The Butcher's Night
The Butcher's Night
L.A. Detwiler
Published by L.A. Detwiler, 2021.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE BUTCHER'S NIGHT
First edition. July 3, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 L.A. Detwiler.
ISBN: 979-8201851712
Written by L.A. Detwiler.
Also by L.A. Detwiler
The Flayed One
The Journal of H.D. Wards
The Flayed One
Standalone
The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter
A Tortured Soul
The Christmas Bell: A Horror Novel
The Redwood Asylum
The Christmas Bell: Rachel's Story
The Arsonist's Handbook
Mr. Alexander Garrick's Traveling Circus
The Butcher's Night
The Witch of War Creek (Coming Soon)
The Delivery (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at L.A. Detwiler’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By L.A. Detwiler
Dedication
The Butcher's Night
Sign up for L.A. Detwiler's Mailing List
Further Reading: A Tortured Soul
Also By L.A. Detwiler
About the Author
To my husband
The chilling metal bit into her back and grounded her in the sheer reality of her situation. Her eyes, no longer so maladjusted to the debilitating darkness, allowed her to peruse the cracked, splintering walls, the dirt floor, the windowless room. How long had she been there? Four days? Five? An eternity?
It was impossible to tell, and she didn’t want to know anyway. Tears slinked out of her eyes, crawling down her cheek that most certainly was marred by blood and dirt. She hadn’t seen herself since the ordeal had begun and didn’t want to. Mirrors were for reflection and for admiration, not for disappointment.
A drip of water clambered to the ground relentlessly in the corner, the noise like a metronome of irritation. The sound was so deliberate, so reliable, it almost could be the same drop over and over. Perhaps she was stuck in a time loop, in a circle of hell unlike anything she could’ve imagined in her life before. In her old life, she thought. It was as if her timeline was split into two now: who she was before the incident, and who she was depreciating to now. She wriggled her wrists, wanting so desperately to swipe at the tear, to scratch her irritated scalp where the first cut had happened. It was not water or food or fear that ran rampant in her system now—it was the most basic, trivial human need to scratch her own body.
She smirked in spite of herself, thinking how far she’d fallen from the girl they used to call high-maintenance, the one who was specific about the pumps of syrup in her latte and the shade of her nails. Caked in grime, her hands were now stiffened at her side where they’d been for the duration of this hellish nightmare. She knew it was no use but couldn’t stop herself from trying to wiggle out of the leather straps. Her fingers tingled from the effort, the straps so tight that her entire arm ached.
She settled back to stillness, the silence other than the irritating drip enough to drive her mad if she wasn’t already. She dreaded when he came back, knew pain awaited her or maybe death. But still, the quiet, maddening terror of being alone, forgotten, and unable to even scratch her own head usurped all other thoughts. With nothing to occupy her mind, it raced to all sorts of places even darker than the musty basement she was locked in. The blackness of the space couldn’t compete with the darkness she’d unearthed in her own being—for in the solitude of the damp room, immovable feelings of regret, of guilt, of sorrow came flooding in.
A noise above shattered her thoughts and broke into her memories. Her heart leaped, her stomach falling like the time she’d ridden that godawful roller coaster at his insistence. Her body instinctively froze, pain radiating from the wounds from last time. The gauzy gown he’d put her in that first night was never enough to shield her. In fact, it was almost worse having the translucent fabric grazing her body and reminding her of how thin of a layer of protection she had.
More clattering about. Was he making breakfast? On days he got up early, it seemed like it was a worse day. She squeezed her eyes shut, not knowing if she could handle it for another moment, another day. Were they looking for her yet? Was he on the trail, her knight in a T-shirt and jeans ready to save her from the monster who had entrapped her?
At night, when she was suffering from the wounds, she would sometimes imagine the scenario that would play out. Scott would have jumped into the investigation that the detectives deemed impossible. He would have refused to believe she would leave on her own volition. He would somehow track down her footsteps on that path, the tire tracks of the beat-up truck that had swerved and hit her. He would investigate every person in the vicinity until he came across the monster who had stolen his beloved. He would run in and rescue her in every single way.
Other times, when the pain from the slicing and dicing got too bad, she would fall victim to the heavy moroseness that is hopelessness. How could he ever find her? Who would ever find this house in the middle of nowhere, the secret compartment, the horrible torture the button-upped man kept secret?
There were no knights coming in, and she was in no position to save herself. A violent scream erupted from her, a mix between a desperate plea and a wild shriek. She hated being at the monster’s mercy, a fiend who clearly had no rhyme or reason to his work other than sheer sadistic pleasure.
Maybe today would be the day. Maybe he had played with her enough. Maybe he would end it.
As if on cue, the footsteps down the stairs jolted her to attention. She inhaled, her hands trembling. She didn’t want to die, but this was not living. How long could a heart, a soul, a person’s spirit hold out? Still, she knew he would never give her a merciful ending to her story. She would anguish and suffer. She would crave death in a way she wanted nothing else.
The door creaked open. Her heart pounded. No light shined in. The inky blackness swallowed them both in the coffin of doom.
She wanted to beg him—beg him to let her go, like she had that first night. Beg him to kill her, like she had the second time, when the cutting and stabbing and butchering had begun. She thought that second night, she would die on her own.
She forced herself to look at him now, the face of Hades, the deviant beast who walked the streets among them. Had she walked past him before? Had she brushed against death in the grocery store without even knowing it?
He stood with the butcher’s knife, the one he had on night two. He liked to mix up the tools. They were all horrifying, but this was the worst.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She trembled in fear but could not move. The instinct to run, to squirm, to fight back was squelched by the tight straps gluing her to the table.
He stood wordlessly beside her. She had yet to hear his voice in the entire ordeal. Instead, while he butchered her, he stood in silent reverie, his eyes the only giveaway to his blackened soul.
He stood over her now, leaning in. His breath caressed her swollen cheek. A whimper escaped her lips. She told herself to be brave, to not let him see her terror, but it was too hard to rein it in.
The butcher knife raised in his hand. He poised it over her left eye. He rotated his wrist, and the knife teased her. She squeezed her eyes shut, but he slapped her. He assaulted her cheek again and again with his free hand until she gave him what he wanted.
She opened her eyes, locking her gaze on the blade that would soon bite into her. She gasped for air as she relented to the fear—just like he liked.
He did not speak to her.
He did not tell her why.
He did not taunt her or give her any reasoning.
He simply cut.
First, he started with her cheek, his favorite beginning point. And then he moved on. Slices here and there. Burning pain about her body. Her scalp. Her chest. Her ankle. No part of her body was too sacred to be marred. He moved about her in a twisted dance of agility and skill that told her he had done this before. So many times. She was not even special in her agony. She was one of how many? Dozens? Hundreds? Her blood stained the dirt floor, but her blood was not the sole painting there. She would be forgotten when she died. She would be nothing commemorated. She was just a blip in the night of the butcher, a sick fantasy played out for him and him alone.
The pain worsened, the blood splattering. As she faded in and out of consciousness, she prayed to a higher power that this would be her last night, that the butcher’s night would not test her again. She prayed he would not tend to her wounds this time, would not bring her to the brink of death and then bring her back with his expertise. She prayed this time, she would fade into the night for good.
The butcher cut on, hacking and sawing with that sweet, charismatic grin on his face, the smirk of the devil. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed as the musty smell mixed with her own blood.
He did not stop this time to make her look at him. He just cut on, dancing about her, caught up in his intricate work.
The butcher’s night came to an end, but she did not. She was saved again for another night, for another round, for another agonizing dance.
She opened her eyes the next morning, the same dingy room greeting her, and the same hope assaulting her mind—perhaps this would be the da
y. Perhaps the night would not come for her.
And perhaps it would.
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Did you love The Butcher's Night? Then you should read A Tortured Soul by L.A. Detwiler!
From USA TODAY Bestseller L.A. Detwiler comes a sinister horror story with jaw-dropping twists.
Everyone has a breaking point.
At twenty, an unplanned pregnancy seals Crystal Holt into a marriage to the abusive Richard Connor. After a stillborn birth, Crystal insists they have the baby baptized postmortem. A cynic, a drunk, and a poor man, Richard has other plans. When her monstrous husband tosses the baby into the woods to be forgotten, Crystal instantly spirals. After beating her within an inch of her life, Richard does something else he's done before—he disappears. This time, however, things feel very different…
With her husband gone, Crystal battles with the demons of abuse, dark childhood memories, and a declining mental state worsened by horrific nightmare sequences. As the story unfolds, it becomes clear that something's not quite right about the way Richard disappeared this time, and Crystal is in more danger than ever. After all, not all of the dark secrets belong to Richard.
Will Crystal be able to escape from a lifetime of torture unscathed, or will she succumb to the dark secrets she's fallen prey to before?
A twisted page-turner that will disturb even the toughest horror and dark thriller fans…
Read more at L.A. Detwiler’s site.
Also by L.A. Detwiler
The Flayed One
The Journal of H.D. Wards
The Flayed One
Standalone
The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter
A Tortured Soul
The Christmas Bell: A Horror Novel
The Redwood Asylum
The Christmas Bell: Rachel's Story
The Arsonist's Handbook
Mr. Alexander Garrick's Traveling Circus
The Butcher's Night
The Witch of War Creek (Coming Soon)
The Delivery (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at L.A. Detwiler’s site.
About the Author
L.A. Detwiler is USA TODAY Bestselling author and high school English teacher. Her debut thriller, The Widow Next Door, is a USA Today and International Bestseller with HarperCollins UK/Avon Books. Her second thriller, The One Who Got Away, released in 2020 with HarperCollins UK/One More Chapter. The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter released in 2020.
L.A. lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, Chad, their five cats, and their mastiff named Henry. Her writing has appeared in several women's publications and online magazines. She also writes romance under Lindsay Detwiler, including her popular Lines in the Sand Series.
Join her Readers' Club with this link: http://eepurl.com/gkZ2Sf
Read more at L.A. Detwiler’s site.
L.A. Detwiler, The Butcher's Night
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