, Suzanne… None of it… It’s not true. It’s just stories. Some little tribes in North America… Around that area… Stories to tell their children… To scare them away from what we have grown up enjoying…”
“Tell me,” Tammy insisted.
“I don’t think our dad is always himself,” said Suzanne. “He used to tell us of a legend… Told by… I think… Algonquian people… The legend of Wendigo…”