Saturday Night Special

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
It was meant to be an enjoyable Saturday night out. Unfortunately, devil worshippers had other ideas. Now they're starving to death in a cellar, with only hanging as a way out.

Submitted: May 18, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 18, 2017



David Lomax groaned.  Something wasn't right.  He was on his back, lying on something hard and unyielding.  Something that was definitely not his bed.  And he was cold.  Behind his screwed shut eyes a throbbing pain told him he'd drunk too much.  Vague memories filtered into his mind.  It had been Saturday night when he and Claire had gone to the Hysteria Club.  They'd danced and had drinks.  Then nothing.  Just a great yawning void in his memory.  A complete blank until he’d woken up here.  Wherever "here" was.

The back of his scalp hurt.  So did his elbows and his heals.  He needed to move, to roll over, to get up.  Anything to relieve the pressure where bone lay close to the surface.  He opened one eye.  Everything was a watery blur.  He squinted.  Above him, something white arched to the edge of his vision.  He shut his eye and groaned again.

How unnaturally quiet it was.  There were no cheeping birds, no traffic rumbling, no voices talking.  Just the sound of his shallow breathing.  Where was he?  He opened both eyes and blinked.  Brickwork came into focus.  He rolled his head and saw that he was lying in some sort of vault.  It was hard to make out the details because the light was so poor.  A single bulb, in the centre of the ceiling, was the only source of illumination.  It emitted a feeble yellow glow that struggled to push back the gloom.

He tried to sit up but his body was so stiff it wouldn't respond.So instead he rolled onto his side and used his arm to leaver himself up, pressing down hard on his elbow.  A sudden sharp pain shot up his arm, making him yelp.  He looked down and saw that he was pushing against a large square tile.  A tile that was scuffed, dirty, and brown.  The entire floor was composed of old terra cotta tiles.  

Quickly he transferred his weight from his elbow to his hand and forced himself into a sitting position.  The room tilted violently.  He heard a rushing sound in his ears as he fought the urge to vomit.  The air smelt damp and musty.  He took a deep breath and shivered.  God, he thought, he felt bitterly cold.  With a shock he realised why.  He was naked.  Somebody had stripped him bare.

He sat still until the room stopped spinning.  With his stomach no longer threatening to eject its contents into his lap, he breathed easier.  And as the pain behind his eyes receded to a dull ache, he felt able to take a closer look at his surroundings.  He was in some kind of barrel-vaulted, brick-built cellar, both ends of which were blocked off.  At some time in the past it had been painted white.  In places the paint had peeled away to reveal crumbling red bricks.  Dark mould stains crept up the walls in leprous patches.  A single, grey painted door offered the only visible means of exit.

A groan alerted him to the fact that he was not alone.  He looked over his left shoulder and saw a young, naked woman lying curled up against the wall.  Her back was facing him but he recognised her instantly.  It was Claire Davenport, his girlfriend.

He scrambled over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder.  Gently he shook her.  She groaned again.  Thank god, he thought, at least she isn't dead.  He watched as her eyelids fluttered open.  She turned her head and looked at him with bloodshot eyes.

"My head," she gasped, "it feels awful."  With his help she sat up and looked around.  "Where are we?" she asked, blinking.

"I don't know," he replied plaintively, "a cellar, maybe."

"What!"  Startled, she looked about her.  "Why are we in a cellar?"

He shook his head.  "I don't know," he said.  "I think some nutter in the club spiked our drinks."

"But how did we get here?  How could anyone get the both of us out the club?"

It was a good question, he thought.  She was small.  She would be easy to handle.  But he would be a different matter.  He was well built, and liked to work out.  And anyway, why would anyone target a couple with so many singles about?  A thought struck him.  "What makes you think we ever left the club?" he asked.  "This cellar's old, Victorian at least, and so is the building where the club is.  Maybe this cellar's below the club, and the staff are in on it."

She looked at him open mouthed.  "Why would the staff want to do that?"

"I don't know," he said, "I really don't.  But whatever the reason, they could have provided some heating.  It's damn cold in here."  

He tried to collect his thoughts.  They needed to find a way out, which meant getting off his backside.  Pushing upwards, he rose unsteadily to his feet, his muscles complaining bitterly as his legs took the strain.The blood pounded in his ears.  Thump, thump, thump went his heart.  Dizzy and nauseous, he wondered if he might be having a heart attack.

He took several deep gulps of stale air.  When his heart stopped racing he bent down and grasped her firmly by the hands.  She looked up at him and grimaced.  Ignoring her look, he pulled her to her feet and let go.

Standing unsteadily, She swept her gaze about the cellar.  He saw her stiffen as she caught sight of the two nooses dangling from the ceiling.  Beneath them, on the floor, stood a shiny metal stool.  "What are those?" she asked with a shudder, pointing at the nooses.

"I think you know," he told her.

"But what are they for?" she screeched.

"I think you know that too," he said.

She looked him squarely in the eye.  "We have to get out of here!"

"Well, that's the only way out," he said, pointing to the door.  "Maybe we should see if it's open."  She nodded, and together they tottered the few steps needed to reach it.  The door looked forbiddingly substantial.  He tapped it gently with his knuckles.  It was clearly metal.  He pushed it tentatively.  Nothing happened.  He pushed harder.  Still it wouldn't open.  Reluctantly he faced her and shook his head.  "It won't budge," he said.

"Perhaps you should pull," she suggested.

"I can't," he told her, "there's no handle.  And anyway it opens outwards, away from us."  He pointed to the metal doorframe.  "See how the door lies behind the frame.  It can't open inwards.  It's impossible."

She squinted at the door.  "Yes, I see," she said, nodding reluctantly.  She frowned at the door, then started banging it with the palm of her right hand.  "Hey!" she called out, "hey, let us out!"

He grabbed hold of her wrist.  "Stop that," he said sharply, "you'll hurt yourself."

"You try then," she retorted.  "We need to attract somebody's attention."

He scowled at her briefly, then smiled.  He pointed at the stool.  "I know," he said, "we'll use that.  It'll make a hell of a racket."  He strode over to the stool, picked it up, and returned to the door.  The stool was lighter than he expected, and battered.  Probably aluminium he thought.

"OK," he said, "step back."  He waited for her move out of the way.  Then he held out his arm and swung the stool in a great horizontal arc at the door.  Metal crashed against metal with a deafening boom.  Again and again he pounded the door.  Each thud reverberated off the walls and went spinning around the cellar.  Finally, growing tired, he let his arm fall to his side.  He relaxed his grip on the stool and let it clatter to the floor.  "If that doesn't wake somebody up," he growled, "nothing will."

Silence flooded the cellar.  They waited, straining to hear the faintest noise.  The only sound was their breathing.  He picked the stool up and once more swung it at the door.  Still no one came.  A third time he battered the door.  Again there was no response.  "Bastards!" he yelled in frustration, sending the stool skidding across the floor.

He glared at the door, his fists clenched.  The desire to kick it bubbled up in him, something he resisted out of fear of hurting himself.  The door itself was featureless, save for some streaks of rust and a series of holes near the top.  The holes must be for ventilation he told himself, snorting.  Somebody clearly didn't want them to suffocate.  He blinked.  He was wrong, there was something else.  Quickly retrieving the stool, he placed it at the foot of the door and stood on it.

"What is it?" Claire asked.

"Christ," he said, "the light's bad in here.  I nearly missed it under all this paint."


He ran his index finger across the shape.  "It's a cross," he told her.  "A small upturned crucifix above these ventilation holes."  He got down from the stool and faced her.  "I think we're buggered," he said dryly.

"What do you mean?"  Claire said.  "Why are we buggered?"

"Think," he said.  "An upturned cross.  Don't you get it?"  Claire shook her head.  "Devil worshippers, Satanists.  Evil bastards who won't give a toss about us."


“We’ve been kidnapped by devil worshippers.”  He looked at her tenderly.  It was a strange time to marvel at her slender figure, small breasts, boyish hips, big blue eyes, dainty mouth, petite nose, delicate chin and short auburn hair.  Her small hands, with their brightly painted nails, were clenched.  She stood, swaying slightly, on tiny feet, her arms wrapped tight about her body, the alabaster white of her skin alive with goose pimples.  Without thinking he let his eyes stray to the patch of wispy hair above her vagina.

"What are you doing?"

Sheepishly, he shook his head, his cheeks reddening.  He noticed, with embarrassment, that his manhood was swollen and erect.

"Put that thing away," she told him sharply, "I'm not in the mood."

"Sorry," he mumbled, "I couldn't help it."

"So have you figured out what we're going to do?" she asked, brushing his apology aside.

Their eyes met.  "No," he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.  "All we can do is wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For somebody to come, or ... ."

"Or what?"  Her eyes challenged him to say what was on his mind.

"Or die."  He saw her wince.  Stepping forward he cradled her in his arms and hugged her tight.  "It'll be all right," he said quickly, "somebody will come, you wait and see."

She pushed him away.  "No it won't," she said, shaking her head.  "Nobody's going to come, are they?"

He let his arms hang limp.  Slowly he shook his head.  "No," he said, "I think somebody wants us dead."

"Why?" she asked, "why would anyone want that?  We haven't done anything."

"I don't think it's a matter of what we've done," he replied carefully.  "I think it's some kind of satanic ritual, a sacrifice of some sort."

"A sacrifice?"  He saw her eyes widen.  "You mean a human sacrifice?"

He nodded.  "Yes," he said, "and I don't think we're the first."

"Why do you think we aren‘t the first?" she asked shrilly.

He pointed to the door.  "See those rust streaks.  They're in the exact same place I banged  with the stool.  Somebody else did the same thing.  Tried to get attention and failed."

"How do you know they failed?"

"Because we wouldn't be here if they'd succeeded.  If they'd got out they'd have gone straight to the cops.  All we can do is decide how quickly we want to die."

"What do you mean?"

He pointed to the twin ropes hanging ominously from the ceiling.  "That's the quick way," he said flatly.  "The slow way is to starve to death."

“No!“  She shook her head vigorously.  "Somebody will look for us.  We just have to wait."

"Who’s going to look for us?"

She shrugged.  "Somebody will report us missing."

"OK," he said, "somebody like your sister, you mean, who lives in Scotland and hasn’t spoken to you in months?  Or maybe your neighbours who you hardly ever see?

She glowered.  "People at work, silly.  When we don't turn up they'll report us missing."

"Yeah right," he said, "and what happens then?  Does anyone know where we went Saturday night?"

"They'll put our pictures in the paper," she replied.  "Somebody will recognise us from the club.  The barman who served us, he will."

He snorted.  "It was probably the barman who spiked our drinks.  But even if you're right and somebody does recognise us, so what?  If the cops visit, the staff will just deny having seen us."

"They can ask to see the CCTV footage.  We'll be on that."

"It'll be wiped clean," he said cynically.

“We can’t just give up,”  she wailed, close to tears.

“No, you’re right,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder.  “It’s the perfect place for a pick nick.  Shame we forgot to bring the grub.”  She gave him a wan smile and shook her head.  “You’re right,” he said, “it was a bad joke.  Best take the weight off our feet.”

How long they sat with their backs to the wall, he couldn’t tell.  He tried to sleep, but couldn’t.  The cold, his growing hunger, and his thirst, wouldn’t let him.  Occasionally he would glance at her.  She sat with her eyes shut, her chin resting on her chest.  He wanted to speak, to ask how she was, but didn’t dare in case she was asleep.  It would be a crime to wake her.

“Oh!”  Her voice shook him awake.  He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and yawned.  She looked at him in dismay.  “Did I wake you?  I’m so sorry,” she croaked, “I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he lied, “I was only resting my eyes.”

She gave him a crestfallen smile.  “I need to pee,” she told him, “it woke me up.”

He nodded.  “OK,” he said, pointing to a corner.  “I won’t look.”

She scrambled awkwardly to her feet and trotted off.  As promised, he turned his head and stared at the door.  It was useless, he thought, expecting anyone would come.  They were going to die here.  He heard her start to urinate.  Firmly he pressed his hands over his ears.  His aversion to hearing the sounds of bodily functions was alive and well.

She sat back down beside him.  Lowering his hands, he turned and faced her.  “Everything OK?” he asked with a flicker of a smile.

She shook her head.  “I’m fed up,” she said abruptly.  It’s hopeless, isn’t it?”

“It’s looking a bit dicey,” he said, gazing into her eyes, “but who knows, something might turn up.”

“No it won’t,” she said dejectedly.  “You were right.  We’re here to die.”

He sighed.  

“I’m tired,” she said.  “I’m tired of feeling miserable.  I want to finish it.”

“Let’s give it a bit longer,” he said soothingly.  “No need to rush.”

“No!” she barked, “I’m tired.  I want to end it.”

“All right,” he replied, taken aback.  “if that’s what you want, it shouldn’t take long.”  He looked at her, trying to gauge if she was serious.  Sensing that maybe she was, he got carefully to his feet.  She looked at him standing over her, her mouth slack and her eyes moist.  For a moment he wondered if he’d misjudged her resolve.  He hadn’t.  With difficulty, she scrambled up and faced him.

He nodded, smiled, and went and fetched the stool.  After placing it in position beneath the nooses he looked at her intently.  “Are you sure about this?” he asked gravely, “because we can always wait a while longer.”

“Please,” she said, “I’m so tired.”

He took her hands and slowly walked her to the stool.  “OK, here we are,” he said, gently letting go.  He pointed to the longer of the two ropes.  “I think this one’s meant for you.”  She glanced at it and shrugged.  “You need to stand on the stool,” he told her.  Without a flicker of emotion she placed her right foot on the seat of the stool.  “That’s good,“ he said, “now step up.“  With her right hand in his, and with his left hand on her buttock, she stepped swiftly onto the stool.

Quickly, he followed.  There was hardly room for the two of them.  They stood for a moment, bodies pressed together, gazing into each others unblinking eyes.  Then she smiled and nodded.  He smiled back and reached for her noose.  Drawing it over her head, he placed it under her chin and slid the knot down until there was no slack around her neck.  Then it was his turn.  He quickly put his head through his noose and drew it tight.  

“What now?” she asked as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“Now,” he said, as if explaining to a child, “we kick the stool away.  Whenever you’re ready.”  She sniffed.  A long moment later she bobbed her head up and down.  It was time to go.  He gave her a last, lingering kiss, then sent the stool tumbling across the floor.

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