If I don’t see what’s down there now, I may never know.
I take the first step down and stop on the step. Do I really want to know? My heart is beating so damn fast, I can hardly breath, but I slowly tip toe down the steps and into the basement. It’s dark and there are a lot of boxes. My breathing is making a funny sound. It’s as if it’s soundproofed or something. I look around in a panic. Over to the far left, a pendant antique light is on and hanging above a long bench that runs along the wall. It’s got an industrial vibe down here. Tools and equipment are everywhere, so disorganized and different from the rest of the house. I frown in confusion. What’s going on? This is weird? I make my way over to the bench and I see it. The rolled canvas is on the workbench. I slowly unroll it and see the beautiful oil canvas before I close my eyes in pain.
It is him.
I look around behind me and I see a garbage bin with the dismantled frame. A large chest sits on the floor, and I open it to be greeted with numerous canvases rolled up. I open one and recognize it as one of the stolen artworks.
Oh my God. I put my hands over my mouth as my eyes tear up.
Oh no. Alastar, no. Please let this be a dreadful mistake. There is another chest along side the other one and when I open it, it’s filled with women’s clothing and a jewel box. Jewelry and old photographs of multiple women. Another small box sits inside it and I open it to find letters and different pieces of paper with scribbled notes on them. Whose things are these? Fear starts to speed through me. This doesn’t make sense.
The tears start to run down my face and I angrily swipe them away. What do I do? What do I do? My frantic eyes look everywhere and I notice a desk over in the corner. I squint to try and see properly. What’s over there? I walk over to the desk in the semi-dark and flick the lamp on. My eyes widen.
At least thirty enlarged photographs are pinned onto the wall above the desk. Photographs of tombstones in graveyards with the name Emmaline on them are everywhere, each one colored and in black and white.
Fear grips me and I step back as my adrenaline starts to pump.
Holy fuck.
He has pictures of tombstones with the name that he calls me on them.
Why does he call me Emmaline?
Who is he?
What is he doing?
Goosebumps scatter up my spine. I am in danger. I look to the staircase. I need to get out of here without being seen.
Panic sets in as I realise this room is soundproof. The missing red headed woman from the bar comes to mind. He never called the police that day, there is no way in hell he would bring himself under their spotlight and investigation when he is hiding all of this down here.
He lied to me about that. Why?
Oh my fucking God.
He murders women in here. He must do.
He’s going to kill me.
Run. Run.
“Emmaline?” I hear him call from upstairs and my eyes widen.
Holy fuck!
He can’t trap me down here.
As fast as I can I run to the stairs and take them two at a time. No.
No!
I burst out of the door and into the lounge as he walks into the room. His face drops when he sees where I came from.
The hysterical tears run down my face. “You stole the art?” I scream.
His shoulders slump.
“Alastar. What’s with the tombstones?” I cry.
He steps toward me and I jump back. “Don’t touch me!” I scream hysterically.
He stands silently as he watches me.
“You want to kill me?” I cry.
His face screws up. “What? No!” he yells.
“Whose things are they? Whose clothing is that?”
“Emmaline,” he whispers.
“My name is Emerson. Who is fucking Emmaline?” I scream. “What kind of fucked up sicko are you?”
He doesn’t answer and I stand still, watching him. I’m panting in hysteria.
“I would never hurt you,” he murmurs. “I love you.”
I stand still, too scared to move.
“Explain to my why...” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, and keeps dead still as if he is thinking about what to do.
“If you love me, Alastar, then you will explain to my why?” I sob. Please tell me this is a mistake.
He doesn’t answer as his eyes search mine.
“Whose things are they Alastar?” I scream. Defend yourself! Tell me this is a mistake. “Why is that room soundproofed? What do you do down there?” I cry.
He runs his hands through his hair. “The room was soundproofed before I bought the house.”
“Whose things are they?” I scream. “Why did you steal the art?”
“I can’t tell you.”
I screw up my face. “What?”
I point to the front door as the tears run down my face. “I am walking out that door and I am never coming back unless you tell me what the fuck is going on.”
He steps forward. “Don’t leave me. I love you.”
I screw up my face in pain as I step back in fear. “Alastar,” I whisper.
“I can’t tell you because you will leave me forever.” He holds his hand out for me to take.