Never the Same

Never the Same

D. R. Ratliff

Content warning: Violence, implied rape

I stared at the rocking chair on the porch and wondered if things would ever be the same again. I used to love to come here on holidays when Granny and Grandpa were alive. My brothers and I played football on the lush lawn, waiting for Thanksgiving dinner or outside, showing off our new toys at Christmas. But we’d grown up and had families of our own, and our father and grandparents died years ago and our mother four months ago. No one had been here in a long time—until today.

And nothing would be the same again.

As the oldest and executor of my parents' wills, the disposition of the cabin and land fell to me. I figured a bit of paint, lawn care, and new gravel on the drive would spruce up the place, so I took off this morning to determine what needed to be done. The drive to the lake along the narrow, windy lane brought back many memories. It was a four-hour drive, and Mom would always pack snacks, and we’d play games while Dad would tell us tales of his travels to the cabin as a young boy.

Life had taken different turns in the ensuing years. I owned a CPA firm, and Daniel owned an insurance agency. The youngest, Randall, disappointed our parents, Dan and me. He had gotten into drugs in college. Nothing unusual there. Neither Dan nor I were Boy Scouts— we’d smoked weed. But Randy decided selling it was the way to go and ended up in prison. We had no idea where he went when he got out and hadn’t seen him in years. Good riddance, I guess, but his absence left an emptiness where he should have been.

About an hour from the house, hunger pangs hit me. Fortunately, the area was not as remote as it once was, and I came across a diner/gas station. It was crowded, so the locals thought it was good. An autumn chill greeted me as I stepped out of the car, and emotions from the last time we drove here for Thanksgiving as a whole family roared back. Randy had not yet dropped out of college, but on the trip, he was sullen, clearly not wanting to be there. The weekend proved difficult, and he never returned with us, and then he couldn’t when he was in prison.

Wood-paneled walls and a wood stove glowing with a warm fire created a cozy dining area. I ordered chili and cornbread and picked up a discarded newspaper from the table beside me while I waited. The headline was about the five women who had gone missing from the area. Hikers found the bodies of two of the missing women, and fears grew for the others. The server who brought my food nodded as she placed my chili before me.

“We’re all pretty scared around here. Harry, the owner, been taking us home and picking us up.”

“That’s horrible. Police have no leads?”

“Nope. Those poor girls were found near the Crayton Lake marina. But the police don’t have a clue who took ‘em.”

I finished and drove on. A road sign for Crayton Lake reminded me of when my dad took us out on a boat from that marina. The lane leading to the cabin was soon in front of me. I admit my heart raced as I turned onto the gravel road.

As I pulled next to the cabin, I started noting things that needed to be done—new gravel on the drive, painting, and shrubbery trimmed. I parked and got out, letting the cool breezes wash over me, and the fresh air fill my lungs. I turned to climb the steps and came face to face with a rifle barrel.

“Well, big brother, you are the last person I expected to see here.”

Breathing became difficult as I realized Randy held a weapon aimed at me. “Randy…. What are you doing here?”

He stared at me, his eyes icy pools of darkness. “I don’t want to kill you, Ben.”

“What are you….” The last I saw was the rifle butt swinging toward my head.

~~~

I came to, lying on my left side, my head pounding. I could feel the tightness and smell the metallic odor of dried blood on my face. I tried to move but realized my hands and feet were bound with duct tape. I groaned, then flinched as someone spoke.

“He took you too.”

I rolled over to see three naked young women, each chained by one wrist to the overhead pipes—the missing gals. I looked around in the dim light and realized we were in the storeroom in the cellar.

“Yeah.” I had to think of a way out of here.

The door creaked, and my companions whimpered as Randy walked in. He grabbed the brunette nearest him and unchained her.

I tried to move. “Randy, let them go. You’ve got me.”

He flashed a maniacal grin. “I do have you, and you’ll have to die too.”

The brunette screamed as Randy dragged her from the room, the other gals sobbing. “Girls, listen, no time for that. We need to get out of here. You’ve got to get me loose.”

One looked at me, squinting through tears. “How?”

I was on the other side of the storeroom from them. I’d have to roll. So, I rolled, not easy for a forty-five-year-old man whose exercise consisted of an occasional round of bad golf and dog walks. I managed to wiggle around some boxes and kick some dried-up paint cans out of the way, but I got to them. The gals worked with one hand each to peel back the duct tape. They finally got the wrist tape peeled away. I ripped the tape from my ankles and stood, wobbly from lack of circulation and the blow to my head.

I needed a weapon and spotted an old rusty shovel. I grabbed it, told the gals to be quiet, and eased open the door into the furnace room and up the stairs. Didn’t take long to find him. He was in my grandparents' bedroom.

The door sat open. Bile rose in my throat as I saw he had the gal lying on her stomach, limbs tied to all corners of the bed, and a long whip in his hand.

“One more, and then more fun. I know you love it when I…"

“Randy, stop.”

He spun, rage emanating from his wide eyes. He drew back the whip to strike me, but I was quicker. I slammed the shovel against his head, and my brother crumpled to the floor.

~~~

I walked to the rocking chair and sat. Randy was dead. I freed the gals, put them in a spare bedroom with water, and told them to stay as they were until the police arrived—no showers. The police would want evidence. I searched until I found my phone and dialed 9-1-1.

Faint sirens drifted from a distance as I looked at my hands covered with blood from the gals, myself, and Randy. No. Nothing would ever be the same again.

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Written for a weekly prompt on Writers Unite! on Facebook. The site provides a prompt image and the first sentence and you tell What's Next?