I would like to thank you all for the love this story has gotten! I am so glad you are all enjoying it.
This chapter is coming out early due to not being able to access my laptop for the next week but rest assured we will go back to normal publishing schedule as soon as possible.
I hope you enjoy!
It was dark in the basement. Too dark for Joe to see anything at all. Except for the stairs. He could see the stairs rising up to the rest of the house, a small-barred window in the door letting electronic lightning spill down.
Joe stumbled toward the stairs, feeling like he was weighed down by chains. He felt unsteady as he made his way up. He was drawn toward the light. He felt like he was going to drown without it.
As he got nearer to the door, he could hear voices. Frank. Mr and Mrs Hardy. They were laughing, happy. He could smell Mrs Hardy's amazing homemade cooking. It felt like a home.
Joe wanted it. He wanted to be with them. He wanted that to be his home.
But the door wouldn't open. Joe turned the handle, slammed his entire shoulder against it. The door wouldn't budge.
"Hey," he called through unsteadily. "I… I think the door's jammed!"
He could see them: Frank and the Hardys. They were in the kitchen. Mrs Hardy was cooking. Mr Hardy was sipping at a coffee. Frank was doing homework at the counter. If they would just turn, they would see him pressed up against the barred windows, see the handle of the door twitching as he tried to open it.
"Frank, I can't get out!" Joe pleaded.
But no one looked around. They continued on, the perfect family scene.
"Come on!"
Joe began to pound against the door. He jammed his fingers between the bars and waved. He whistled. He shouted. They didn't turn to look at him.
And the door wouldn't move. It wouldn't budge. No matter how hard he hit it, no matter down desperately he kicked at it. It felt like he was fighting against a wall.
And then he heard it, movements from the depths of the basement.
Joe turned sharply. He stared down into the inky blackness. He could see nothing. But he could hear footsteps approaching.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"Forgotten me already?"
Joe's blood turned to ice in his veins. His stomach twisted.
"Marsden?" he called into the darkness.
"Got it in one, kid," the voice replied.
Joe didn't want to go back with him. He didn't want to go anywhere with him. Marsden was never going to forgive him for picking the Hardys over him. He was never going to forgive him for sending him to prison.
Joe turned back to the door. He hammered against it. He slammed his shoulder up against the door hating that he didn't even hear it creak.
"PLEASE! Marsden's here!" Joe shouted through the barred window.
Marsden chuckled darkly. Joe looked back, seeing he had reached the bottom of the stairs.
"You think they really want you? You're not one of them. Not really. They see who you were whenever they look at you. You disgust them."
"No. No," Joe told him.
He wished he had evidence he could offer. He wished he had an argument he could mount. But he only had the word of the Hardys. And he knew they could easily lie. They had a reputation. They were known as good people. Joe knew that the people believed to be good people could often be the most terrible. They had a reputation they would do anything to protect and, so long as no one ever found out, there was no line they wouldn't cross.
The Hardys would never tell him that he disgusted them. They would never kick him out. But they would never accept him.
No, he told himself, that was not true. It was a lie Marsden had created. The Hardys want you. They care about you. No one can fake the way they look at you.
He turned back to the door.
"Please, open the door! I want to be one of you!"
They didn't even look. Joe felt a sob building up in his chest. He desperately tried at the handle, wondering if he could break it off, open the door that way. Before he could try, he felt a hand clamp over his mouth. He couldn't stop himself from screaming into the hand as he felt Marsden's arm wrap around his stomach. He was lifted into the air, his desperate kicks at the door doing nothing.
"Don't fight it, kid. I'm just taking you home."
It was like the lights had suddenly snapped on. One moment Joe had been being carried through utter blackness and then he was blinded by an overpowering white light. Marsden roughly threw him to the floor. Joe felt his stomach twisting as he looked around. He was in a different basement: Marsden's basement. It was brighter than he had ever seen it. It hurt to take it all in.
But he needed to.
Marsden had a prisoner.
A blond teenaged boy was tied to the metal pole fixed to the floor. He was sitting there, head hanging, ankles tied together. Joe could tell he had been hurt. There was blood on the sports jersey he wore. Joe recognised it. It was a jersey for the Bayport Privateers, a baseball team for teenagers. Frank was on the team, one of their best players.
"Who is he?"
As if to answer, Marsden kicked the bound figure hard. He jolted, blue eyes snapping onto the two of them. Joe stared. The young man was gagged, a welt swelling on his forehead, blood dripping from a gash on his cheek. But it was unmistakeably him.
"What is this?" Joe demanded, turning to Marsden.
"'What' is right." Marsden chuckled. "This little freak is who you would have become if I hadn't have saved you from them."
"Saved me?" Joe spluttered.
He prepared to say more but he didn't see the point. Marsden was never going to listen to him. He was never going to see what he did was monstrous.
"Give me a knife," Joe said.
Marsden smirked. He reached into his pocket, handing the switchblade to Joe. He remembered how Marsden's knife felt in his hand. It was the first knife of its kind Joe had ever held. He hated how excited he had felt the first time Marsden had trusted him with it, how grown up. It sickened him that he had ever enjoyed holding such a weapon.
"I'd go for the throat," Marsden said.
"I'm cutting him free."
Marsden caught Joe's wrist. He moved so his face was inches from Joe's.
"Really? That's your choice? You want to let him out?"
"Yes. I want to be a Hardy."
"And I want to be a free man," Marsden snarled. "We don't always get what we want."
Joe shook his head. He knelt down, going to cut at the rope binding the other Joe's ankles. But he couldn't bring himself to. He just kept staring at the other version of Joe.
"There are two parts of you, Joey. There's Joe Hardy and there's Joe Brampton. But there's not. I took Joe Hardy. He died ten years ago. There's not anything left of him. All that remains is Joe Brampton. And the longer you keep pretending, the more people who are going to get hurt."
Suddenly the prisoner yanked their ankles away from Joe. He looked up, heart leaping into his mouth as he was it was no longer Joe Hardy tied to the pole.
It was Frank. He had the same gag in his mouth, the same cuts and bruises. But he looked terrified. He was looking at Joe like he was some sort of monster.
"I don't want this," Joe said. "I don't want to be Joe Brampton anymore."
He dropped the knife, running toward the door.
The door opened out to a dark room. As Joe milled around, he saw human figures in the gloom. They were still, like they had been frozen by some sort of curse. Joe dropped to his knees, feeling tears springing into his eyes. He felt like screaming.
And then he heard footsteps.
He looked around but could see nothing – nothing moving at least. Just the frozen human figures. He slowly moved toward them, looking around. He was sure he had heard something. And then a hand clamped over Joe's mouth. He tried to scream but no sound came out.
"Mr Mauve has been looking forward to seeing you, Joey."
Joe woke up covered in sweat. His heart raced. His throat was dry from crying out. He sat up, panting, trying to steady himself.
It hadn't been real. None of it was real.
He could be Joseph Hardy. He could put that life behind him. He just needed to keep going. He needed to stay strong. Just keep pushing forward.
He waited until his heart rate had settled before lying back. He shut his eyes tight, praying he would not find himself back in that nightmare the moment sleep claimed him.
But his throat protested. He needed something to drink. Joe sat up in bed, staring at the door. He wondered what he was meant to do. Normally he could stomach just staying in his room all night. He managed. But that dream had been worse than the others.
Thoughts of Mr Mauve…
He felt torn. Did he go down and get a drink without permission, risk getting caught and punished? Or did he wake Mr and Mrs Hardy, risk incurring their wrath, but knowing he had permission to go downstairs?
Joe decided on the first option. He was light on his feet and fast. He would remember where the cup had come from, put it back in the exact right place. They would never know.
Joe successfully made it to the kitchen without anyone coming after him. He skirted around the light spilling in through the window, picked up a cup and turned toward the tap.
"Hey."
The voice made Joe jump. He turned sharply, expecting a rough hand to grab him, drag him into the light. Instead, he was met with Fenton Hardy standing in the kitchen doorway.
"I wasn't stealing," Joe said. "I just wanted a drink."
He tacked 'Dad' on for good measure, hoping it might win him some sort of favour.
"I could tell," Fenton said, nodding toward the glass Joe was holding. "Not that I would have thought you were stealing anyway."
"I'm sorry I woke you," Joe said, turning to the tap.
He needed the drink. He wanted to get it as soon as possible in case Fenton decided to get annoyed over being awoken. But he kept one eye on the detective, ready in case he moved.
"You didn't wake me," Fenton said. "I had a nightmare."
Joe didn't bother saying he had also had a nightmare. He knew the detective would have been able to work that out.
"What about?" Joe asked instead.
"About someone coming after you and Frank and your mother. Someone hurting you to get to me."
Joe had suspected the detective might have been lying. Fenton was bound to have known why he was down there. He might have been making up the nightmare story to get Joe to open up to him for whatever reason. But there was something on the detective's face – a certain horror at the thought – that told Joe he was telling the truth.
"I like to come down here when I have had nightmares, sit in the lounge. You can see the stairs from the lounge so unless someone is planning to scale the building, they're going to have to go past me to get to you and the others."
Joe paused.
"Can I sit with you?" he asked.
"You should probably get some sleep," Fenton said. "You don't need to worry. I won't let anything happen to you."
He studied Joe in the low light. For the longest moment, Joe felt like Fenton could see into his soul, that he could see the nightmare Joe had just had in his eyes.
It was enough to make Joe nod. He went to edge past Fenton, going to head up the stairs. Fenton caught his arm. Joe felt a shiver of panic pass through him. It took all his strength to keep himself from swinging at the detective. And Fenton immediately sensed it. He released his arm, apologising.
"You can stay up with me," he said. "Might as well make a start on looking through those family photo albums."
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