“...this was a nice town before you hoodlums showed up. People knew their neighbors, doors could be left unlocked, children could play until after dark and walk home without concern,” the voice in the darkness ranted.

You realize you’re sitting up, tied up and unable to move.

“...a knock on a door was nothing to be feared, it was a neighbor either checking on you or asking a favor that they’d repay in kind later...” they continued.

The room is caliginous, only a small area around you lit as if the only light source were swinging overhead--it’s movement causing your head to pound. Occasionally something dark drips before your eyes. Slowly you realize how much pain you are experiencing, but your screams is muffled by what feels like a towel tied through your mouth.

Calmly the voice continues, “This house was sacred to me--a refuge where I could still feel my wife Victoria’s presence, even this many years after...You and your friends just had to breach it, didn’t you? Find out if the crazy ol’ man at the end of the street had anything worth pawning to score a quick hit?

“You know, I saw the way you and your friends watched me as I walked home each evening that week. That afternoon I intentionally played the part of the unsteady old man--even dropping part of my groceries in plain sight and kicking one or two of them when I reached for them,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “I saw through you too--all of you. I knew you’d pick the week of Halloween to do your mischief.”

“The only thing I didn’t expect was that one of you--you--wanted destruction more than trinkets to pawn like your cohorts. And the first thing you hit after you picked up the poker was the urn--” he said, his voice cracking for the first time since you awoke, “--the urn that contained my dear Victoria.”

“Oh, Victoria, my love, I’m sorry I forgot to move them,” he said, almost a plaintive cry. “My dearest, how can I be forgiven?”

The silence seems interminable before a noise grabbed your attention, a small cart rolling into the light.

“Yes, Victoria, you’re right--as always. In the right situation, we are all capable of the most terrible crimes. But in this case, the punishment should fit the crime,” he says icily. He remains in the darkness as he pulls back a small towel.

Your blood runs cold as you view the variety of tools laying on the cart--many of them reflecting the swinging light. Your scream is muffled to nothingness by the towel between your jaws.

“Your friends were louder,” he says almost patronizingly calm. “Victoria was a screamer--hers at the end make yours seem like kitten mews.”

You try to tug at the ropes holding you to the chair, but it is no use.

“Don’t worry,” he says with an almost paternal nature to his voice, “you’ll be leaving here soon enough--as soon as your debt is paid. Don’t go to pieces on me--” he said with almost a hint of laughter in his voice, “--yet.” His voice drops to almost a whisper, as if he had moved around behind you. “That comes later.” He paused, still outside the light.

You look around, but can see no trace of him in the darkness.

“So, my dear, do we start with the nails, phalanges, or the teeth?” he says before a dark hand stretches into the light surrounding the cart for a pair of pliers. “Ah, excellent choice as always, my dear Victoria.”

He leans into the light--your first sight of him--and begins to remove your shoes. “Victoria always loved to have her nails done first.”

(Word count: 620. Please let me know what you like/dislike about the post. Thank you in advance for your time and attention. Other works can also be found linked in r/atcroft_wordcraft.)