Monica jumped as a door slammed upstairs. Just how long had she been down here? Without any windows it was impossible to tell. The heady smell of stale urine clawed the back of her throat, and she squirmed in her chair, breathing in recycled air. Her mouth was bleeding now from her failed efforts to bite her way through the saliva-sodden gag. She wriggled her wrists and was rewarded with a slice of pain. The more she struggled, the deeper the thin strip of rope embedded in her flesh. Yet, she had to fight because there was no other way out of this scenario. Fear crushed Monica’s soul as the reality hit her: she might never see daylight again. She hung her head as a whimper rose in the base of her throat. To die in this humid hole, where no one might find her, was too much to bear.
Monica’s thoughts galloped on, each one more frightening than the one before. Would anybody actually care? For the last few years she had worked so hard in her career, walking over her friends to gain promotion. Had her well-paid job been worth abandoning them all for? Now, when death was near, the answer was loud and clear. No amount of designer jewellery or trendy clothes could comfort her. She thought of her husband, Adam. He would probably be relieved when she didn’t come home. She had done nothing but nag him in the last few years, always pushing for a better promotion and a bigger house. Her sniffles echoed in the darkness. What was she doing, reflecting on her life when she should be trying to escape? She was used to thinking on her feet; surely she could work a way out of this? But without the power of speech, just how was she going to reason with her captor? If only she could persuade her that she had been wrong about turning her away; perhaps then she stood a chance. Maybe Lucy was just trying to frighten some sense into her. But somehow Monica doubted that very much. The muffled sounds of the television droned, chilling her senses.
She could smell her own sweat, brought on by the fear of her captor being so close. But without her she could be left to rot, starving to death in this blackened tomb. A feeling of dread bore down on her as footsteps clip clopped overhead. After what felt like a lifetime, the basement door opened, flooding the stairs with light. But the footsteps this time seemed lighter than before, and the voice several octaves higher. Monica’s heart accelerated as the voice carried down to her. ‘La la la… ’ it sang as the figure descended the stairs. This was not the little girl Lucy spoke about. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Monica clenched her fists in preparation for what lay ahead. The Christmas tree lights flicked on, and she strained her eyes to see the person before her – gasping in realisation.
There stood an adult-sized girl: a smiling blue-eyed monster with blonde ringlets in her hair. She was holding something square. A music box. The fairy lights flickered: off, on, off, on, casting her white teeth in an eerie green and red hue. Another wave of sickness claimed Monica as she tried to comprehend the situation. There was no little girl coming to save her; it was the same crazed woman, dressed as a child. Monica’s eyes fell on the old-fashioned dress, dark tights and lace-up boots, and all hope fell away.
‘Surprise! It’s me!’ Lucy exclaimed, placing the music box gently on the shelf.
Monica’s stomach dry-heaved. She tried to respond, but all that came out was a series of grunts. Confusion overtook her. Just what was going on? Her throat felt dry and arid, and her stomach clenched in fear.
‘It’s okay, don’t be scared,’ Lucy said, in a childish voice. ‘We haven’t started yet. Do you know what you have to do?’
Monica responded by shrugging her shoulders. If only she could get off this damned gag.
Lucy giggled. It was an ugly laugh. ‘You are a pretty mummy,’ she said, making Monica flinch as she stopped to stroke her hair. ‘I like you. I think you are the prettiest mummy of all.’
Monica’s breath was coming fast. A wave of dizziness overcame her as the blackness called. She closed her eyes, praying for an end to her misery.
‘No, no, no, Mummy, you mustn’t fall asleep. We haven’t started yet. Remember what I said about saying the right thing?’
Bony fingers pulled on the tightly wound knot at the back of her gag. Slowly she unwrapped the filthy material, allowing Monica to spit and cough while gulping in mouthfuls of air. Monica licked her dry crusted lips, turning her eyes mournfully up to her captor. ‘Water,’ she croaked. If she could distract her long enough to go and get a drink, then perhaps she could scream for help while the basement door was open. If nothing else, it would buy her some time.
But Lucy was not that easily convinced and simply shook her head. ‘I’m not allowed to use the tap,’ she said. ‘Now, do you know what you have to do?’
‘Please, I’m not well. I… I need a drink.’ Monica swallowed back her spit, trying to ease her scratchy throat.
But Lucy was skipping round and round the chair, making her dizzy.
‘What’s your name? Your real name?’ Monica croaked, trying to appease her.
Lucy frowned, halting mid skip, and Monica wished she could take back the words. Whatever she had said had clearly annoyed her. She grimaced as Lucy stepped forward and slapped her hard on the face. The sharp sting brought Monica back to her senses, and if nothing else, at least she was seeing straight now.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Please just tell me what I need to do. I just want to go home.’
‘You should know my name if you’re my mummy. So that’s very naughty indeed. Do you like my tree?’ she said, her mood changing in a split second. ‘It’s Christmas tomorrow; it’s going to be the most wonderful day. There’s going to be food and cake and lots of nice toys; we’re going to play music together and dance… won’t that be wonderful?’
‘Yes.’ Monica nodded her head. ‘Wonderful.’ The words fell like a stone from her lips.
‘Tomorrow you can say the words and we can be together for ever because then you’re my real mummy and we can have the most wonderful time and you will love me for ever and ever and nobody will ever hurt me again.’ Lucy did not pause for breath as the words spilled from her lips. ‘But now you must go to sleep because it’s Christmas Eve and Santa will be here soon.’
The thoughts of the gag going back on her mouth struck another spear of fear into Monica’s heart. She shook her head wildly, each movement returning intense pain to the base of her skull. ‘Please no, not the gag, please. Tell me what I have to say and I’ll do it now. Tell me. Please don’t put that on me again, please.’
‘If you’re my real mummy you know just what to say. Now keep steady or I’ll slap you,’ Lucy said sharply, grappling to keep Monica’s head still.
But Monica didn’t want to keep still; she wanted to get away. Plunging her teeth into Lucy’s wrist, she bit down hard. With one final twist of her sweat-laced wrists, she managed to twist the rope enough to pull her right hand free. Grasping Lucy’s blonde ringlets she recoiled in horror as the wig came loose in her hand. Her pause cost her dearly. Lucy reached behind her and launched an object towards her head. With a terrifying finality, everything went black.