Mike woke slowly, becoming aware of one unpleasant detail at a time while his groggy mind fought to become alert. First it was his stomach: a solid ball of nausea seemed to hang suspended somewhere beneath his belly button. Then it was the dull stinging in his head, a familiar hangover gripping his skull with cold steel talons. The last thing he noticed, the detail that finally gave him the gumption to move, was how he was laying down. He was flopped haphazardly against a cold, unpainted cinder block wall, his spine bent at an awkward angle and his hip on the verge of dislocating. He slowly shifted, fighting the soreness in his joints and the unpleasant swimming sensation in his head.
Once he slid down flat onto the floor it wasn't too bad. Wherever Mike had passed out was a small room, a closet maybe, and wasn't big enough for him to fully lay down flat unless he shifted diagonally between the corners, and even then he had to pick which leg got to fully extend. He drifted back into sleep without realizing it, waking more permanently when his sleeping mind began to wonder where exactly he was.
And once he came to full, conscious awareness of the internal question he slowly opened his eyes, looking about the small room with confusion. Four plain concrete brick walls stood surprisingly tall, a single light bulb hanging from a cord in the middle, slightly too high for him to reach if he were standing. There wasn’t a cord to pull to turn it on, and he couldn’t see any light switch anywhere. There was, however, an outdated security camera mounted high on one of the walls, pointed almost straight down. The single door seemed to be a heavy prison door, with a barred window that could presumably be slid open from the outside. There was a small shelf and a slat about halfway down the door, making Mike’s stomach lurch as he realized he may be in danger. He stumbled to his feet with some difficulty, realizing he was far more hung over than he first thought. He reached the door and tried the doorknob, finding it securely locked. The handle didn’t even jiggle all that much.
“Help!” he cried, banging on the door with as much strength as he could with his weary joints. “Help me!” His stomach lurched as he tried to yell, and he collapsed to his knees, spewing bile onto the door and his legs. He barely registered a flurry of activity on the other side of the door, followed by a series of voices.
“Hey, the new guy is up. Somebody get Father!” A raspy, slightly monotone voice cut through his swirling head, the speaker’s voice clear enough that she must have been directly on the other side of the door. “Hey, new guy, take it easy, alright?”
“You can’t tell him that, he’ll just freak out more.” Another voice, a smooth male timbre at a deep, reassuring pitch. “Hey, guy, just stay still for a while. You got roofied, so you’re gonna feel sick for a few hours yet.” Something about that voice was authoritative in a way that made Mike want to listen just because, but Mike hadn’t had enough answers to calm down just yet.
“Where the fuck am I?” He spat, sounding meaner than he intended.
Another voice, this one nasal and stuffy as though the speaker’s sinuses were inflamed, chimed in. “There’s gonna be plenty of time for freaking out later. Just chill, bro. The answer won’t make you freak out less.”
“Lorenzo!” The first voice chided, and Mike heard a soft smack. “That’s mean.”
“No,” the second speaker interjected. “It’s true.” Mike watched the flap on the door flip open suddenly with a metallic squeak, revealing a slightly gaunt but otherwise sturdy face pockmarked with scars, a few day’s worth of facial hair on his chin and a dull glaze over his sunken eyes. The man spoke to Mike again, his face an unreadable mask of indifference. “For real, just chill for a bit, we’ll get you some water and some food or something, and then you'll probably be let out of your cell.”
Mike closed his eyes and stretched back out slowly, trying to let his sore joints rest as best as they could. The floor was covered in some sort of too-soft cushion at least, giving a little bit of comfort from the cold, unforgivingly hard floor. He didn't remember dozing off, but when he came to again he saw a small tray on the door shelf, a plastic bottle of water and a few slices of white sandwich bread placed atop. Mike ate, finding the bread and water did something to help his queasy stomach, and when he finally decided he was sturdy enough to stand properly he rose to his feet.
“Hello?” He called out, knocking on his cell door. “I’d like to come out now.” He said, slightly awkwardly.
“Micheal Ward, age 23, part time barista. Interests include video games, fantasy books, and meaningless arguments on the internet.” A voice spoke over some sort of intercom, blaring out from directly over his head. “Good morning! You had yourself a nice nap and a good, nutritious breakfast, so how about some talking?”
Mike blinked incredulously, looking up at the camera. He could almost imagine a set of eyes behind the glass lens watching him. “Uh, what the fuck?”
“Language!” The voice said sternly. It sounded male, tenor and slightly raspy, with just enough of a nasal sneer to set Mike on edge. “Use that word again and I’ll punish you.”
Mike could hear shuffling on the other side of the door, but nobody spoke.
“Punish me?” he asked slowly. He was beginning to panic again, looking around the small room for… well, anything that might help guarantee a shred of safety.
“The punishment for cussing isn't as bad as for breaking some other rules, but you still won’t like it. We don’t cuss in this family. We talk respectfully.”
“For the love of god, just go along with it,” A female voice said from beyond the door.
“Okay, I won’t swear.” Mike raised his hands, baring his palms in surrender. “I’m sorry.”
There was a moment of silence before the speaker continued again, as though nothing had occurred to offend him. “You may call me Father, or any similar term. I am the head of household. Your brothers and sisters will teach you how we live in this house, but here are the rules that must be obeyed.
“Rule number one: wake up, do your chores, shower, and go to bed on time. Your siblings will teach you how to perform your tasks. Rule number two: follow the Ten Commandments. If you don’t know them, they’re on the dining room wall. Learn them. Rule number three: sleep is only to be done in your cell, washing and shaving are only to be done in the bathroom, and you make no noise after light’s out.”
Mike felt his skin prickle and chill. “You mean I'm stuck here?’ He asked, panic rising in his voice.
“You’re not stuck anywhere,” Father said, and Mike heard the doorknob click ominously. “You’re home.”
—
Ruth wrung her hands together, her legs bouncing rapidly and her shoulders hunched forward. She didn’t like when things got violent, and unfortunately every new man who’d arrived put up some sort of physical fight after meeting Father. More often than not, her or her “siblings” would have to step in to prevent the newbie from hurting themselves or someone else, and once again this had proved to be necessary. Luke had ended up physically restraining Mike as he’d attempted to wildly fight anything that moved, eventually tying Mike to an old pipe, and was now doing the hard work of explaining what the rest of his life would look like. People in “the House” almost always never left, though more than a few had died. Ruth had watched a rotating host of people, all between the ages of 18 and 30, suddenly appear in one of the many small cells in the House, a cell that would be their bedroom. They’d be assigned chores, adjust to some extent to life in the House, and usually die at the hands of Father for real or imagined rule breaking. Ruth had been here the longest of anyone here, having outlived all who had come before her.
The House was, as far as Ruth could tell, some form of heavily remodeled warehouse. It must have been constructed over a long time, and with great difficulty, for Ruth had never seen someone successfully physically escape despite many attempts. All who had attempted had been ruthlessly executed in front of the “family.” It would be reasonable to expect to live a decent, enriching life in the House: there was technically a comfortable enough place to sleep, a stock of fresh groceries supplied by Father, an old CRTV with a VCR and a large shelf full of VHS tapes, a pool table, a small gym, an indoor garden with UV lamps for growing, two bathrooms with locker room style showers, and a number of old board games and even a few books sitting on shelves. Unfortunately, Father made peaceful life impossible in many ways.
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Ruth brought a hand to her forehead where Mike had struck her with his plastic lunch tray, a small bump forming beneath her eyebrow. She really couldn’t blame Mike for freaking out so bad, but that didn’t stop her from saying a small prayer to himself that God, should it be in his great plan, make boys just a little less prone to violence. She could hear Luke talking to Mike in the next room, his soft baritone as comforting as it was authoritative. Ruth did her best to keep everyone in the House as happy and calm as she could, and her skill as a natural homemaker did wonders to this end, but Luke had what Ruth simply did not. Ruth could comfort and heal the hurt with the best of them, but Luke’s straightforward refusal to sugarcoat things Ruth couldn’t bring herself to say plainly was a great help in times like these. She stilled her breathing, listening calmly to the soft baritone that somehow softened the blow of losing one’s old life forever better than Ruth could. She made out the words “best of it” and “not all that bad,” and gathered Luke must be making some sort of progress.
“New guy’s probably dead in a week,” said a voice behind Ruth suddenly, causing her to jump half a foot into the air. She spun around to find Lorenzo standing behind her, tissues stuffed into his nostrils and giving the impression of a great white moustache. Last time Father had seen fit to punish one of them, he’d left Lorenzo with a broken nose. Ruth had set it and tended to it as best she could, but it was still rather crooked and prone to bleeding. “If he fights like that? He’s gonna try and attack Father and get what’s coming to him.”
“Lorenzo…” Ruth said softly, reaching a hand out to gently lay on Lorenzo’s bicep. Lorenzo had an easily bruised pride, and it broke her heart that Lorenzo chose to view Father as an adversary he could never conceivably win against. Ruth preferred a more gentle but less realistic image for their captor, but it didn't help her to sleep any better at night. “It could be good having someone new around! Maybe this one wont end up like…”
“Drop it.” Lorenzo said, his voice souring. “You should go check on Fresh Meat, he could use your shrink mumbo-jumbo more than me.” The tall man stalked away, dejected.
—-
Mike found it easier than he expected adjusting to life in The House. He was extremely careful to follow the rules closely, one of many pieces of advice Luke had given him while tied up, and settled into a routine within a couple days. He’d wake presumably in the morning, early enough to prevent him from getting adequate sleep, and after dressing in the uniform white t-shirt and navy sweatpants Father supplied them all with he’d spend four or five hours tending the garden with a number of his “siblings,” tending the plants shoulder to shoulder with a group that seemed uneager to talk too much. There was Lorenzo, the tall, dark-haired man with the broken nose who seemed agitated at Mike’s proximity, Clarke, the oldest in the group who seemed slightly more relaxed and at ease around the plants, and Jenny, a thin young woman who kept her hair in a tight bun at the base of her neck. Jenny was the one to show Mike what to do in the garden, her soft bright voice seeming to brighten the room just as much as the UV lamps pumping heat and light into the room. She made small talk occasionally with all three of them, and though Clarke and Lorenzo never seemed to want to talk to Mike they always responded politely, if curtly, to Jenny’s chatter.
After finishing in the garden, Mike would join all of his siblings in the large mess hall for lunch. Ruth, a kind woman with wide hips and a wider cascade of tight red curls, did all the cooking, and she managed to make meals feel close enough to home cooking to soothe the nerves of long hours working in eerie silence. By Mike’s count, there were fifteen “siblings,” of which he was on the younger side. Only Jenny it seemed was younger than him. They all cleaned up after the meal, and then seemingly were free to spend their time as they wished. Mike tried working out the first few days, but found Lorenzo’s constant presence in the small gym too overbearing for him to work out comfortably. Instead he turned his attention to the few books he’d spotted around, and he soon found himself attempting to memorize a tractor supply catalogue for entertainment.
Luke, the man who’d first spoken to him the day he’d woken up and subsequently bound and gagged him to talk some sense into him, was a comforting presence. Luke seemed able to maintain a carefree, laid-back energy that calmed the nerves. They didn’t speak much at all, just little small talk here and there, but Mike noticed over time Luke always made an effort to exchange words with Mike sometime between lunch and dinner, and he appreciated the effort despite not knowing what to make of it.
Dinner was a grander affair than lunch, with a few siblings helping Ruth do the cooking for a more robust meal. After dinner the siblings collectively had one hour to clean up after the meal, shower (and shave if necessary), and report to the main living room for “family time.” Father would usually instruct one of the siblings which VHS tape to place in the VCR, and the siblings would be made to watch a movie together, piled onto the two old sofas and sitting on the floor. It would have been nice, were it not for Father’s occasional sudden barked orders through the speakers to “sit up straight,” or “keep your eyes on the screen.”. Of course, these corrections and demands were liable to come at any time of day, but they seemed oddly imposing when Mike watched his "siblings" all follow each command with no hesitation. It was a nerve wracking experience that ultimately left Mike going to bed with an unease that lasted deep into his sleepless night
He would then wake, still nervous from the night before, and prepare for another day.
The days were melding together, and Mike had honestly lost track of how long he’d been here when Ruth made a special announcement during lunch one day. “Alright everyone, if we can put our forks down for a second,” Ruth said kindly, rising from her chair and standing atop it like a conductor at the podium. “Today, if you didn’t know, is Mike’s one month anniversary with us! Yayyyyy!” She clapped merrily alongside her lighthearted cheer, a couple people joining in-Luke included. “And I thought it would be fun-”
“But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence,” Father said suddenly, cutting Ruth off. Ruth lowered her face, shielding it behind her curly red hair as she sat back down and folded her hands dejectedly in her lap.
Father continued. “Today isn’t about Mike, you stupid whore. Today is about Clarke.”
Heads turned en masse to look at Clarke, the oldest man in the room looking about in surprise and confusion.
“You might not know this, but today is Clarke’s thirty-first birthday. Hooray!” A smattering of canned applause played over the intercom, and a puff of cheap plastic confetti burped pathetically out of one of the air vents. “And I’ve got a very special present for you, Clarke. You’re old enough now to come live with Father.”
Clarke blanched, looking around nervously. “Live with you?” he asked quietly, the last word barely leaving his mouth before there was a loud clang from somewhere above and the lights suddenly turned out, leaving the group in pitch darkness.
“Everybody stay where you are!” Luke called out with a deep, authoritative voice. “Nobody move, we don't need anyone getting hurt stumbling around. Ruth, do we have any candles or anything in the kitchen that could produce light?”
“No, everything is electric,” Ruth responded softly.
“No matter. Who’s near a wall?”
“I am,” Jenny’s voice rang out softly like a bell.
“Great. Can you feel your way around the wall to the door?” Luke asked, his voice calm but filled with a stern confidence that put Mike somewhat at ease.
“Yeah, yeah I can do that…” Jenny said quietly. Mike listened with baited breath as Jenny’s footfalls slowly crept toward the singular door on the far side of the room. The door shook slightly, then Jenny spoke again. “Locked.”
“What’s that smell?” Lorenzo asked, panic evident in his voice.
Mike noticed once Clarke had pointed it out: the room smelled sweet. Sickly sweet.
“No, nononononono!” Clarke began to say, a chair screeching as it slid somewhere and several panicked footfalls. “No, no! I’ve been good! I don’t need punishing!”
“This isn't punishment,” Father said over the intercom, his voice disquietingly serene. “Think of it as ascending.”
Mike’s eyelids were beginning to grow heavy, and he began to feel panic well up inside him as well. “What’s going on?” He asked, surprised to hear his own voice sounding so groggy. Clarke's panicked words continued in the background, but Mike was having a hard time focusing on them.
“Sleeping gas, Father uses it when… he…” Luke said, clearly nodding off. Mike didn’t last long after.
When Mike awoke again, he was in his cell, dumped haphazardly onto the shitty cushion that took up the whole floor. He slowly rose to his feet, thankfully feeling less physically sick than the last time he’d regained consciousness inside this room, and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. He swung the door open, stepping into the large hall that connected all of the cells. The lights were on, and Mike saw with a start that a message was scrawled in deep, flaky brown across some of the doors.
“THE BROTHER HAS JOINED THE FATHER”
Mike blanched. Whatever that was, it certainly couldn't be a good thing. “Uh, Luke? Luke!?” Mike called out, intense panic creeping into his voice. “Luke, something happened, I think!”
Luke emerged from his cell, his face dropping and his fists clenching as he read the message written in now-dried blood. “Try, uh, try not to freak out too much, Mike. Things like this happen here, just… maybe stay back for a bit.”
—
Luke knew Clarke was dead as soon as he saw the blood on the wall. Father always left some sort of calling card when he eliminated one of his “children,” alongside their body (or a part of it), but a message written in blood was new.
When Mike stepped forward alongside him, Luke straightened out and put his hand out firmly to keep Mike back. “Look, dude, I’m for real right now, stop.” He said, keeping his voice down but his tone firm. “Whatever this is is bad, and if you freak out you’re probably gonna wake everyone else up freaking out, and they’ll freak out at the horrible thing I haven't even seen yet.” Luke resented having made a living as a bouncer, the ability to speak with authority helped him in many circumstances but also made people look up to him as though he actually HAD authority. Making Mike stay back was ultimately the right call, but it further cemented his position as a de-facto leader among the Siblings, something Luke neither asked for or wanted. “Can I at least take a look and start thinking about what I’m gonna say to everyone before we wake them up please?”
Mike stepped back, raising his hands in surrender, and Luke quietly stepped up to Clarke’s cell door. He couldn’t slide the window open-that would make too much noise, but he could peer though the flap. He kneeled down and lifted the flap slowly, trying to minimize the sound the metal sheet made in it’s hinges, and squinted as he examined the dark shapes within.
A jumble of human bones, slightly pink and cleaned by some chemical process, lay in a jumble in the middle of the room. The skull, presumably Clarke’s, had rolled off of the pile and settled facing the slot upside-down, the void within the eye sockets starting back at Luke accusingly. Luke slowly let the flap fall and sighed, lowering his head in silent, faithless prayer. He looked at Mike sadly. “Um, go to the kitchen and see if there’s any black trash bags. Probably bring a bunch. Probably… probably take your time about it, you never have much chance to grieve around here.” He said with a soft sorrow in his voice. He watched as Mike wordlessly followed his request, dragging his feet against the smooth concrete floor, then knocked on another cell door softly to wake up Ruth. If all of this was any indication, Father was getting worse.
