The House Keepers

The door opened, creaking loudly as daylight flooded the tiny, airless room. A large shape filled the doorway, momentarily blocking the light. The four occupants tensed in fearful anticipation - which of them was going out today? Whose turn was it? Too terrified to speak they waited, knowing the unspeakable horror that awaited at least one of them at the hands of The Keeper.

The hands that seized the youngest occupant of the room lifted him easily over the others. His name was Skinny, and he was abused by The Keeper for much longer periods of time than the other prisoners. Every day, sometimes twice a day, he was hauled out of the room, usually screaming in terror. Today he was so weak from yesterday’s humiliations he could only moan as he was viciously pulled from the room. The door closed immediately, plunging the remaining inhabitants into complete darkness.

Alone, they were silent. All remembered Skinny’s terrifying description of his experiences outside the room on his previous excursions. His tormentor forced him to clear the muck and dirt from the floor. Skinny was pushed into the smallest places, his slight form kicked and shoved so hard that he often returned to the cell bruised and torn. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t fit into the corners or behind the large furniture. The Keeper shoved and pulled at him until he’d cleared away all the dirt. Then he’d be forced to stand in the pile of filth he’d created.

One time, he’d been so exhausted he’d collapsed in the dirt. His tormentor had screamed at him, and hauled him upright again, almost strangling him in the process. During the months he’d been here his hair had started to fall out, his teeth were loose and broken and his body was crusted with the filth he had to clean. The only cleanliness he’d been subjected to since his capture was an occasional submersion in boiling, soapy water. Skinny almost drowned the first time it happened, so harsh was the soap used. His eyes would burn and weep with the agony of his suffering as The Keeper dunked his head into the water repeatedly. It was worse when bleach was added. This usually happened when he’d had a lot of filth to clean up. After the water torture, he’d have to stand on the cold floor, naked and shivering until long after the liquid had dripped off his trembling body. Then he’d be thrown back into the dank, airless cell with the others.

One night The Keeper had forgotten about him, and left him standing in the cold kitchen while eating dinner, and drinking and laughing with guests into the early hours of the morning. That night he’d been so cold and exhausted he collapsed on the floor, and only awoke when he was discovered in the kitchen the next morning. His punishment was severe. The Keeper had fallen over him, and he’d been thrown out of the front door down the steps in a rage. The cracked wrist and broken hand he’d suffered from that savage attack had never healed properly, and the pain got worse the colder and wetter he became. But the tormenter didn’t care. The more pain Skinny suffered, the better.

Inside the cell another occupant was trembling. The Old Man was usually the next one to be dragged from the room, feet first with his head banging against the floor. He’d always been healthy and clean, and taken great pride in his appearance. That charming trait was no longer an option in this prison. His hair, once sleek and shining with health, was now filthy, full of grease and lumps of dirt – the direct result of the torment inflicted on him. The Keeper liked to submerge his head and shoulders in water, holding him under for minutes at a time… but not for long enough to kill him. As his lungs began to burn with the lack of oxygen his head would be lifted out of the water by his hair. The Keeper would laugh before throwing him to the ground to wipe the floor cleared by his companion.

He, like his young, fragile cohort, had also suffered with the strong chemicals added to his water torture. However these additives were far stronger, and had caused his skin to slowly start peeling off, like layers of flimsy paper, leaving a raw and blistered surface underneath. The wounds were never allowed to heal. The strength of the chemicals was such he could feel their smell oozing out of every pore in his body and taste it in his mouth. Indeed so many poisons had been introduced to his system the only way his body could get rid of them was to sweat continuously.

The Old Man was often taken from the room with a third prisoner, who was unable to walk. Those days he’d wish he was dead. He’d be forced to hold The Cripple while The Keeper fed the latter a cocktail of foul, disgusting liquids. He thought they were being used as guinea pigs to test different toxins, because the liquids used on The Cripple were many and varied in toxicity and colour. In the darkness he heard a frightened sob escaping from The Cripple’s mouth, and he slid closer towards the noise, reaching out to comfort his friend. Both sat together in the dark, taking comfort from their closeness in the horrible, murky little cell.

The last occupant, The Machine, was the only one of the four still strong enough to fight their tormentor. He was large and strong, his body firm and fit after months of hard labour. Because of this The Keeper worked him harder than anyone else. The Machine possessed a strength of character that all his companions lacked. He was determined his spirit would not be broken down like the other prisoners. The Keeper saw this as a challenge, and was determined to crush The Machine’s courage at any cost.

His torture was worse than anything delivered to his three companions. Every day, while electric shocks pulsed through his entire body a variety of filthy solids were forced down his throat. The shocks lasted a couple of minutes, and were repeated five or six times a day. At first the pain burning through his body was so terrible he’d bitten through his tongue, forcing back the scream of pain that sprang to his lips. A pipe was forced into his mouth, over the bleeding tongue and down into his throat. Through this pipe he’d ingested revolting “food” – was there any other word for it? Pieces of rotten food and vegetation, some of which was so old bacteria had started to feast on it. Any variety of insects – both living and dead - lumps of coal and wood and other things he could not bear to think about had been forced into him through the tube.

“How have we survived this for so long?” he reflected, listening to The Cripple’s sobs and the comforting murmurings of The Old Man. “How much longer can we endure this nightmare?”

At that moment the door was flung open. The Keeper’s voice, dripping with venom, thundered into the tiny room.

“Your turn today, my big, brave boy!” the voice boomed. “And you’re going to work harder than you ever have before!”

Rough, calloused hands seized his neck, and he was pulled from the room. This time the door lock did not close fully, so a tiny crack of light filtered through the doorway onto the floor and wall. The remaining two inhabitants gasped with surprise, and froze, expecting The Keeper to come back into the room to take them out.

But no footsteps came back. No hands reached in to drag them out from the cell and into the filthy torture chambers. They both began to breathe quietly, relishing the slit of light dancing through the crack and the smell of clean air into their filthy cramped prison.

“Perhaps if we rest long enough we might be able to escape,” whispered The Cripple, hope filling his trembling voice.

“And how far do you think we’d be able to get, given the physical condition we’re in?” said The Old Man, his voice unsteady. “Let’s just sit here and breathe in the fresh air. It could also be a sign. It’s never happened before…” and the two remained in their room, taking comfort from the sliver of light and the breath of fresh air that slipped into the room.

Inside, The Keeper had already attached the feeding pipe, and connected him to the electricity. Before the current could be activated a cigarette dangling from The Keeper’s lips dropped grey ash onto the front of the shirt. Swearing angrily, The Keeper brushed it away before it could burn the fabric. The Machine tensed, waiting for the first rush of electrical current to charge into his body, powerful and burning. He found the initial surge of the voltage was always the worst, and had trained himself to remain silent by holding his breath when the torture started. If he could do that then he could handle the entire length of the electric shock.

And The Keeper hated his silence, wanting to hear him screaming in agony. Those screams gave much pleasure. He took a deep breath as the hand to flip the switch that would instigate his torture was lifted.

The telephone interrupted them, ringing shrilly from the next room. Cursing again, The Keeper ambled through the door to answer it. The Machine relaxed again, concentrating on his breathing as he looked around the room to see what was to be shoved down his throat today. Nothing out of the ordinary, same piles of filth he was fed every day. He glanced over to the fireplace, and froze.

There was a small pool of liquid glistening in front of the fireplace. Was it water? Fluids had never featured in their sessions before. He listened, hearing The Keeper laugh and ask the caller what was he was doing today. Knowing his tormentor would be back soon he moved closer to the liquid. He didn’t want to disturb the electrical cord. The Keeper would know he’d been moving around.

The Machine had a keen sense of smell, and he didn’t need to get very close to the liquid to realize The Keeper’s dog had been in here last night. His nostrils flared slightly with the acrid smell, and he turned dejectedly, wanting to get back to his original position before his movements were discovered.

“I guess I’ve been fed worse,” he thought, shuddering with disgust. He often got through these sessions fantasizing that he was eating a delicious meal at a top class cordon bleu restaurant. Perhaps he could pretend he was sipping a glass of vintage French pinotage, or maybe a fine cognac.

Reaching his original position he lifted the electrical cord as he turned – and froze for the second time.

His mind went into overtime as he saw the answer to his prayers. The answer to all their prayers, in fact. The chance for freedom; the release from the torture and pain they’d endured for so long. They’d be clean again, breath fresh air and feel the warm sun on their bodies. All he had to do was move the electric cable. And pray it wasn’t noticed. Quickly he moved the cables, returning to his original position as the telephone call was terminated. Shuffling back into the room, The Keeper paused in the doorway. His heart was in his mouth – would the change be noticed? He dared not move. This was the only chance for freedom he’d seen since he got here a year ago. Surely this unique opportunity wouldn’t be taken away now?

He heard the sound of hoarse coughing. The Machine sighed in relief – obviously the years of heavy smoking were starting to affect The Keeper. Not for long, though. His tormentor moved over to the power point, and flipped the switch. Immediately he felt the electric shock hit him, burning through his veins. The pain was extreme, but knowing that this might be the last time he had to bear this suffering he remained silent. Through his pain he felt The Keeper’s rough hands seize him. An instant later he felt The Keeper’s whole body jerk. An instant later he heard the screams of agony, smelled the flesh and hair burning. The plan had worked. The Keeper was dying. And he was glad.

Two weeks later…

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” the neighbour said to Marie. “Such a tragic and unnecessary accident.”

“Thank you, Mrs Cromwell” replied Marie. “They say she must have forgotten to put Rocky outside before she went to bed, and never noticed that he’d made a mess in the lounge.”

“Such a stroke of bad luck, the damaged cord lying in the puddle. It really was a freak accident,” the neighbour continued. “Tell me – what are you going to do with the vacuum cleaner?”

“Well, it’s only a year old,” answered Marie. “The agent says it’s still under guarantee, but because Mom damaged the cord through neglect it’s null and void. He’s not going to charge me because of what happened to Mom, so I’ve decided to get it repaired, and I think I might just keep it. Always good to have a spare machine.”

“You make sure you look after it, my girl. Must be careful of these domestic appliances – treat them right and you’ll get years of good service from them.”

The neighbour walked away, and Marie went back to the house for one last time. She cleared up her mother’s house, which would now be sold. The house had been really filthy – Marie had been disgusted when she’d first gone to the house after her mother’s electrocuted corpse had been found. She’d spent the last two days clearing up the house so prospective buyers would be tempted to make an offer. She supposed Mom had lost her pride in her house once Dad died, although she had continued to have her friends around for the weekly bridge games.

“I wonder why none of those bridge ladies didn’t comment upon the filthy house,” Marie mused as she closed the windows. “I suppose they were probably too scared of the old battleaxe to say anything,” she thought, sadly.

Locking the house, Marie went over to the car. Checking that the broom, the mop and the bucket were clean and dry, she carefully put them into the back of the car. Not surprising how filthy her house was, seeing how dirty her cleaning appliances were, thought Marie. She’s had to wash them all herself before she could bear to use them.

As she drove through the gate her cellphone rang. The caller told her the vacuum cleaner was now fixed and working. She told him she’d be over in ten minutes to collect the machine, because she’d decided to keep it as a spare.

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