The Knox
Who dares enter on this sacred night?
There is an intruder in the mix. An imposter. Someone who accessed my back entrance and then descended into the cellar. One who clearly possesses knowledge of the connection between my building and the servants’ quarters. One who wishes to remain unseen, in the shadows, wearing the mask and cape.
But there is no such thing as anonymity here.
The intruder shall remain locked in the cellar for the foreseeable future. The members will eventually chance upon the intruder—or they will not. Starvation is a painfully long, drawn-out death.
It is not the first time an outsider has attempted to breach initiation. Every few decades or so, there is a reckless individual who must be taught a lesson.
Word of mouth of their demise is an excellent future deterrent.
There shall be no interferences, nothing to hinder the initiation ceremony. It is underway as I speak. The procession hasadvanced from the parlor down to the basement, a convoy marching in time to an ancient Chinese drum.
The first scroll is being unraveled, the Bowels. Soon enough, prospective members shall perform the Sacrifice and await their membership fate.
The ammonia-tinged vapors of opium have already begun to permeate the air throughout my building, and I embrace them like a long-lost friend. Finally, the basement room has reverted to its original heathen intent.
Everything is exactly how it should be.
Vivian
There’s a vibration coming from somewhere within the walls. A slow, steady drumming. It repeats over and over, ominously. Vivian can sense it in her own body, tiny tremors that reverberate. She tries to sit up—but she cannot. She cannot move. She feels soupy; she must be drugged.
The thrum grows louder, as if it’s coming her way.
From:Tara Doyle
To:Elaine J. Simmons
Dear Professor Simmons,
It’s Tara Doyle. I don’t know if you remember meeting me, but you are my nursing student advisor. I am reaching out because the clinical rotation that I had arranged for with the private physician will soon no longer be available to me. So we need to discuss finding a new clinical rotation. Also, I will need to take an upcoming semester off for personal reasons. So I need to talk with you about that too. Thank you and I look forward to hearing from you.
Best,
Tara
Taylor
Taylor abruptly rips off her mask.
Is this what it’s come to? Locked in a dark basement stairwell until help arrives?Ifhelp arrives?
Her heart hammers so wildly she’s finding it difficult to breathe. There’s no telling when Sam will see the note, she suddenly realizes. He’s been recovering with a nasty respiratory virus since his casino binge. He’s likely fast asleep and won’t wake up for hours.
What if it’s too late by then?
Taylor tries to even out her breathing, the ragged inhales and halting exhales. She needs to remain calm. Think, Taylor, think!
She pulls out her iPhone and shines the camera flashlight around. She spots a wall light switch. Thank God. As Taylor flicks it on, the space becomes immediately illuminated like a harshly lit hospital room. She winces and attempts the door handle one final time, but no luck.
Okay, plan B. She swivels around, taking in the unfinished basement that presents itself below. There are four water heaters, multiple water and electrical lines running along the walls andceilings. She spies a door at the far end of the basement and relief surges through her. It’s the exit. Or entrance. Whatever you want to call it—it’s a fucking way out.
Given the direction, it must be the entrance to the servants’ quarters. Perfect.
She’ll snake through this basement space, go through the servants’ quarters, leave fromtheirfront door, and retry the Knox—if her courage continues. Ithasto continue. She has to see this through.
