Ashes of a Nightmare

By J D Dunphy

There are 2 million home invasions per year. Every 5 minutes, one rape will occur. A violent crime will happen every 25 seconds, which begs the question. How safe are you in your home at night? 

 

On the eve of Erin's first night in her first home, she was excited and hopeful for her future. Until the doorbell rang...

 

Welcoming her to the neighborhood was Joe and his wife, Doris, an elderly couple whose presence didn't offer Erin any comfort. Inviting themselves into her home, Joe and Doris subdue Erin and lock her in a crawl space. Once awake, she's brought before Joe, who begins quoting scripture and accusing her of being a sinner in need of his help and guidance to enter into heaven. 

 

Erin plays along with Joe's dark, twisted views on God and the afterlife expecting help to come soon. The longer she's around Joe, the more she's subjected to the cruel teachings of a religious zealot. In the name of Jesus, he violates her body, forever tarnishing her soul. 

 

After days of captivity, Erin must accept there is no one to save her but herself. With every new form of physical and mental torture Joe inflicts on Erin, she finds time to herself in the crawl space morphs from being her prison to her sanctuary. She quickly discovers freedom isn't always found outside four walls but in the unconscious mind. 

 

Salvation is Joe's supposed purpose, but if what Joe is offering is salvation, Erin would rather be damned to hell. 

 

Warning: Contains explicit sexual content that may be offensive to some individuals

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J D Dunphy
• Release date: Feb 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393483489

Book preview

Mom, thank you for believing in me when I didn’t always believe in myself. This book is for you.

Chapter One

Hanging by the front door was a metal mailbox that once matched the white, sixty-year-old house. It was worn, the corners rusted, the scalloped metal cover bent, but to me it was perfect. Inside was a letter marketing a new credit card with low-interest rates. The addressee’s name read Erin Tamsin. That piece of junk mail made it official.

I was home.

I hiked a moving box, growing heavier as time slipped by, higher on my hip. The chicken scratch written on the top in black permanent marker said, Kitchen/Dishes. If my writing were an indicator of my destined career, I’d have been on the road to becoming a doctor, as I was one of a very small few who could read my handwriting. Instead, I’d graduated with a journalism degree.

I’d been a respectful snoop for as long as I could remember standing on my own two feet. My investigative nature helped me rise in positions at the University of Buffalo college newspaper, culminating in my position as a reporter for The Daily Herald. Fingers crossed that one day, my lowly job would get me through the newsroom doors of papers like The New York Times or The Post. For now, I was content living in small-town, western New York. 

An array of emotions overcame me as I looked around my new home—nervousness, excitement, and a little bit of fear. While I had known the woman who owned my new home, it had come as a shock that she’d willed it to me, not one of her children. Whatever her reasoning, I was grateful for her kindness.

The house was charming—cozy is what the real estate ad would say—a polite way of saying small. Standing on the threshold of my front door, I stared into the largest room in the house, the combined living and dining room. To my left was a woodburning fireplace. September was almost over. It wouldn’t be long before the nights would turn cool enough to warrant a fire. I could already imagine myself sitting in front of it, coffee in one hand with a good book in the other, a large window that overlooked a quiet street, soon covered with fresh snow, as my backdrop.

Memories, each one better than the last, would become the foundation for a perfect beginning leading to a long, happy future in this new stage of my life. 

The kitchen, detached from the great room, was less than fifteen feet away. I gripped the bottom of the box with both arms to avoid dropping and shattering my mismatched set of dishes. My two best friends, with whom I had shared an apartment for four years, organized the box for me as a housewarming gift. The dishes held fond memories of all the hours I, Darla, and Tanya, had spent together in our apartment near campus.

I wondered what they’d say when they saw my new place. Tanya was a sweetheart. She’d be happy for me. Darla, on the other hand, was the most vocal of the three of us. She’d be the first to point out its size, followed by the unintentional jab that, since I was single, I didn’t need a large house. If only she understood and appreciated why my relationship of two years recently ending was a good thing.

Eric and I were in a rut, deep enough to be going nowhere but down. We had fallen out of love and were both fine admitting it. None of our friends or family understood how it could be over, how we could so easily untangle our lives from each other. It’d been three months since we’d broken up, and I was still combatting questions about what happened. Were we ever getting back together? Now that I had my own place, a secluded retreat, I hoped my seemingly failed relationship would lose its luster and become old news.

I was enjoying being alone, living my life my way. I was no more interested in rekindling a relationship with Eric than I was in falling for someone new. I doubted, even in my dreams, that I could create a scenario in which I’d care enough to forego my freedom willingly.

Carrying the box of dishes into the kitchen, I sat it beside a stack of boxes filled with other kitchen related items that Mom packed for me, including an old set of pots and pans she’d recently replaced.

That was the last box.

Alex, a neighbor from our apartment complex, offered to use his pickup truck to help me move what little I had in the way of possessions. Sharing a furnished apartment eliminated the accumulation of anything other than a bedroom set and personal belongings. The set of dishes was the last box I’d dragged off the back of his pickup. Now he and his empty truck were gone. There were no more boxes to move, nothing left to do but settle into my new home.

I stood with a huff, swinging my numb arms from side to side and front to back, regaining proper circulation in my bloodstream.

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was small, a far cry from a gourmet chef’s idea of suitable prep space. Thankfully, I hated cooking. All I needed was takeout food and a microwave.

Five steps took me from one side of the kitchen to the opposite where the sink overlooked a small backyard. Outside the window, soft, velvety red rose petals soaking in the late afternoon sun captured my attention. It was warm today, but soon they would hibernate for the snowy winter mere weeks away.

I cranked the closed window open, mentally noting the flies lying on the windowsill, their legs curled and fragile wings brittle. They would need to be wiped away. The sweet floral scent wafted into the kitchen like a faint perfume. I breathed it in, and as I did, a warm afternoon breeze blew through wisps of hair clinging to my sweat-soaked neck. I yanked out the elastic band holding my long, reddish-brown hair in a ponytail, then finger-combed my thick mane before twisting the elastic band three times around my fistful of barely tamed hair.

The sound of the front door closing drew me toward the unexpected guest. I glanced into the master bedroom directly across from the kitchen, separated by a staircase that led to two upstairs bedrooms and a half bath, before turning into the great room.

I smelled a familiar perfume, different from the roses but similarly sweet, a second before I saw the woman surveying my new surroundings.

Hey, Mom. I noticed her expression as her eyes wandered the small space.

This is...charming.

Thanks, Mom. I had hoped you’d be able to curb your enthusiasm.

"I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s just that I wish you weren’t here all by yourself. I’m sure this is a good neighborhood—most small town neighborhoods are, I suppose—but you don’t know what kind of sickos are out there. I just saw on the news this morning a story about this girl your age who’d been taken at gunpoint out of her own home and I—"

Mom, stop it! I raised my hand in the air like a crossing guard. What are you trying to do, make me run and hide under my bed like a scared child? I haven’t been here one night, and already I’m waiting for you to tell me I should never open the front door and always hide in my bedroom.

I’m not saying you can’t open the door, nor do I expect you to become a recluse in this house. All I’m saying is be careful. Only open the door if you know who it is.

How am I supposed to know whether I know them or not if I don’t open the door? I pointed to the closed door that had no peephole.

She was silent, in thought for a long moment, while finding a solution to a nonexistent problem. Her hazel-colored eyes, comparable to sepia-tinted photos, shined bright. "I’ll buy you a new door with a peephole."

That’s ridiculous. It’s a perfectly fine door.

Perfectly fine isn’t good enough for my only daughter. I want you to be safe. As your mom, I’m allowed to worry, and nothing you say will keep me from doing it.

Whatever makes you feel better, Mom.

Thank you. She smiled victoriously.

Before walking by me to tour the house she hadn’t seen since the previous owner passed away, she wrapped her thin arms around my neck in a tight embrace. My arms folded around her entire torso with room to spare. She was a slight woman—a couple of inches shorter than my 5'7" frame and twenty pounds lighter than my one-hundred and forty pounds—foolishly underestimated by most. She had more energy and strength than people half her age, intelligence that surpassed some students with whom I’d graduated, and compassion to care for others, a trait lacking in most these days.

I love you, Mom, I said into her shoulder-length brown hair, which had begun graying over the last year.

I love you more, sweetie. With a swift kiss on my cheek, she pulled away from me. I watched as her slender legs climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Betty, the previous owner, a woman who lived in the house her entire adult life, had been a family friend. When I was younger, I’d come by to help her clean her home. Afterward, we’d talk for hours. Our conversations covered the easy topics like favorite books and food to serious subjects, like the passing of her husband. Though she never went into the details of his death, she enjoyed sharing experiences from their lives together.

I missed our talks when I moved away to college. I’d write to her once a week, then it became twice a month. By the time I was in my third year and drowning in course work, it became a feat to write every couple of months.

With her kids grown and busy, I was one of very few who’d spend time with her without obligation. She looked forward to our talks as much as I did. After I graduated, she’d already begun showing signs of memory loss. Guilt for having not been there for her when it started to progress still ate at me.

An Alzheimer’s diagnosis led to her kids’ decision to admit her into a nursing home, which was where she spent the last few months of her life. I tried to regain what we’d had, but her disease hindered my efforts. Most days, she wouldn’t recognize me. On the rare days that I wasn’t a stranger to her, our conversations were short—sometimes mid-sentence she’d forget who I was and what we were discussing. Soon she became agitated with family and friends who visited her, swearing that we were strangers trying to kill her. It was sad to see a vital, intelligent, clever woman deteriorate so rapidly.

When she began speaking to her late husband, the doctors and nurses explained that it was the disease confusing her, causing her to see what wasn’t real. I never believed that explanation. I think her husband was waiting, by her side, to take her when she was ready to be with him once more. 

I missed her, but I was never sad for her. I believed she was where she wanted to be because that’s where her soulmate was. The thought comforted me and brought me peace, no matter how innocent or naïve a notion it might have been.

So, what are you going to do with the furniture that was left behind? Mom interrupted my scattered thoughts, walking back into the great room.

I guess I should make sure her kids don’t want any of it, I said, thinking of the bedroom set upstairs, the kitchen table, and a couple of chairs in the great room left behind. 

It was left for a reason. It’s cumbersome, dated, and the crawl space I found in one of the upstairs bedrooms is filled with old folding chairs and boxes of newspapers. They left it because they didn’t want to deal with it.

Newspapers? I asked, ignoring the rest of her words. Betty wasn’t a packrat. She wouldn’t have gone out of her way to store random, useless old newspapers unless they were meaningful to her. I couldn’t wait to be alone to investigate even if that meant spending a night rifling through a cramped and musty room in the wall.

Yep, and I’m sure you want to get up there and rifle through them, right? Mom asked, with a knowing smirk.

You know me too well.

I’ll get out of your hair then so you can get on with it, she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. And, honey, you don’t have to worry about the furniture now. If it would help, I can arrange for it to be picked up and taken to a donation center.

I let out an audible sigh. That would be fantastic, Mom. Thank you so much.

It’s not a problem. I’ll call you later with details of what I find out. I love you. Call me if you need anything.

You know I will, but I’ll be fine. I promise. She stared at me as if she’d never see me again. It was a mystery to me how she slept at night while worrying as she did. After a few more seconds, I was alone, and the door was locked and dead-bolted. 

I turned into the kitchen, opened the box marked dishes, and found a coffee mug wrapped in tissue paper from the dollar store beneath the cardboard flap. I rinsed it out in the sink and uncorked a bottle of merlot I’d chilled in the refrigerator earlier that afternoon. I filled the mug three-quarters of the way. Once I was in the crawl space of the bedroom wall, I’d have no reason to leave. With my coffee mug of wine in one hand and the other on the railing leading to the bedroom and the surprises hidden inside the crawl space like a pirate’s chest, my heart and mind raced. What secrets might be stored away in those boxes, and within those newspapers?

The snoop in me couldn’t wait to find out.

Red wine sloshed in my cup, almost high enough to splash onto my white Yankees T-shirt, when the unfamiliar sound of the doorbell chimed. I cursed under my breath, debating on whether to ignore it. Once tucked into the crawl space, no one would know I was home. While contemplating what to do, the bell chimed again. I set my mug on the kitchen table, irritated that manners were prevailing.

In front of the locked front door, with my hand wrapped around the cold metal knob, I considered once more whether I should ignore the interruption threatening to ruin my calm, relaxing night of investigating boxes left for me to discover.

The bell chimed again.

Whoever was on the other side of the door had no intention of leaving. With a groan, I flipped the switch to the porch light and cracked the door. A couple, mid-fifties perhaps, stood with only their faces illuminated by a bulb, flickering as if pulsing with my nervous heart.

Hello, my name is Joseph, but you can call me Joe. And this is my wife, Doris. We live just down the street. We wanted to come and say welcome to the neighborhood.

The woman handed me a loaf of bread still warm from the oven. Her mouth rose in an awkward smile.

Thank you, I said, taking the bread from her small hand. My name is Erin. It’s very nice to meet you. And thank you for the bread. I’ve been so busy I forgot to eat. I guess a baked goody does not a meal make, though, I teased. They both offered peculiar, almost forced, smiles. I held the edge of the door tightly in my hands, keeping it from swinging wide open.

"How are you making out? It must be a bit exhausting having to move by yourself. You are by yourself, no?" Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit.

Nosey neighbors and televangelists—two groups of people the world could live without. 

Luckily, I had help moving, so it wasn’t so bad.

I’m sorry, I can’t help but notice you haven’t invited us in. He raised his hand. Despite his age, he had athletic shoulders that pulled at the sleeves of his pale blue button-up shirt. Before you say anything, do not feel like I am judging this behavior. I have been affiliated with the local police force for some thirty years now. It is always a smart and safe habit to not let strangers into your home. His tall frame, at least 6'4", loomed over me with the yellowish glow of the porchlight doubling his intimidating shadow.

I hope we did not cause any alarm or illicit any fear, for we most certainly did not intend to. His baritone voice spoke with perfect enunciation. It was odd, too formal, too rigid for normal conversation.

His wife hadn’t spoken a single word. Her eyes had been scrutinizing mine since I’d, regretfully, opened the door. With sirens sounding in my head, I had no intention of finding out whether they were false alarms.

You didn’t, I lied. But, like you said, moving is exhausting. I was just heading to bed when you rang. Perhaps another time.

Please leave. Please. My thoughts tried to will the couple away.

That would be wonderful. I am sorry to ask this—what with you being so tired—but do you think you might be able to spare a glass of water? I have breathing problems, and I’m afraid my old age makes doing even the most mundane tasks difficult. I need a moment before we head back.

All the Law and Order and CSI episodes I’d watched with Mom came sprinting through my head. I wouldn’t let them inside. I couldn’t have cared less if I became known as the crazy, paranoid person who cast aside a weak old man—not that his muscular body and taught skin suggested he was close to old age. I preferred that as opposed to becoming the inspiration for a crime TV show.

I made a mental note to myself that tomorrow I’d remove the Sisal welcome mat outside my front door. The houses lining the street, all welcoming strangers with doormats or flags or both, would have a rebel amongst them. If the older couple standing on my porch were any indication of what my neighbors were like, then I was fine being a shut-in to them all. 

My silence extended longer than I’d intended or noticed. I heard him clear his throat and watched as he shuffled from foot to foot, clearly becoming short of breath. Maybe if he stopped moving, he’d be able to breathe better. I chose not to make that point. I’d get him his water and make them leave as soon as I did.

Of course, I want you to be able to make it home safely. I smiled, trying to sound like I cared. The only genuine part of that sentence was that I wanted them off my front porch.

Thank you so much, his wife said. Her words shocked me. He worries me sometimes when we stray too far from home. He gets winded so easily that even short distances affect him. A clumsy smile pressed into her wrinkled, makeup-free cheeks. A muscle in her husband’s jaw ticked. He was not amused. It seemed like her speaking out of turn wasn’t tolerated, or perhaps suggesting he was close to decrepit offended him.

As I closed the door on them to go to the kitchen, a shadow cast itself on their faces, hiding their features from my sight. I considered locking the door, turning off the porch light, and going back to my original plan. I resisted the strong urge. Instead, I walked into the kitchen and unwrapped another coffee mug printed with Congrats in a rainbow of bold letters—a gift from Mom after being admitted into UB. I filled it with water still tepid from having washed out my cup—I wasn’t waiting for it to run cold—and turned to go back to the door. The cup fell from my trembling hands, shattering into large pieces on the linoleum meant to imitate parquet flooring.

I was not alone.

Standing in the kitchen doorway were the two strangers I’d left on my front porch—the ones I’d never invited into my home.

Um, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s very appropriate for you to be in here. I backed into the edge of the counter. My hands tightened on the lip of the Formica.

I’m afraid we are past appropriate behavior, don’t you think? the man said, with an eerie calmness. His rounded face, angular nose, and close-set eyes were hawkish, predatory, and staring at me. A woman should always take care of the man in her life. It is the way it’s supposed to be. I’m afraid that’s a lesson you haven’t yet learned. It’s okay, though. I will teach you, just as I taught my dear wife, Doris. I taught you well, didn’t I, dear?

Her answer came in the form of an unassuming smile and a small nod.

I’m sorry if I offended you in some way, I said, contemplating my escape routes. There were none. Unless I could overpower them both, I was stuck. I meant no disrespect, truly.

My chest rose and fell in painful gasps, creating a sense of lightheadedness. I wanted to scream, to fight. My eyes threatened to close, to blind me from the sight unfolding before me. I resisted with what courage I could summon. I had to breathe. Stay calm. Not faint. God only knew what would happen to me if they had me in an unconscious state. A delusional part of me held onto the hope that they’d leave, that everything would be okay. Any minute now, they’d be gone, and I’d be sipping wine, alone, in my new home. 

Whether intentional or not, disrespect was shown. And now, on top of it all, you have spilled my water on your already dirty floor. Why you were not on your hands and knees cleaning this pigpen, I cannot fathom. Do you always welcome friends into such disarray?

My eyes strayed from his harsh, disapproving gaze. The kitchen was messy—boxes filled with things I needed to unpack—but it hadn’t even been a day since I’d moved in. What did he expect, and why should it matter? Neither were they friends nor guests.

I do apologize. Moving does tend to be a bit messy. I struggled to find the right words to remain pleasant, too afraid I was going to die by one or both of the strangers who’d invaded my home. If you’d like, I could work on it, and you could come back tomorrow when it is more presentable. Perhaps we could all have a slice of the bread your wife brought, which I’m sure is delicious.

I think it would be best if I supervise while you take care of it now. My wife required much...assistance while she was learning what it is to be a proper wife. I feel you will need the same attention. You are fortunate that my wife and I are here to teach you properly. You will have my full attention, of course. I wouldn’t want this to be unnecessarily unpleasant.

Unpleasant? What were their intentions?

I’m sure you do know that it is impolite to stare. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to teach you the very basics. I can see I was mistaken.

With a subtle tip of his chin toward Doris, she walked closer to me. My heart rapped against my ribs, ringing in my ears. I wasn’t ready to die, not at twenty-seven and not at the hands of two lunatics.

I was prepared to plead, to show that I was what he wanted me to be, that I was a proper woman, at least until someone came for me, saved me. But fate had other plans.

In a single, swift motion, Doris was at my side. Pain radiated down my right arm into my fingers. I clumsily slid my way to the kitchen floor, right into the puddle of water from the broken coffee mug. A slow smile stretched across Joe’s face as I lost feeling in my legs. I was paralyzed.

Water chilled the backs of my legs as my jeans soaked up the spilled water. Every woman’s worst nightmare was coming true—I was being held, against my will, at the hands of a delusional, sick-in-the-mind man who preached of proper etiquette and the role of a woman in his life.

Doris remained beside me. I found myself leaning into her leg, causing her to stumble from my added weight onto her short, thin frame. The needle of a long syringe glimmered in the overhead light, capturing my attention before dropping from the woman’s right hand. Half of the clear liquid in the syringe remained, which meant there’d be more for later—if there was a later. As my eyes and body continued to grow heavy, my ability to fight for survival waned.

My situation reminded me of a tiger I’d witnessed being tranquilized by a zookeeper in an article I wrote investigating whether zoos treat animals humanely. The wild animal had been tamed in seconds by a man unable to control her in a conscious state. I’d been wrangled similarly by a deplorable man who wanted to dominate me.

Once sedated, the tiger was caged.

I wondered whether the same would happen to me.

Chapter Two

I hope you slept well. You will have to make up the time you wasted indulging in such a long slumber, for as Proverbs 31:27 says, ‘She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.’

The sound of his voice drew my surroundings into a detailed sketch. As if I were a witch, my body prepped to burn at the stake, I sat on a woodpile in the modern shape of a wooden kitchen chair. Plastic teeth nipped at my wrists, which were bound to a rung of the chair. I struggled to escape. Baby bites turned into canine bites. My wrists relaxed, the fight against the rabid, zip tie beast a fruitless battle.

My upper arm burned. The first match had struck. I shut my eyes, expecting my body to ignite into flames. When it didn’t, my eyes became detectives. On my arm, in the center of a yellow bruise, was a puncture wound where Doris had injected me with a sedative. 

A few things settled in as givens. I wasn’t dreaming. There was a good chance I wouldn’t live to see the outside world again. And, finally, I sincerely hoped I didn’t. I prayed for death. I wished for my heart to fail, for me to fall peacefully into an eternal sleep of my own accord and not at the cruel hands of a religious zealot.

As intangible as the thought of hope was, the reply was even more elusive. My heart didn’t stop. In fact, it beat even louder.

As much help as you need in the ways of cleanliness, I feel it would be in vain if we didn’t work on the main problem, Joe said, sitting across from me on a kitchen chair with his left ankle resting on his right knee. It is obvious this stems from your lack of faith, respect, and fear in the great Almighty. He pointed his index finger at the ceiling. He will judge you, have no doubt, and at this point, you will come up lacking.

He can’t be serious. I will be judged?

I wouldn’t want that to happen to you, so, for today, Doris will tend to your household duties while you and I work on your soul.

The impending tasks of household duties left me begging for a lit match to finish the job, let my body burn to ashes on my kitchen floor, kill me before I discovered what he’d require of me.

Do you understand that your life goes against God’s wishes? He is very disappointed in you, I’m afraid. I feel sorrow for you. But fear not, for I am your salvation. I will hold your hand now and into the afterlife. Your sins can be forgiven if you can learn to admit to them. Do you know what your sins are?

My mind chose that moment to flatline. I couldn’t recall a single event in my life, sinful or otherwise. If survival was my intent, appeasing him was the key. I needed to think. I needed to find a way out of there. I needed to get to my mom. I needed to call the cable guy; I’d forgotten to schedule a time to hook up the TV. I needed to find time to go grocery shopping...

Can I assume your silence is a sign of contemplation? If not, I’m afraid your offenses are mounting.

Damn it! I had to think of a sin, not the cable hookup or stocking my fridge. If there were a sin for stupidity or being unfocused, there’d be no way to deny my guilt.

I stole a breath from the scared little girl living inside my mind.

I’m sure I have many faults, but I feel too inferior to know what they are. Will you help me—help me become closer to God? It was a calculated risk, asking him for guidance, counting on his ego to win the battle between conviction and annoyance.

You disappoint me at every turn. His chair skidded across the linoleum floor, crashing into the corner of the small, square kitchen table. His socked feet paced the kitchen. 

I blinked several times, unsure what to make of his outburst.

"You believe you have faults?"

Such a straightforward question that had no easy reply. If I answered incorrectly, he could punish me in countless ways I didn’t dare consider. I had to stay alive long