Hell Bound

Chapter 7

The rest of the day passed in a dull blur.

Brahms had left her alone not long after he'd finished washing her hands. He didn't give any explanation for his departure, he simply turned and strolled off around the corner of the house. She stood there for a few minutes, shivering slightly in the early morning breeze, waiting. She wasn't overly bothered when she finally realized he wasn't coming back. Instead she just went back into the house.

Now, lying curled up on her side along the floor of her room, she watched as a fly buzzed animatedly against the nearest window. The buzzing noises it made grew increasingly more frantic as the minutes ticked by, the tiny bug now slamming itself repeatedly against the glass, desperate for something to give.

She could relate.

After a while, the little creature began to grasp the reality of it's fate. Ceasing it's incessant buzzing, it drifted down to settle despondently along the window track. It didn't move much after that.

Rolling over onto her back, Greta stretched herself out like a cat, feeling each lump and ache from her trip to the cellar pulse with the movement. She hadn't bothered to look in a mirror yet but she was sure she looked a fright, banged up as she was. Hadn't really bothered to do much at all after she'd come in.

Going straight up to her room, as soon as the door had been thoroughly secured, she'd sunk right down onto the floorboards. It had seemed as good a place as any to contemplate the murder she'd just committed. Maybe even the best place, considering.

Greta could still vividly feel the knife in her hand, as if she'd never put it down. If she glanced up now, she almost believed it would still be there, clenched bloodily in her palm.

The blood...

There had been so much blood.

She had never considered how messy slicing a man's throat could be. How quickly the spray could soak into your clothes. How warm the drops would feel against her skin.

No she'd never considered that.

Greta thought back on all this with a sort of detached frame of mind. Even though she remembered the details of last night's events quite readily, it was from an outer point of view. As if some other poor soul had been brought out into the woods late at night to participate in the act of slaughtering a guilty stranger. Like watching a movie in 3D.

What was probably the most startling about all this was her lack of guilt.

She'd expected the guilt. Not... whatever this was.

The hours continued to tick by as Greta lay there quietly, slowly feeling more, not peaceful per se, but accepting of her actions.

She had done the right thing. Any other fate Brahms might have intended for Greg would have been far worse. There would have been no escape. Only pain.

She had done the right thing.

X X X

The next three days carried on in the same vain as the last, a haze of contemplation and quiet.

Brahms, for the most part, left her to her own devices. Although he made no move to conceal his presence from her, he certainly wasn't very active in seeking her out. He was giving her space, she knew. Letting her come to terms with the reality of her actions.

Greta didn't do very much with herself in that time. Finally showering, she scrubbed the remaining grime off and luxuriated in a change of clothes. She ate food. She slept late. She read books, locked away in her room.

She visited Malcolm.

While she didn't dare try and find the entrance to the hole he'd found himself in, she did what she could. She kept him company. Brahms was feeding him apparently, a fact which Malcolm had shared, finding it darkly amusing.

"The kept boy has now become the bloody keeper. What a switch." he'd told her sardonically one evening.

Greta couldn't help but disagree. Brahms had never been kept, not even while he'd been 'alive'. No, he'd been worshipped. A mischievous god attended to by the most faithful of disciples. His own dear parents and eventually, her.

X X X

Day four came, and with it, some fresh activity.

Greta stood silently beside the banister, listening intently as the harsh tones of the record Brahms was playing rose up from the parlor below. Inching her way down the staircase, she came to pause just beside the open doorway. There was no sign of movement within the room, hadn't been for quite some time, but she knew he was still in there. She could feel it. Feel him.

Peering slowly around the doorway, Greta stared.

Brahms sat cross-legged calmly in the center of the carpet, an old box of papers open and spread out before him. His masked gaze lifted to her as she stepped hesitantly into the room. After a moment, he looked back down at what he was doing, seemingly dismissing her for the time being. Taking this as the closest thing to an invitation she was going to get, Greta came forward and quietly sat down, folding herself up on the couch across from him. The sudden change in height difference wasn't lost on her. If anything, the elevation bolstered her confidence.

He could be reasonable. At least, as reasonable as could be expected from a murderer hiding out in his own attic. If she were to tell him what was on her mind, he would listen. How he would react to what she had to say was still up in the air, but it was worth the risk. All she had to do now was open her mouth.

"Brahms." He didn't look up from the papers in his hands, but she could feel his attention shift fully onto her. Deciding to just take the plunge and hope for the best, Greta went for it. "I want to talk to you about Malcolm."

All movement stopped abruptly, but he still didn't look up at her. Greta took this as a good sign, forging on. "You haven't killed him, and you've been taking care of him. Sort of. So you clearly plan to keep him around a while. Why?"

His fingers fidgeted over the corner of one of the papers he held, crinkling it in his repetition. "He's... alive because of you." he actually tripped a little over his words, surprising Greta. "You won't... accept it, if I kill him." Accept me, went unspoken between them.

"Oh." That was much more straightforward of an answer than she'd been expecting. Greta felt a lot better now about the direction this conversation was taking. Reasonable, she reminded herself. "Brahms I want to make you a deal."

Any previous hesitation on his part went out the window at her words. She could practically feel the smug smile curving his lips under the mask. "And what, my lovely little Greta, would this deal entail?" He wasn't entirely sure what she wanted, but he knew it was going to be good for him. For them.

"Bring Malcolm upstairs. Give him a room. Lock him up as much as you want but- hell, give him access to a bathroom, Brahms. He's been wallowing in his own filth. It's... quite frankly, it's gross." Greta licked her lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry.

"Tell me why I would do this." What's in it for me?

All or nothing, she thought. "Do this for me... and I'll sleep in your bed with you one night a week. But only sleep. No sex." She didn't want to give him the wrong idea.

He made a show of considering her offer, but she could already see the victory in his eyes. "Two nights a week." he purred, "You will come to me willingly two nights a week, and you will not leave me until morning. For the second night, you may spend an hour each day with the grocery boy." His words were practically dripping contempt toward the end.

She started to protest, "Two hou-" but he cut her off. "One hour."

"Two hours-"

"Half an hour." His tone was the sharpest she'd ever heard it.

Better not push her luck too much. "Fine. One hour."

Intent on storming out for once, Greta paused abruptly as she reached the doorway. "What about Malcolm?"

Brahms had already returned to his sorting, once again completely at ease. As if they hadn't just made a life changing agreement. "Don't concern yourself with him dear Greta. I'll do my part."

Taking his word for it, she turned to leave but stopped again as he called out to her. "Oh, and Greta?"

"Yes?" Apprehension began to pool in her gut as the reality of what she'd just agreed to set in.

"Tomorrow night. Don't make me wait."


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