Savannah awoke to the sound of a faucet dripping somewhere over her head. She felt groggy and her mouth was dry. Couldn’t quite remember where she was, and the thick darkness offered no clues.
Her butt was numb. She tried to shift around in the wooden chair she found herself sitting in. Frowned as she realized that she could hardly move. Fingers tingling, mind foggy. She felt drugged, detached from her body, like she was floating above her own head, looking down on herself below.
She took a deep, worried breath, and as the smell of the cellar rushed into her lungs—rank, like damp soil—her heart sank. She remembered where she was. A ninety-pound dumbbell bound to her ankles had kept her prisoner to this chair for what felt like weeks, submerged in the complete darkness of this basement, flitting between terrible dreams and this cold, stale reality.
But something had changed since she’d last been awake. Her face. The skin on her face was burning, like she’d had a harsh chemical peel.
Savannah reached a finger to her cheek to inspect the burns and recoiled in pain.
She gritted her teeth as she lightly brushed her face to inspect the damage. Unfamiliar grooves ran down her cold cheeks, over her forehead and chin. She bit her lip and shuddered as she traced the fresh lines with her fingertips, trying to figure out what had happened to her. She imagined her face looked like the surface of some lonely moon, covered in deep canals and craters.
She dropped her hand as a door slammed somewhere off in the distance—from the same direction as the faucet? Heavy footsteps clomped down stairs, then the door to the cellar groaned open, the ancient hinges protesting the intrusion.
“What happened to my face?” Savannah asked as her captor slammed the door closed. She was surprised at how weak and grainy her voice sounded. Her captor ignored her, was fiddling with what sounded like tools in a plastic bag. “Wait,” Savannah realized. “Did you turn on a light? I can’t see you. I can’t see anything. I can’t see.”
“I know.” A deep, rumbling voice from across the room that reminded Savannah of a lawn mower engine.
“I’m also very thirsty,” Savannah said, her voice sounding small and pathetic coming from her parched lips.
Her captor dropped something on what sounded like a tabletop. Clanking of metal on metal. More ruffling of what Savannah definitely recognized as plastic grocery bags. Heavy breathing.
“Can I please have something to drink?” Savannah said.
Her captor ignored her again, now occupied with what sounded like a socket wrench. A pipe gurgled over her head. This was the first time this person had lingered here, done anything but drop food or water on her lap. The first time that she recalled, anyways; it felt like her memories were buried in the bottom of a deep well, and every time she tried to summon one, the bucket came up empty.
“Are you feeling totally awake? Alert?” her captor finally asked.
“I . . . guess.”
It sounded like items were being taken out of the plastic bag and dropped onto the tabletop. A cold draft from somewhere ran through her hair. Clicking, and the sound of metal on metal—a gun?
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Yes.”
Savannah was surprised to find that this answer brought neither fear nor relief. It was simply a procedural footnote in the saga that had been the last few weeks—or months?
“Today?”
“In just a few moments.”
“What did you do to my face?”
No response. She settled deeper into the damp wooden chair that she could hardly even feel beneath her anymore. She’d long since given up any hope of moving the dumbbell. Her captor muttered something that Savannah couldn’t make out, then stepped close to her. She could feel warm, stale breath on her lacerated cheeks. She struggled to remember what this person looked like, wasn’t sure if she’d ever actually seen their face.
“Okay.”
There was an unmistakable anticipation in the voice today. Until now it had always been bland, cold, methodical: Here is your water. Here is your food. But today her captor sounded almost nervous.
“I need you to listen very closely to my instructions. If you don’t pay attention, this will all be for nothing.”
Savannah bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
More heavy breathing. Her captor’s breath smelled not unpleasant. Like cinnamon gum.
“I was able to locate your sister.”
Savannah’s heart fluttered to life for the first time in ages.
“I don’t have a sister.” The listless lie left her dry throat quivering.
“Her name is Greta. She lives in Manhattan. In a studio on 86th and Amsterdam. She is a financial analyst for a large bank and owns a German shepherd.”
Savannah couldn’t contain her whimper. The helplessness she’d felt the first days of her captivity—before she’d resigned herself to her fate—returned. She raised a weak hand in an attempt to slap or grasp the captor she couldn’t see, but caught only air.
“Please don’t hurt her,” she gasped.
“I won’t touch her if you follow my instructions. Do you agree to follow my instructions?”
Savannah inhaled sharply. “Yes.”
“Do you swear to do exactly as I say?”
Savannah lowered her head. “Yes. I swear.”
“Good.”
Something shuffled near her feet, and again she heard the crinkle of a plastic bag. A wet sound of smacking lips right next to her ear, then a tender whisper:
“When a person dies, their soul departs their body instantly. At the moment their heart stops. They are here one moment and gone the next. But that isn’t going to happen to you, Savannah.”
It was the first time she’d ever heard this person say her name. It sickened her. The last syllable hung in the stale air between them for a moment. Her captor was panting in her ear like an expectant dog. The faucet in the distance continued to drip.
“Why isn’t that going to happen to me?” Savannah finally asked.
“Because of what I’ve done.”
A cold hand suddenly brushed the scars on her face. She could sense a sort of affection in the way her captor traced the lines around her eyes, down to her chin. “My guess is you will have three to five minutes in between.”
Savannah’s mouth was dry and sticky.
“I don’t understand.”
“I want to understand where we go after we die. You will die, but you will be tethered, anchored here in physicality. We can only fool them for a few minutes, but that should be more than enough.”
Savannah’s voice cracked.
“Enough for what?”
The voice seemed surprised. “For you to tell me what’s happening.”
She heard some fidgeting as the voice backed away from her ear and moved directly in front of her face. Savannah heard two clicks. “This is a tape recorder. Everything you say while your soul is tethered will be recorded. As soon as you see something, anything, start speaking. Describe it. Describe everything you see in as great a detail possible. This is the most important thing. Do you understand?”
Savannah shifted in her chair.
“Yes.”
“And if you disobey me, if you intend to spite me by keeping silent, by keeping the secret to yourself, then I will find your sister and kill her also.”
Satisfied, her captor rose and shuffled around. Savannah heard what sounded like the clink of glass.
“Please don’t hurt my sister,” she heard herself saying. “If I don’t say anything, it’s not because I’m not cooperating. It’s because, maybe, because it’s not working. Hurting her won’t do any good.”
No reply. The silence deepened as the faucet in the distance was finally turned off.
Her captor again moved in close and said, “I’m ready. Do you understand your instructions?”
“I . . .” Savannah was crying. She felt very strange. “Yes. I understand.”
“Do you have any questions? If you do, please ask. It’s important that you understand.”
“I . . . Will it hurt? Dying?”
Her captor made a sound that was almost like a light chuckle.
A click as the tape recorder was switched on.
“You tell me.”