By Perry McDaid
She tasted duct tape. Ozone from the power source filled her nostrils.
The basement belonged to a suburban detached house: its garden full of exotic shrubs and aromatic blooms.
Rescued from muggers, brandy from his flask had calmed her. She recognized the attack as a sham, last night’s champagne as drugged.
The heroic introduction was eclipsed by bashful, generous wooing; the inevitable ‘Yes’. His body had been warm and taut. She’d surrendered.
Trays of cold, sharp, bloodstained instruments clattered.
She struggled against bonds.
His smile and voice had carried her to this point.
He grinned. “White picket fence sold you, huh?”
Excellent!… Bone-chilling creepy. Especially the grinning “White picket fence sold you, huh?”
I’m a bit dense; I had to read it a second time. But maybe I wanted to. This is first rate eerie.