A Vacation into Terror

Chapter One: The Calm Before

Carol and I had planned a surprise, spur of the moment, anniversary vacation to North Cascades National Park in Washington State. We loved the national parks of the great northwest, and we loved to hike. It was a spontaneous idea.

We booked our travel.

We arrived at SEATAC airport on Saturday, July 17 at 2 pm. We stayed the night on Lake Union at the Silver Cloud hotel. The next morning, we had coffee and bagels, packed our camping gear, and headed out in our rental car for the Northern Cascades.

The ride took several hours, and we arrived at Lake Diablo in late afternoon. We were both very excited to get to the campground. We planned to camp at Colonial Creek campground near two of our favorite hikes, Pyramid Lake and Diablo Lake Trail.

We set up camp, turned in early and got up all the earlier the next morning to begin our day.

The snowcapped mountains rose like giants around us, their peaks slicing through the blue haze. Pine-scented wind swept through the tall trees, and in the distance, the emerald waters of Lake Diablo shimmered beneath the late morning sun. Carol leaned back in the folding chair, her hiking boots crossed at the ankles, a stainless-steel mug of camp coffee steaming in her hand.

"Not bad for a last-minute anniversary trip," she said, grinning.

I nodded, pushing another log onto the campfire. "Not bad at all. Beats the hell out of that cabin we stayed at in Tahoe."

She laughed and for a moment, I believed we were exactly where we were supposed to be. Just the two of us, surrounded by nature, no phone signal, no calendar reminders, no outside world. We needed this escape.

Everything about this place felt ancient, like time passed differently here. The sound of water lapping the lake shore. The whisper of the wind through the pines. It was easy to believe we were alone.

Too easy.

That night, after a quiet dinner by the fire, Carol leaned against me as the flames cast shadows across our tent. We talked about the day's activities. The plan was to hike Lake Diablo Trail the next morning. It's about a 7-mile hike with beautiful scenery; we packed our lunch. We planned to stop for lunch on the trail by one of the trails overlooks. I kissed Carol's forehead and off we went.

We were about 4 miles on the hike, when I heard the faint sound of twigs snapping further into the woods ahead of us.

Carol said in a low voice. "Bear?"

"I don't think so," I whispered. The sound was too deliberate. Too slow.

We stepped a little further down the trail, being very cautious to look out for wildlife.

That's when I saw him.

He stood just beyond the tree line, still, silent. A tall man with a grizzled beard and a heavy coat that looked a generation too old. A hunting rifle rested against his shoulder. Even in the shadows, I could see the shine of the steel.

"Carol," I whispered urgently, "get behind me."

She was confused. "What is it?"

He stepped forward and spoke, his voice gravelly and sharp.

"Don't move. Don't speak. Come here, now."

I froze. For a moment, I thought it was a joke. A ranger playing some horrible prank. But the way he held that rifle told a different story. He wasn't smiling. And he wasn't bluffing.

"Over here. Both of you. Hands where I can see them."

Carol clung to my arm; her eyes wide.

"Who are you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

He said nothing at first. Just motioned with the rifle toward the deep forest.

"Walk."

And we did.

There was no trail, just a thick underbrush.

Where was he taking us?

This can't happen, but it was.

He had us leave everything behind, our packs, our phones, our food. We walked because we had no choice.

The trail grew stepper. The trees thickened. The sun disappeared behind the canopy.

And somewhere deep in the forest, our real journey began.

Chapter Two: The Compound

We walked for hours.

At first, I tried to count our steps, some attempt to hold on to reason, but the terrain was uneven, and every twisted root and cold splash of creek water reminded me just how far from civilization we were.

Carol's hand squeezed mine from time to time. Neither of us dared to speak.

The man behind us, The Old Man, was methodical. He didn't bark orders or rush us. He just walked, weapon in hand, always five paces behind. Watching. Calculating. Like a shepherd guiding strays toward a pen.

Eventually, the terrain shifted. The trail narrowed until it was barely visible, more animal path than hiking trail. And then, as if we crossed an invisible threshold, the forest opened into a wide hollow surrounded by steep ridges.

That's when we saw it.

A weathered A-frame cabin sat crookedly in the clearing, flanked by two smaller outbuildings. One looked like a shed. The other, disturbingly, had barred windows. A tall fence, made of stripped tree trunks lashed together, bordered the clearing. At the top of the gate hung a rusted sign with faded red paint:

KEEP OUT. NOT A JOKE.

The Old Man motioned us forward with the rifle. We passed under the gate and heard it creak shut behind us.

Inside the compound, everything felt... quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your hearing and makes your pulse loud.

"Inside," he said, nodding toward the cabin.

We stepped inside.

The air was heavy with wood smoke and something older, mildew. There was no electricity, no plumbing. Just shelves lined with jars, an old iron stove, and a single table in the center.

Carol's voice finally broke the silence.

"Why are you doing this?"

The Old Man closed the door behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place felt like a final nail.

He didn't answer at first. He set his rifle down on a peg and removed a battered field coat, revealing a faded army shirt underneath.

Then he looked at us.

"You're soft," he said, his voice slow and deliberate. "All of you. Tourists. Hikers. Playing at being part of nature, but not one of you could survive a week out here without your phones and trail maps."

"We don't want trouble," I said, stepping slightly in front of Carol. "Just let us go, and we'll..."

"You'll what?" he interrupted, his tone not angry. "Report me? Call in the park rangers? Bring helicopters to my doorstep?"

He stepped closer.

"You crossed into something bigger than yourselves. You'll stay. You'll learn."

Carol took a small step back, her voice trembling. "You can't keep us here."

The Old Man tilted his head. "But I already am."

We spent that first night in what he called the guest cabin, a one-room shack with a cot, a bucket, and a padlocked door. I had an idea that the bucket was to be our toilet. How disgusting was that.

The Old Man locked us in the guest cabin just as the sun set.

I held Carol as tightly as I could. She didn't cry, but I felt her shoulders tremble.

"I'm going to find a way out of here," I whispered into her hair.

She nodded, not speaking. Just breathing.

Outside, somewhere in the trees, a bird called.

And The Old Man whistled back.

Chapter Three: Rules and Routines

By the second morning, the fear hadn't dulled, it had just become familiar.

We woke on the rough cot, our bodies stiff from the chill and the thin padding. The Old Man opened the door at first light, wordless as always, but now with a small tin bowl in his hands. It held something gray, sticky, and vaguely warm.

"Oats," he said flatly, setting it on the ground just inside. "No food unless you earn it."

Then he left.

Carol and I stared at each other. The message was clear: we were no longer guests. We were becoming his property.

We took turns eating the bland mush, not speaking. Outside, the sounds of birds and trees clashed with the unnatural silence of the compound. You don't realize how loud the forest is until you're listening for something human, another voice, a distant highway, a jet overhead. But here, it was just us. And him.

Later, he returned.

"Out. Work starts now."

The Old Man had us remove our shoes and he took them. We stepped outside barefoot and cautious. The morning air was freezing cold on our skin. The forest pressed present on all sides. The Old Man pointed to a stack of split logs beside a chopping block and a rusted axe.

"Stack those against the cabin wall. Neat. Tight. Like you care."

And that was how it started.

Each day had its rhythm. Mornings began with some version of food, barely enough to be called breakfast. Then labor. Moving wood. Clearing brush. Digging shallow pits with rusty shovels. At night, we returned to the shack, locked in again, exhausted, and sore.

The compound itself was disturbingly self-contained. A narrow trench ran behind the cabins as a latrine. Rain barrels fed into tin buckets. He grew root vegetables in a weed-choked garden. It was as if he'd planned for years to live without civilization and to ensure no one else could interfere.

Carol stayed quiet at first, but I could her thoughts working behind her eyes. She watched him. The way he moved. The moments he turned his back. His patterns. His weakness wasn't physical, it was pride. I was beginning to think he believed we were broken already.

One afternoon, while we were scrubbing buckets near the edge of the garden, Carol whispered, barely audible.

"He sleeps lighter on the left side. I heard him turn over all night."

I glanced at her. "You think we can take him?"

"Not yet," she replied. "But we're learning. Just like he wants us to. And that might be the key to our escape."

That night, the Old Man stood at the cabin door longer than usual. His silhouette blocked the moonlight.

"You're doing well," he said to Carol and I, thoughtfully. "Better than the last ones."

"The last ones?" I asked.

He didn't answer. Just smiled.

Carol reached for my hand under the thin blanket that night.

I squeezed it tight.

Chapter Five -- Learning Obedience

By the end of the first week, the illusion of choice had completely vanished.

We rose when he told us to. We worked when he commanded it. We slept only when the bolt slid into place and the light outside our shack disappeared into darkness.

But it wasn't the labor that broke us. It wasn't hunger or isolation.

It was him--the way he watched us.

Not like prey. Not like prisoners.

Like we were something he was shaping.

He never touched Carol. Not at first. He simply... looked. Studied. Tested her.

"You hold your head too high," he said one morning as we chopped kindling. "You're still trying to pretend you don't belong to me."

Carol's jaw clenched, but she said nothing. That was something we had both learned quickly: resistance earned punishment. Obedience earned... nothing. But even nothing felt like mercy.

That evening, as the last embers of dusk burned away, he called us to the main cabin. This was new.

"Inside," he said, voice low.

Carol hesitated. I felt her hand slip into mine. The Old Man noticed.

He smirked.

"Love," he muttered. "That's what makes people weak. That's what breaks them."

Inside the cabin, the room was lit by a single oil lamp. Shadows danced along the walls, casting flickers over the rough wooden floor and shelves lined with jars. A single chair sat in the center.

"George," he said, "you'll sit."

I didn't move.

He took a step forward, eyes locked on mine.

"I'm not going to ask twice."

I obeyed. The chair creaked beneath me.

He circled me slowly. I could hear Carol breathing behind me--slow, tight. Afraid.

The Old Man stopped in front of her.

"You've learned to work. To serve. But submission," he said, "real submission... comes when there's nothing left to hold on to. Not pride. Not privacy. Not even each other."

He turned to me.

"George. Watch."

Carol's eyes flicked to mine. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. I saw the war happening behind her eyes. The struggle between fear and strength, between refusal and obedience.

But she stepped forward.

She stood before him, shoulders trembling.

He didn't touch her. Not yet.

He just looked at her and said, softly, "Take your clothes off."

I wanted to speak. To scream. To stop him.

But I stayed in the chair. Because the rules were clear: only speak when told. Only move when allowed.

"You heard me, do it now," The Old Man raised his voice.

Carol slowly reached for the buttons on her shirt. Her hands trembled.

She began to undress. First her top, then her shorts, then she hesitated.

"I said take everything off, remove everything now," His voice was stern.

So, Carol removed her bra and panties, one piece at a time. Under his eyes. And mine.

I saw her vulnerability. Her strength.

Carol was now completely naked and exposed.

And I felt my own helplessness like chains around my wrists.

The Old Man turned toward me.

"This is the cost of freedom," he said. "Obedience. Total. Unquestioning. Freedom doesn't come from running. It comes from surrender."

That night, he didn't lock us in the shack.

He let us sleep in the cold, curled together under the open sky, like animals that had learned their place. I gave her my shirt and we cuddled closely and shared bodily warmth.

I held her. She didn't cry.

But when I finally whispered, "I'm sorry," her voice was barely a breath.

"I know."

Chapter Six: Conditioning

The reward came the next morning, in the form of a warm meal.

Not oats. Not cold roots pulled from the garden.

It was meat. Real meat. Cooked over a flame. Seasoned with something unfamiliar and rich. The smell hit us before we entered the cabin.

The Old Man had set two metal plates on the table. Steam still rose from them.

"Sit," he said.

We obeyed without hesitation.

Carol looked at me, uncertain. We hadn't eaten like this since the evening before the hike. No questions were asked. We ate.

After the first bite, Carol closed her eyes. A small sound escaped her throat, a moan. I felt guilt rise in my stomach even as I kept chewing. Hunger had a way of muting morality.

He watched us eat in silence; arms folded.

"You've done well," he finally said. "You're learning. You're listening."

We didn't speak.

He stepped closer, pulled a small, folded cloth from his pocket, and unwrapped something inside, two silver rings.

They were crude. Handmade. One was larger. One smaller.

He set them between us.

"Symbols," he said. "Of your new bond of service to me. You wear them when I say. You take them off when I tell you. They do not belong to you. You belong to them."

Carol's fingers hovered over the smaller ring. She didn't move.

The Old Man stared at her.

"Put it on."

She obeyed.

So, did I.

He smiled, just faintly.

"You see?" he said. "Obedience brings peace."

That peace was short-lived.

The next morning, we were woken not by his voice, but by a bell.

A shrill, piercing clang from outside the shack. Over and over. Five times.

When we emerged, he was waiting with a chain and a small metal collar.

Carol froze.

"No," I said immediately, stepping in front of her. "Not her."

The Old Man raised one brow.

"Good," he said. "That's the response I wanted."

He tossed the collar at my feet. It clanged against the dirt.

"You'll wear this today, George. Not her. You'll watch."

Before I could protest, he pulled a length of rope from his coat and tied my wrists tightly behind me. He wasn't violent, just precise. Like he'd done ita hundred times before.

He secured the chain to a post near the edge of the garden and locked the collar in place. I couldn't move more than a few feet in any direction.

Then he turned to Carol.

"You get a new role today," he said. "You'll serve me all day. You'll follow me. You'll answer my voice alone. You're my slave for today."

Her eyes darted in my direction. I gave the smallest nod I could.

She followed The Old Man.

For hours, I watched from the post. Watched as he walked her from task to task, fetching, folding, kneeling beside him as he carved wood, completely naked. Nothing overtly cruel. Just enough to reframe her as his. Just enough to drive the wedge deeper.

When he finally brought her back, her expression had changed.

Not fear.

Not even anger.

Something colder. Something withdrawn.

That night, after he locked us back in the shack, she didn't speak for a long time.

I sat with the collar still around my neck, my hands still numb from the rope.

"Did he touch you?" I asked.

Carol shook her head.

"He didn't need to."

I swallowed.

"This is how he breaks us," I said quietly.

She looked up, red-rimmed eyes.

"Then we can't let him."

And that was the moment--quiet and small--when everything shifted.

We were done surviving.

Now, we needed an escape plan.

Chapter Seven: The Breaking Point

The cold morning air wrapped around us like a warning.

The Old Man had summoned us to the clearing just after sunrise, his breath visible in the pale light, a long metal chain coiled in one hand. The same steel collar I had worn the day before now hung from his belt like a trophy.

"Come here," he said, his voice low, but sharp enough to cut through the frost.

We stepped forward, cautious.

His eyes fell on me first.

"Shirt off."

I hesitated.

"Do it," he snapped.

I obeyed.

The chain felt colder than I remembered. The collar locked around my neck with a finality that settled into my bones. He tugged the chain taut, forcing me down onto my knees in the dirt.

"Now," he said, turning to Carol, "I want to see you."

Carol blinked.

"What do you mean?" she asked, though I think she already knew.

He stepped closer, eyes scanning her slowly.

"You've been hiding your husband. No more."

She flinched. My hands clenched at my sides, useless. I couldn't move. Couldn't stop this.

"Kneel," he said. "Now."

Carol looked at me. Not for permission. Not for protection. But for strength. I gave her the only thing I could: a small nod.

She kneeled before him.

Her naked body was fully exposed in the early light, the Old Man moved closer as she knelt before him. His gaze wasn't leering. It was clinical. Possessive.

"You're learning," he murmured, stepping behind her. "You're both learning. This is what it means to belong."

He moved in front of her. And without warning, he reached out, cupped her face--and kissed her on the lips.

It wasn't gentle.

It wasn't violent.

It was deliberate. Intentional. A statement.

Carol stiffened and turned her head away from him. Her eyes flew open.

I felt a heat rise in my chest, shame, rage, helplessness, all crashing together. My knees pressed harder into the dirt as I fought the instinct to lunge, to scream, to stop what I couldn't stop.

When he pulled away from her, he turned to me with a crooked smile.

"She didn't resist," he said. "Because deep down, she understands. Obedience is freedom."

Carol stood still, arms at her sides, her eyes locked on mine. Not apologizing. Not crying. Just present. As if to say: I am still here.

That moment, as twisted and humiliating as it was, lit something new in both of us.

Not fire.

Not rage.

But resolve.

We had reached the breaking point. And now we understood exactly how far he was willing to go.

Which meant we finally knew what we were up against.

Chapter Eight: Rituals of Control

The fire crackled just outside the cabin.

I could smell the smoke before I saw it, thick and bitter, curling in from the open doorway like a warning. The Old Man had built a small pyre of dry wood and brush, and in his hand, he held Carol's clothes, neatly folded, deliberately arranged. One by one, he fed each item into the flames.

Her blouse. Her shorts. Her underwear.

She watched from where she stood, arms crossed over her chest, her breath quick and shallow in the cool air. The last remnants of her privacy, turning to ash at her feet.

"This isn't punishment," he said. "It's clarity."

He turned to her, wiping his hands on his coat. "Clothes give you comfort. Illusion. You don't need them anymore. You belong here. To the earth. To me."

Carol's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

I pulled against my restraints, the steel biting into my wrists. He had chained me to the wall post near the stove--upright, arms raised above my head, like some crude effigy. Every time I moved, the chains rattled, echoing in the space like laughter.

The Old Man stepped toward her. "Come here."

She didn't move.

His voice sharpened. "Now."

Reluctantly, she obeyed, walking barefoot across the wooden floor. She stopped in front of him, spine straight but trembling.

He grabbed the small wooden stool from beside the table and sat down, then patted his knee with his hand, beckoning her to bend over his knee.

Carol stood naked, frozen in her tracks.

"No," I said before I could stop myself.

He didn't even look at me. "Speak again without permission, and you don't eat for two days."

He waited. Silent. Expectant.

Carol stepped forward, slowly, as if every inch she gave him cost something sacred. She bent her naked body across his knee, her arms stretched out in front of her. Her body, already shivering from the cold, now trembled from something deeper.

He adjusted her slightly, then spoke--not to her, but to me.

"She resists in little ways," he said. "But resistance only slows her learning. That's what this is about. Learning."

Then, without ceremony, he raised his hand and brought it down across her bare ass with a crack.

Carol flinched. The sound rang through the cabin like a shot.

Another crack. Then another.

He spanked her with deliberate, punishing rhythm -- slow, hard, spaced far enough apart to let each strike sting on its own.

First one ass cheek then the other.

I couldn't look away. I didn't want to see. But I had to see. Because if she was enduring it, I owed her that much.

She didn't cry. But after the sixth or seventh strike, she started breathing faster. Her back arched involuntarily. Her ass a dark shade of pink.

The Old Man paused, letting the silence hang heavy.

"You're doing well," he said, voice calm. "Pain is a teacher. It strips away what doesn't serve."

He delivered three more hard slaps, and when it was over, he stood and helped her to her feet with a kind of gentleness that turned my stomach.

Her ass was bright red. Clearly visible were imprints of the old man's hands. Her legs trembled. But her chin stayed high. She rubbed her bare bottom with both hands to ease the pain.

"You'll sleep in the main cabin tonight with me," he said. "Not in the shack. No blankets. No shame. You will learn to sleep as you are."

He turned back to me.

"You, George... will stay here. Alone. You will think about what happens when you forget your place."

Then he led her out, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor, the door closing behind them with a heavy finality.

I was alone.

The room was cold.

The chains didn't hurt anymore -- not compared to everything else.

I stared at the scorched black of the fire outside, where her clothes had disappeared, and I told myself this wasn't the end.

I could hear faint moans coming from the main cabin. I could not even imagine what he was doing to my beautiful wife.

This wasn't defeat.

This was memory.

And I would remember everything.

Chapter Nine: Submission

By the third morning, the sound of the door opening had become a ritual.

The Old Man's boots thudded against the wooden floor. The chain creaked as he checked my collar. Then he turned to her.

"Come," he'd say.

And Carol would go.

Every day, it was the same. Ten strokes on her bare ass.

She would be led to the center of the room and bent over the wooden stool, her bare ass exposed for him, her body trembling. I remained chained to the wall, a silent witness to her pain.

The spanking was not just punishment anymore.

It was a ceremony.

He did it with the same precision, the same rhythm--five blows, a pause, five more. Always with his open hand on her bare ass. Always in front of me.

Her skin had started to change.

The flush of red had turned to deep purple, black-and-blue bruises blooming across her thighs and ass. She winced more now. She staggered each time when it was over. But she never cried.

That was what terrified me most.

She was adapting.

He was reshaping her.

I stopped speaking days ago. Stopped asking questions. Stopped begging him to stop. The words felt useless, like air in a vacuum.

On the fourth night, after another round of "discipline," The Old Man sat across from her while she knelt naked kneeling on a folded blanket, her eyes low.

"You've come far," he said quietly. "But obedience isn't just about endurance."

He pulled a canteen of moonshine from his coat, took a slow sip, then looked at her with unsettling calm.

"There's a different kind of submission. A willing one. The kind that brings an end to punishment."

Carol's breathing had grown shallow. She didn't speak.

"If you gave yourself to me," he continued, "your body, freely--this could stop. The pain. The bruises. No more discipline. No more chains for your husband."

My heart thudded against my ribs.

She looked up. Slowly.

"What do you mean?" she asked, though we both knew she understood.

The Old Man didn't blink.

"I mean I won't hurt you anymore. If you choose to please me sexually, choose it--it changes everything. No more punishment. No more performance. Just you and me. As it's meant to be, but you will do it willingly without questioning my requests."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"You'd be surprised how peaceful surrender can feel."

Then he stood, as if the offer was merely a suggestion, and walked to the door.

"You have until morning to decide," he said. "You can decide together. Or not at all."

The door closed behind him.

For the first time in days, we were alone.

Carol sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, naked, eyes unfocused.

I spoke first.

"You don't have to do this."

She didn't look at me.

"I don't know if I can take another ass beating," she whispered. "It hurts so bad. I can't hardly sit down my ass aches so badly. It's not just the spanking. All of it. The cold. The silence. Being... watched."

My throat tightened.

"I know," I said. "But giving him what he wants--he wins."

Her eyes finally met mine. There was no defiance in them. No fire.

Only fear.

"I think he's already winning."

I didn't know what to say.

And for the first time since we'd been taken, I felt something deeper than fear creeping into my chest.

Hopelessness.

Chapter Ten: The Pact

She didn't speak the next morning.

Not as The Old Man unlocked the door. Not as he told her to stand. Not as he waited.

She just nodded.

It was the smallest movement, but it carried the weight of something enormous. A surrender, deliberate and complete.

"I will give you what you want," she said. Her voice was soft, but steady. "All of it. No resistance. If..."

The Old Man raised an eyebrow.

She continued.

"If I can spend nights in the guest cabin. With my husband. Alone."

The room went silent.

Even the birds beyond the cabin had gone still.

The Old Man stepped forward, slowly, like a predator considering the terms of a deal it had already won.

"You'll give yourself fully," he said. "Without hesitation. Without condition."

Carol nodded again.

The Old Man smiled, not warmly. There was no joy in it. Only power.

"Then we have an understanding."

That night, he didn't lock me in chains.

I was left in the shack, the collar removed, a blanket folded at my feet. When the door opened just before dark, Carol stepped inside.

She was quiet.

She moved slowly, her body tense. Her eyes were red, but dry.

George didn't ask what had happened that day.

He already knew.

She laid beside him on the cot, her head against his chest, her breath shallow. He held her without speaking, listening to the slow rhythm of her heartbeat. She felt different--lighter in some ways, and yet far away.

When she finally spoke, it was only in a timid voice.

"I'm sorry. He had his way with me. I had to have sex with him. It's the only way I could be with you."

I didn't respond. There was nothing to forgive. Nothing to fix. We were beyond that now.

The next morning, The Old Man summoned us both.

Outside, in the clearing, a small iron brand glowed in the fire.

George saw it and felt his stomach twist.

Carol stood with her arms folded, her jaw tight. The Old Man motioned Carol toward the stool in the center of the yard, the same one she had been bent over so many times before.

"This is part of it," he said. "A brand. Permanent. So, there is no doubt of your choice."

Carol didn't flinch.

She stepped forward, lowered herself over the stool, and braced her arms against the wood.

George turned his head, but the hiss of the brand meeting skin tore through the air. The smell of burning flesh.

She gasped--just once--but didn't cry out.

When he finished with my wife, the Old Man stepped back and admired his work.

A small brand--shaped like an S, now marred the curve of her right ass cheek.

He smiled, then turned away.

"That's enough for today. Go to George."

She limped over to me without looking back.

Carol and I walked in silence to the guest cabin. And when the door closed behind us, Carol collapsed in my arms.

Partly from the pain, but also from everything else.

Chapter Eleven: Routine. Ritual. Rule.

It was strange how quickly human minds adapt.

Two weeks ago, we were lying in a tent beneath the stars, planning the next leg of our hike through the Cascades.

Now, I watched my wife kneeling naked at The Old Man's feet, waiting for his next command, the morning light glowing across the fresh scar on her skin -- still raw around the edges, the edges of the S brand raised and pink.

He called Carol "Girl."

He called me "Husband."

Like a joke.

Or a reminder.

My chains had become less frequent. He no longer needed them. I obeyed when called. Ate when permitted. I had learned my place, and he had learned the limits of my defiance. I was not dangerous.

Not anymore.

Our lives followed a rhythm now.

At sunrise, the bell.

At midday, the chores.

At dusk, the rituals.

Carol was either stripped completely naked or dressed in a loose wrap of coarse linen that barely covered her. It was the only thing she was allowed to wear if she wore anything at all. He called it "practical."

"Modesty," he said, "is for people who have something left to hide."

She never spoke back anymore. She didn't need to. He rarely touched her in front of me, but his eyes did, always watching, always measuring her silence, and I saw evidence of the marks he left on Carols body where he had his way with her.

Some nights he summoned her to the main cabin.

Other nights, he granted her time in the guest shack with me, his twisted form of a reward. Sometimes she came to me shaken, quiet. At other times, she was oddly calm, even gentle, as if carrying a burden too fragile to put into words.

We never spoke about what happened in his cabin.

That was part of the routine too.

"Discipline," he called it when he struck her.

"Favor," when he didn't.

He no longer needed to break us because he believed he already had.

Carol walked differently now. Slower. Controlled. Her eyes stayed low unless she was spoken to. But sometimes, when she was sure he wasn't looking, I'd catch a flicker of the woman I married.

The Old Man had begun speaking of permanence.

"You were chosen," he told us one evening. "Not by fate but by me. You fit here. You belong here."

He called it "reclamation."

He said we were being made pure.

He said the outside world was a sickness.

We didn't argue anymore.

What was the point?

But one night, as we lay together in the guest shack, her naked body curled against mine beneath the thin blanket, I felt her breath slow.

"I don't remember what my voice sounds like when I laugh," she whispered.

I closed my eyes.

I didn't either.

Chapter Twelve: The Scratch in the Stone

The next day, the Old Man sent me to the tool shed.

It was rare for him to trust me alone, even for a moment. He usually sent Carol, always Carol, with quiet orders and that constant, clinical gaze. But today, he handed me the key and a cold look.

"The shovel with the blue handle. Bring it to the garden," he said. "If you take longer than ten minutes, I will come looking."

I nodded.

The shed door groaned as it opened, the wood swollen from rain and age. The inside was dim. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with rusted tools, broken jars, bits of wire, and empty tins.

I spotted the shovel quickly, leaning just behind the door.

But I didn't leave.

Not right away.

Something had caught my eye, a flicker of red in the pile of logs. Not paint. Fabric.

I moved toward it.

Beneath a cracked board and a layer of dirt and dust, I found it.

A cloth pouch. Torn at the edge. Inside, wrapped inside was a pocketknife. The blade was dull, but intact. Along the side of the handle, someone had scratched a message into the metal.

"Use it. He sleeps deeper than you think."

I turned the knife over in my hands, heart pounding.

It wasn't just the words.

It was the handwriting, uneven, desperate. This had belonged to someone else. Someone before us. Someone who had tried. Maybe even gotten close.

He wasn't invincible.

He wasn't new to this.

And suddenly, I saw it all differently.

The order. The rituals. The chains.

He needed them.

Because without them, he couldn't control us.

I tucked the knife into my waistband, hid beneath my shirt, and stepped back outside with the shovel. He didn't look at me as I passed.

But I looked at him.

Really looked.

And for the first time in days, he didn't seem like a god.

He seemed like a man.

A dangerous one.

But a man all the same.

Chapter Thirteen: The Way Out

He'd grown careless and I saw it.

Not all at once. But slowly, over time, lulled by routine, by obedience, by the belief that we were broken enough not to fight back.

That night, I lay awake in the guest cabin beside Carol. She trembled in her sleep, murmuring half-formed words, her body curled tight against mine like a shield. The S brand on her skin still gleamed in the lantern light. I snapped.

I waited until the moon rose high.

Then I moved.

The knife, dull and small, was still hidden beneath a loose board on the floor. I had to sharpen it slowly over days with a stone behind the shed, barely enough to draw notice. It wasn't much.

But it didn't need to be sharp.

I just needed to be fast.

I crept through the trees, the cool mountain air licking at my arms, nerves burning in my chest like fire. The main cabin's door was unlatched, just as it always was. The Old Man had grown bold in his dominance.

I found him asleep in his chair, half-snoring, half drunk, an empty tin cup on the floor beside him.

I didn't hesitate.

I lunged, pressing his full weight against the man, slamming the hilt of the knife into the chest.

The Old Man crumpled. A groan. Then he lay still.

I did not hesitate; I grabbed the old bolt-action rifle from the wall and ran to get Carol.

Back in the guest shack, Carol was already sitting up, breath caught in her throat.

"What happened?" she asked.

I was already pulling some clothes from the small chest in the corner, worn jeans, a flannel shirt, and a canvas jacket.

"Get dressed," I said. "We're going."

She blinked at the bundle in his hands, at the stolen clothes. At the bruises on her ass and legs. The marks on her hip.

Then she nodded.

They didn't speak again until they reached the edge of the trail.

It was disorienting, the forest looked different at night. Every tree seemed to twist in unfamiliar ways. But I had memorized the path over the weeks, every bend, every stone.

I gripped the rifle like a lifeline. Carol stumbled once, barefoot, but didn't complain. Not once. She just pressed on forward.

And then...

A beam of light.

A voice.

"Hey! Are you two alright?"

We ran into the arms of a stunned park ranger who had been responding to a vague report from a hiker who claimed to hear screams in the woods.

Everything after that moved fast.

The Old Man was arrested within hours, still unconscious, he was bleeding profusely from the wound in his chest I inflicted, but he was still breathing.

Rangers found his compound, the chains, the brand, the buried fire pits.

And beneath a tarp in the shed, the remains of at least six other missing tourists.

When he was finally conscious, he didn't deny any of it.

Wounds bandaged by the medics, the Old Man just stared out the window of the ranger station and said quietly, "They could've stayed. They were better here."

Soon the police would arrive and take him where he belonged, prison fir life I hoped.

Carol refused to look at him as they were escorted out.

We gave our statements to the police. They let the medics inspect my wife's wounds. We drank water that didn't taste like smoke and ate food that didn't come from a cracked tin.

I held Carol's hand the entire time.

She didn't cry until they were in the back of the ranger's vehicle, blankets around our shoulders, watching the trees fade behind us.

And when she did, it was silent. Cleansing.

I kissed her forehead and whispered, "It's over."

She shook her head.

"Not quite yet," she said. "But soon."

We would heal.

Not quickly. Not easily. But together.

And that was enough.