CHAPTER NINETEEN

Amber’s eyelids fluttered open, the world around her coming into focus with grim familiarity. As she adjusted to the dim light provided by the kerosene lantern, the comforting images of her last dream began to dissolve—her mother and father sitting at the kitchen table, laughing and passing her slices of homemade peach pie. She sat up on the cot, her heart sinking as cold reality seeped in once more, erasing any warmth that the dream had provided.

She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to hold onto the last vestiges of the dream. It was an unwelcome ritual now, waking from visions of safety to confront the nightmare she was living. Each time, it was a jolt, a cruel reminder that the safety of home was just an illusion conjured by her subconscious.

Rest did not come easy to Amber, nor did it bring much comfort. When sleep overtook her, it was in fits and starts, each dream only a brief escape from her dire circumstances. In one dream, she had been handing tools to her father, Otto, beneath the hood of a car, his proud smile encouraging her every move. In another, she was walking the kennels at Paws and Harmony Rescue, the eager barks and wagging tails greeting her like a chorus of joyous hellos.

Each time she woke, the contrast was stark; instead of the smell of oil and metal or the clean scent of animals, there was only the dank earthiness of her prison and the oppressive silence.

Most poignant were her dreams about Liam—his warm eyes, his laughter, and the plans they’d laid out for their life together. They had talked about a modest home with a red door, a vegetable garden out back, and a swing set for the kids they intended to have. Now, those conversations felt like they belonged to someone else’s life, not hers.

The helplessness of her situation threatened to unravel the images of hope that Amber clung to. All she had left were these fragmented dreams, scraps of a life she feared she might never see again.

Her mind replayed the last visit from the hoarse-voiced man who peered at her through the peephole, insisting on calling her Lisa. Desperation had clawed at her voice as she tried to reason with him, to make him see he had made a mistake. “I’m Amber,” she had said, her pleas falling on deaf ears.

The memory of his words was as chilling as the dampness that seeped through the cellar’s stone walls. “I’ve killed you twice already, and I’d hate to do it again. But tomorrow, Lisa, the choice is yours.” The threat was clear, the implication horrifying. Two other souls must have already died at her captor’s hands, lost to his delusions.

Amber’s muscles tensed as she prepared to lift herself from the cot’s meager comfort. Her ankle, an angry reminder of her failed flight, was still painful. Nevertheless, she rose, her movements calculated and deliberate, each step a negotiation as she limped to the root cellar door.

She pressed her ear against the cold, damp wood, trying to gauge the time. From the distant sounds of life outside, birds chirping, the world moving on without her, she deduced that it must be daylight.

Time had become an elusive concept, but she knew it was probably getting close to noon. Her captor might return at any time now. She braced herself for whatever twisted game he wanted her to play. She figured that she’d been held captive in this bleak place for over thirty hours now, each tick of her internal clock a reminder of the nightmare she could not wake from.

The hope that had once fueled her resolve was now just a flickering flame, threatening to extinguish with each passing moment. There was a certain relief in knowing that her ordeal would soon end, but it was a dark, unwelcome sort of solace, the kind that acknowledged that death might be the final chapter of her story. And in a grim way, it seemed almost like something to look forward to. Death would certainly be preferable to living this nightmare forever.

Yet, as the weight of resignation began to settle upon her, Amber’s thoughts shifted—away from her own terror, toward the faces of those she loved. Her parents, who had always provided a sanctuary of warmth and safety; Liam, whose laughter and dreams were intertwined with her own; her college friends, whose camaraderie had made the halls of Ozark State University echo with joy. And Dr. Sarah Reynolds, with her salt-and-pepper hair and compassionate eyes, who had been more than a mentor at Paws and Harmony Rescue—she was a second mother, her presence a constant reassurance in Amber’s life.

The thought of vanishing without a trace, leaving these precious people mired in anguish and confusion, pierced Amber’s heart more sharply than any fear for herself. They deserved better than an unsolved mystery, a void where she once stood. She couldn’t vanish, leaving them with the even the unlikely possibility that she had willingly disappeared, that she had in any way abandoned them. It was not merely her own survival at stake; it was the peace of those she loved. It was for them that she mustered the remnants of her strength, for them that she clung to the fragile thread of hope still tethering her to life.

With a renewed sense of purpose. She hobbled back to the lantern, its light waning as much as her spirits had waned moments before. Carefully, with hands that refused to tremble, she refilled it with kerosene, adjusting the wick with precision born of necessity. The small flame danced back to life, casting an amber glow upon the room, and for a moment, it seemed to whisper to her of possibilities yet unexplored, of survival against all odds.

The room brightened a little as she twisted the wick’s control. The flame took a deep breath, casting a larger pool of light upon her grim surroundings. As she returned to the cot, the solid earth floor of the cellar seemed to provide an unspoken reassurance that she was still part of the living world. She had to keep that connection alive.

Then Amber forced herself to consume the remnants of the stale food left by her captor, washing it down with a swig of bottled water. Each bite was mechanical, sustenance without pleasure, but for the sake of all who held her dear, she had to endure.

Then, with nothing to do but wait, she sat, the cot creaking under her weight, a sound now familiar in the quiet of her confinement. Every faint creak and rustle she could hear from outside seemed to be a herald of what was to come.

Minutes ticked by, their passage marked only by the rhythm of her breathing. Then, breaking through the monotony, footsteps sounded—the sound Amber both dreaded and longed for. It could mean an end to waiting and the beginning of an unknown challenge.

She straightened, her heart leaping with a hope she knew was dangerous to entertain. Not him, not again, let it be someone else, anyone else coming to end this ordeal, someone who had come to rescue her. The rational part of her mind scolded the foolish optimism even as her ears strained for any sign that salvation approached.

“Tomorrow, Lisa, the choice is yours.” The captor’s haunting promise echoed again in her mind. She had to somehow engage in his twisted charade, to adopt the identity he projected onto her if there was any hope of seeing daylight once more. She yearned for a script, some guide to navigate the perilous performance that awaited.

The footsteps stopped, and Amber’s heart hitched in her chest. The hoarse-whispery voice slipped through the door, “Have you thought about what I said last night, Lisa?”

Amber’s lips parted, and she pressed them back together before any sound escaped. She had to be careful, measured. “Yes,” she uttered with a feigned certainty that felt brittle against her tongue. “I am Lisa... I’ve always been Lisa.” She infused her words with an apology, hoping it sounded genuine. “I’m sorry for ever saying otherwise. I don’t know … what got into me. I was wrong. It’ll never happen again.”

A heavy silence stretched between them, thick as the earthen walls that entrapped her. It was a silence loaded with unspoken threats, a pause that seemed to contemplate her fate. And then, the voice again, unsettlingly calm, “Then who am I?”

She felt a jolt of alarm that shook her whole body. Her mind raced, but no clear answer presented itself. She stalled, filling the void with placating words, “That’s obvious. We both know who you are.” Her voice trembled despite her efforts to steady it. “There’s no need to discuss it further.”

“Oh, Lisa. When are you going to learn?” The disappointment in his tone carried an undercurrent of something far more menacing. A veiled declaration that their game might be nearing its grim conclusion.

Panic gripped Amber, her mind spinning like the wheels at her father’s auto repair shop when a car was hoisted up for inspection. She recalled the voice’s previous inquiry, a peculiar one that had seemed irrelevant at the time. “Would you prefer that I call you Nancy?” The question now echoed in the dank confines of the root cellar. Was it a clue, a twisted part of his game? She clung to it as if it were a lifeline.

“Let’s start from scratch, okay?” Amber offered, her voice teetering on the edge of hopeful and playful—though every fiber of her being recoiled in dread. “Would you like me to be Nancy?”

Silence descended, thick enough to smother the meager hope that had sparked within her. Then, finally, a sound came—a sigh, long and laden with satisfaction. It slithered through the crack under the door .

“Yes, I would like that,” the voice replied, his words carrying an eerie contentment. “That would make everything all right.”

The key grated against the lock, metal on metal, a jarring noise that signaled the turning point of her fate. As the door creaked open, light spilled into the root cellar, assaulting her eyes accustomed to the dim glow of the kerosene lantern. She squinted, trying to adjust, to prepare herself for whatever twisted face might appear.

Her breath caught as the figure stepped inside, familiar yet impossibly out of place. Disbelief washed over her in waves, each realization crashing harder than the last. This man—her captor—stood framed in the doorway, a perverse blend of the ordinary and the monstrous. His presence was an intrusion, not just into the physical space of her makeshift prison, but into the very fabric of her reality.

“Mr. Hartley!” Amber’s voice was ragged with disbelief as the man who had taught her history for years now stood before her, an unsettling calm in his eyes. The recognition sparked a brief flare within her, a hope that the familiarity of his face could mean some semblance of safety.

But that moment was fleeting.

Before she could take another breath, the man who stood between Amber and freedom lunged forward with startling agility. His hand whipped around, gripping her shoulder to spin her away from him, and in the same fluid motion, a damp cloth clamped over her mouth. She struggled instinctively, her hands reaching up to claw at the vice-like grip, but her strength was failing her—fast.

The cloth was soaked with a chemical that carried the bitter, acrid taste of danger and forced surrender. It was a taste she recognized all too well—the same one that had pulled her into darkness before. Her mind raced with panic, every lesson on survival, every story of escape she’d ever heard scrambling together in a futile attempt to save herself. But the substance she breathed in was swift and merciless, dragging her down into an abyss where light and sound grew distant.

Her limbs grew heavy, the cellar around her blurring as if water were washing the very air away. The kerosene lantern’s glow dimmed alongside her consciousness, leaving her with the last haunting image of Mr. Hartley’s face—a face that once lectured on the Civil War and the importance of remembering history, now marked in her memory as something far more sinister.

As consciousness slipped from her grasp, Amber’s world condensed to that stifling cloth and the ghostly echo of her own choked gasp. Then, there was nothing but the silence of oblivion.