Monday
Night
Ashley was having trouble opening her eyes. She knew she was conscious but everything felt heavy and fuzzy. It reminded her of when she was eleven and tore a ligament in her ankle while surfing; she had to have surgery and they'd put her under. When she woke up, she'd had this same feeling, as if she were waking not just from sleep but almost from death.
How long had she been lying there?
Her head already hurt. There was no individual source of the pain. It throbbed all over, so much so that she feared the act of moving would make it worse.
Despite her anxiety about the pain it might cause, Ashley decided it was time to open her eyes.
It was pitch-black. She could see nothing.
And that's when the fear started to hit her. This wasn't a hospital.
Where am I?
She imagined it was what one might feel after being roofied. That set off another spasm of fear.
How did I get to this place? Why can't I remember anything?
She tried to control the terror she felt starting to grip her. She reminded herself of how she handled it when a really huge wave knocked her off her surfboard and forced her down toward the ocean floor. Freaking out did her no good. She couldn't outfight a wave. She had to stay calm and wait it out. She had to feel the fear but let it pass through her so she could take action when the wave passed.
She forced herself to do the same here. She couldn't see and she couldn't remember, but that didn't mean she was helpless. She decided to try to sit up.
She pushed up on her elbows until she was sitting upright, ignoring the jackhammer in her head. After it subsided slightly, she checked herself in the darkness. She was still wearing her top and skirt. Her bra and panties weren't missing but her shoes were. She was on a thin mattress, her bare feet resting on the scratchy wooden floor. Other than the general aching and headache she didn't think she had any injuries.
Her right ear felt funny. She reached up and realized that her earring was missing and her lobe was throbbing. Her left earring was still there.
She reached out to get some sense of her surroundings. The floor was definitely wood but there was something weird about it she couldn't place. She continued to feel around until her fingers bumped into a wall at the head of the mattress. To her surprise, it was metal. She rapped her knuckle on it. Even though it was thick, the noise echoed throughout.
She used the wall to brace herself as she stood up and ran her fingers along it, taking tiny, careful steps. After a moment it became clear that the wall was curved. She followed it around in a circle until her feet bumped into the mattress again. She was in some kind of cylindrical room. It was hard to gauge the size of it but she guessed it was about as big as a two-car garage.
She sat back down on the mattress and was surprised by the sound it made. She stomped her foot on the wooden flooring and realized what had seemed odd about it before: it felt hollow below, like she was on a patio deck.
Ashley sat quietly for a minute, trying to force a memory, any memory, to return to her throbbing head. She could feel the fear beginning to take hold again.
What is this place? How did I get here? Why can't I remember anything?
"Hello!"
A quick echo spit back at her, suggesting a closed structure with a tall ceiling. No one answered.
"Is anybody there?"
Not a sound came.
Her thoughts turned to her parents. Were they looking for her? Had she been gone long enough to make them worry? Would her dad even notice she was gone?
Tears came to her eyes. She angrily wiped them away with the back of her hand. Senator Stafford Penn didn't like crybabies.
"Mom!" she yelled, hearing the panic rise in her voice. "Mom, help me!"
Her throat felt like sandpaper. How long had it been since she drank anything? How long had she been here?
She crawled around on the floor, feeling for anything other than the mattress. To her surprise, her hand bumped into a plastic bin in the center of the room. She got the top off and felt around inside. There were several plastic bottles, various containers, and…a flashlight?
Yes!
Ashley turned it on and the room sprang to life. Almost immediately, she realized it wasn't actually a room. She was in some kind of silo, up near the top where the ceiling funneled to a point ten feet above her head. In the plastic bin were bottles of water, some soup, peanut butter, jerky, toilet paper, and a loaf of bread. Next to the bin was a plastic bucket. She could guess what that was for.
She shined the light along the walls, hoping against hope there might be a door. Nothing. What got her attention, though, was all the writing on the walls.
She moved toward the nearest one, written in black magic marker.
I'm Brenda Walker. I died here July 2016. Tell my mother and father and my sister Hanna that I will always love them.
A phone number followed. It had an 818 area code-the San Fernando Valley.
Jesus!
Ashley moved the light along the walls. There were other messages in different handwriting. Some were short and to the point like Brenda's. Others were long and rambling, seemingly written over a period of days. There were at least a dozen different names, and their messages literally covered the walls.
Ashley felt herself starting to hyperventilate. Her knees wobbled and she dropped to the floor, grabbing the edges of the bin to steady herself. The flashlight fell on top of the loaf of bread. She closed her eyes tight and breathed slowly in and out, trying to force the messages on the wall out of her head.
After a minute she opened her eyes again and glanced back at the bin. The flashlight had rolled off the bread and was lying on the bottom, next to some peanut butter.
A lot of good that will do me, considering I'm allergic to the stuff.
She picked up the flashlight and gave the container of peanut butter a useless whack. As it shifted position in the bin, she saw something underneath it that she'd missed before. She leaned in, looking more closely. It was a thick black permanent magic marker.
And that's when Ashley began to scream.
