"Lead the way."
"So, my wife said that she's going to leave, right? I told her there isn't a goddamn inch that exists in this world where she could hide, and I couldn't find her." He finishes his statement with a huff and shake of his head, boggled that his wife would even try to find a happy life somewhere else.
Somewhere that doesn’t involve eating children for dinner. And whatever else sick shit they do to them in the meantime.
"Women like to run, but they like to be caught even more," I murmur.
He looks at me, a wicked grin curling his lips. "Exactly, man. Too bad the bitch isn't worth chasing. So by the time I catch her, she's going to wish she did find that inch. You know how exhausting it is to be married to someone who doesn't share the same tastes as you? I've tried to initiate her several times, but she refuses. Can you believe that?"
How does someone with a shred of decency even answer that?
You don't.
I shake my head casually, taking a sip of my whiskey. Addie's grandfather has better taste than these old dicklickers.
Glancing at his Rolex, he motions for me to follow as he stands. "It's time. Let’s head on down," Dan says, swallowing the last of his whiskey before setting the empty crystal glass on the table. He turns and checks out a passing stripper, his eyes leering on her exposed backside.
"And when we're done, I'm going to take a bite out of that one next. These initiations always get me in the mood."
The whiskey in my stomach sours.
Swallowing down what I really want to say, I motion for him to lead. He saunters towards the hallway where the moans are emanating from. Steeling my spine, I follow after him.
We enter through a hallway riddled with doors on either side. The moans escalate, but now that I’m closer, I hear the notes of fear and pain laced in them. Cracks of whips, flesh hitting flesh, and the loud grunts of men accompany the moans.
Fuck. Think of the child lying on a stone altar somewhere. They need me more.
At the end of the hallway is a black marble door. Dan wraps his fist around the knob and pauses before peering back at me, his lips curled with excitement.
“You ready?”
“Considering I was teased last night, I’m more than ready.”
Dan flashes a malicious smirk before opening the door. I'm met with a dark hallway, scarcely lit by dim LED lighting on either side of the floor.
The hallway is long and almost feels never-ending. And it seems the further we walk, the narrower it grows. But it's just my mind playing tricks on me.
At the end is another marble door. I glance back and notice we were going down a subtle incline, where I see a small group of men coming down the hallway in the distance.
Dan opens the door, and we're greeted by a room full of people. The black marble extends into the room, but the walls are rock. On either side are long rows of familiar black robes I've seen in the last few videos. The people gathered in here are speaking in low tones, slipping on the oversized robes.
My heart pounds, almost in disbelief that I'm finally here. The moment I've been working towards for so long.
It's surreal.
"Grab one," Dan orders, his tone serious. Without a word, I unhook a robe and slip it on. The material is silky smooth, but it feels like I'm wrapping myself in wool. Despite my large stature, the material still hangs past my feet and hands.
"This another newcomer?" a nasally voice asks from my left. I turn to see a weasel of a man standing next to me. He's at least a good three feet shorter than I am, with a receding hairline, a hooked nose, and round glasses.
"I am," I answer cryptically. "And you are?"
The man smiles nervously. "Also a newcomer. My name is Larry Verenich."
"Zack," I offer.
Several robed figures start pouring out of the room through another black door straight ahead.
"Let's go," Dan says, nodding his head towards the group.
As I approach the door, a low hum gathers at the base of my neck, causing the hairs to rise. The room is just like I've seen in the videos. It’s like walking into an underground cave, only instead of moisture in the air, it's dry and heavy. The dark space is lit by hundreds of candles lining the rock walls. But the small flames are no match for the oppressing shadows.
We're on a rounded platform, a simple black rail as a barrier to about a forty-foot drop. In the center of the room is a stone altar, a wriggling little girl on top of it. Black straps circle her tiny wrists and ankles, keeping her in place.
She can’t be more than six or seven years old.
The hum grows louder until it sounds like it's coming from inside my own head. My hands clench beneath the fabric, and I'm only thankful that the sleeves are long enough to hide my reaction.