(New 4/20/19) THE STRANGER (M/M) - Trouble at State
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Deleted User 3263
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Deleted User 3263
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Deleted User 3263
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Deleted User 3263
Field Report — At The Old Harbert Factory - Submitted by D. Tremont
Holy shit!
It was a trap!
They were lying in wait for me!
They jumped me — tried to hurt me —
They had rope — and — shit — a taser!
Don't get emotional, stay clinical, Dylan…
Just report the facts…
Try to reconstruct your notes…
Try to get it all down…
The old Harbert Machine and Welding Factory.
At the end of Walnut Street next to the Denver train yards.
An old decaying brick structure, imposing, forlorn, fenced-in.
Long abandoned and (nearly) forgotten.
Except by street artists…a modest grouping of Denver’s homeless (driven here by the encroaching RiNo gentrification)…and the owners of a small line of parked vehicles, “tkb” skull decals emblazoned on their rear windows!
The truck and cars are locked. Windows tinted to keep out prying eyes.
I record descriptions and license plates in my phone.
There's a corner tear in the outside chain-link barrier, and I bend it back to slip in.
I make my way under the factory awning and toward the main hall.
It’s about 11:15 PM.
12 degrees.
Good thing I have my Burberry. And my muffler.
The phone flashlight powers up.
There are makeshift tents and lean-tos in the hall. Shopping carts containing worldly possessions. Stacks of plastic tarp, blankets, broken-down cardboard boxes.
It doesn't take long to find the “tkb” skull on the wall.
Melted-down candles and found objects encircle the area in front of the huge artwork. On the floor in front: shattered doll faces, pieces of plastic doll arms and legs bound together by twine, eyeless male mannequin heads gagged with bandanas and duct tape, coils of greasy and dirtied rope, small empty brown bottles (is that chloroform?), Missing flyers drifting about in the slight whistling wind of the hall.
It’s like a twisted shrine for kidnappers.
“He's near — ”
I whirl around.
There’s a homeless guy in front of me.
Green plastic raincoat, hood pulled up over his head.
Younger guy — smooth shadowy smudged face, early thirties — hollow, vacant eyes.
He reaches out.
Both wrists are locked in handcuffs. Chained at the waist.
The links rattle.
“Watching. He’s always watching,” he says.
I lower the flashlight.
“Why are you locked up? Who did this to you?”
He opens his palm, revealing the small key to the cuffs.
“My choice,” he nods. “When the time is right.”
There is a sound from deeper in the factory. I train my light in its direction. No visible movement. When I swing the phone back, the homeless man is shuffling away, returning to his lean-to in the corner of the hall.
Other homeless men and women have been rustled from their tents and are staring at me.
I decide not to engage with them.
I need to explore this place further.
Must go deeper.
As I leave the hall and pass through the short breezeway leading to the machine floor, my mind is buzzing with questions.
Why haven't the police found this place?
Why haven't they followed the clues?
Is Patrick here, somewhere, in this crumbling factory? Who is “always watching”?
Without realizing it, I have defensively taken out my pocket knife and flipped the blade open.
I smile at myself.
I’m ready for whatever.
I step into what used to be the welding floor.
Rats scuttle between the machines.
Fine. I’m not easily spooked.
I catch a glimmer of light near one end of the room.
Is that a reflection?
No, its a lamp of some sort igniting a row of interior windows caked with grime.
Windows to an old office?
I go toward it.
I step into the empty office.
There is a battery-powered lantern on the dirty, broken-tiled floor.
The light casts a strange shadow on the wall.
I glance above me.
A rope hangs down, fashioned into…
…yes — it’s a noose!
Now I’m spooked.
I quickly turn to leave the room.
A large man pushes through the doorway.
He’s dressed in dark grey work clothes.
Black gloves.
A gas mask covers his face.
When he speaks, his deep voice is distorted but still understood:
“Grab him!”
Two other gas masked attackers in black rush in from the open door behind me.
There’s no time to defend myself!
One of them knocks the phone and knife from my hands and crosses my wrists in front of me, clamping down with powerful hands and holding them together.
The other one pulls a rag between my teeth and pulls back viciously, keeping up force while gagging me tight.
The big man at the door steps in, produces a white cord from a pocket and savagely loops my wrists together.
I cry out in pain behind the gag.
When he's done with the roping, he slaps a gloved hand across my mouth.
The garbled voice sounds again.
“Patrick couldn’t be here. He’s tied-up at the moment.”
The other gas masks echo with distorted laughter. The one who grabbed my wrists picks up my phone. I lunge for it. He slips it into his breast pocket and kicks away the knife. Big Man squeezes around my jaw to keep me in check.
“You think you’re smart,” he hisses behind the mask. “Spilling secrets. Drawing attention.”
He raises up my head to look at the noose.
“Nosy boys get payback. That what you want?”
I shake my head.
His hand leaves my mouth and plays across my face. Stroking my cheek bones. Tracing the line of my eyebrows. The cleft of my chin.
“Such a pretty boy. Pretty, pretty…”
He suddenly punches me in the stomach.
Air leaves my lungs in a forced exhale.
I go to double over, but Gag Man keeps me aloft with his rag-cum-bridle.
Big Man grabs a handful of my hair in his gloved hand.
“Pretty boys must pay. Pretty boys must suffer.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small handheld device with a lightning symbol on it. He clicks a trigger.
Electricity arcs.
A taser!
I start to tremble.
Big Man looms closer, wielding the weapon.
There is a sudden rush near me, and someone shatters the lantern on the floor.
The light goes out.
I can hear the metal of a loosened pair of handcuffs and swinging chain connecting with my attackers.
Bodies get slammed against the walls.
The gag releases my mouth, and I bolt for the door.
Back on the darkened machinery floor, I stagger forward and make out a sea of shapes hurrying toward me. Homeless men and women pour into the office, coming to the aid of their fellow friend, taking up the fight against my gas masked attackers.
I didn’t stop to thank them. In that moment, I was only thinking about getting out. I manage to fumble out of my ropes and run from the building and into the night. To the road. To my car.
I don't remember how I got home.
But I did.
And I didn’t stop shaking.
Not until just a few moments ago.
Not until I finished writing that last sentence.
I emailed Chase.
He’s on the road from Wyoming now.
He’ll be here in a few hours.
I need to fall into the safety of his arms.
I need him here.
Screw being non-emotional.
I don't know what’s happening.
What did I just do?
I’m not scared —
I’m terrified!
Holy shit!
It was a trap!
They were lying in wait for me!
They jumped me — tried to hurt me —
They had rope — and — shit — a taser!
Don't get emotional, stay clinical, Dylan…
Just report the facts…
Try to reconstruct your notes…
Try to get it all down…
The old Harbert Machine and Welding Factory.
At the end of Walnut Street next to the Denver train yards.
An old decaying brick structure, imposing, forlorn, fenced-in.
Long abandoned and (nearly) forgotten.
Except by street artists…a modest grouping of Denver’s homeless (driven here by the encroaching RiNo gentrification)…and the owners of a small line of parked vehicles, “tkb” skull decals emblazoned on their rear windows!
The truck and cars are locked. Windows tinted to keep out prying eyes.
I record descriptions and license plates in my phone.
There's a corner tear in the outside chain-link barrier, and I bend it back to slip in.
I make my way under the factory awning and toward the main hall.
It’s about 11:15 PM.
12 degrees.
Good thing I have my Burberry. And my muffler.
The phone flashlight powers up.
There are makeshift tents and lean-tos in the hall. Shopping carts containing worldly possessions. Stacks of plastic tarp, blankets, broken-down cardboard boxes.
It doesn't take long to find the “tkb” skull on the wall.
Melted-down candles and found objects encircle the area in front of the huge artwork. On the floor in front: shattered doll faces, pieces of plastic doll arms and legs bound together by twine, eyeless male mannequin heads gagged with bandanas and duct tape, coils of greasy and dirtied rope, small empty brown bottles (is that chloroform?), Missing flyers drifting about in the slight whistling wind of the hall.
It’s like a twisted shrine for kidnappers.
“He's near — ”
I whirl around.
There’s a homeless guy in front of me.
Green plastic raincoat, hood pulled up over his head.
Younger guy — smooth shadowy smudged face, early thirties — hollow, vacant eyes.
He reaches out.
Both wrists are locked in handcuffs. Chained at the waist.
The links rattle.
“Watching. He’s always watching,” he says.
I lower the flashlight.
“Why are you locked up? Who did this to you?”
He opens his palm, revealing the small key to the cuffs.
“My choice,” he nods. “When the time is right.”
There is a sound from deeper in the factory. I train my light in its direction. No visible movement. When I swing the phone back, the homeless man is shuffling away, returning to his lean-to in the corner of the hall.
Other homeless men and women have been rustled from their tents and are staring at me.
I decide not to engage with them.
I need to explore this place further.
Must go deeper.
As I leave the hall and pass through the short breezeway leading to the machine floor, my mind is buzzing with questions.
Why haven't the police found this place?
Why haven't they followed the clues?
Is Patrick here, somewhere, in this crumbling factory? Who is “always watching”?
Without realizing it, I have defensively taken out my pocket knife and flipped the blade open.
I smile at myself.
I’m ready for whatever.
I step into what used to be the welding floor.
Rats scuttle between the machines.
Fine. I’m not easily spooked.
I catch a glimmer of light near one end of the room.
Is that a reflection?
No, its a lamp of some sort igniting a row of interior windows caked with grime.
Windows to an old office?
I go toward it.
I step into the empty office.
There is a battery-powered lantern on the dirty, broken-tiled floor.
The light casts a strange shadow on the wall.
I glance above me.
A rope hangs down, fashioned into…
…yes — it’s a noose!
Now I’m spooked.
I quickly turn to leave the room.
A large man pushes through the doorway.
He’s dressed in dark grey work clothes.
Black gloves.
A gas mask covers his face.
When he speaks, his deep voice is distorted but still understood:
“Grab him!”
Two other gas masked attackers in black rush in from the open door behind me.
There’s no time to defend myself!
One of them knocks the phone and knife from my hands and crosses my wrists in front of me, clamping down with powerful hands and holding them together.
The other one pulls a rag between my teeth and pulls back viciously, keeping up force while gagging me tight.
The big man at the door steps in, produces a white cord from a pocket and savagely loops my wrists together.
I cry out in pain behind the gag.
When he's done with the roping, he slaps a gloved hand across my mouth.
The garbled voice sounds again.
“Patrick couldn’t be here. He’s tied-up at the moment.”
The other gas masks echo with distorted laughter. The one who grabbed my wrists picks up my phone. I lunge for it. He slips it into his breast pocket and kicks away the knife. Big Man squeezes around my jaw to keep me in check.
“You think you’re smart,” he hisses behind the mask. “Spilling secrets. Drawing attention.”
He raises up my head to look at the noose.
“Nosy boys get payback. That what you want?”
I shake my head.
His hand leaves my mouth and plays across my face. Stroking my cheek bones. Tracing the line of my eyebrows. The cleft of my chin.
“Such a pretty boy. Pretty, pretty…”
He suddenly punches me in the stomach.
Air leaves my lungs in a forced exhale.
I go to double over, but Gag Man keeps me aloft with his rag-cum-bridle.
Big Man grabs a handful of my hair in his gloved hand.
“Pretty boys must pay. Pretty boys must suffer.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small handheld device with a lightning symbol on it. He clicks a trigger.
Electricity arcs.
A taser!
I start to tremble.
Big Man looms closer, wielding the weapon.
There is a sudden rush near me, and someone shatters the lantern on the floor.
The light goes out.
I can hear the metal of a loosened pair of handcuffs and swinging chain connecting with my attackers.
Bodies get slammed against the walls.
The gag releases my mouth, and I bolt for the door.
Back on the darkened machinery floor, I stagger forward and make out a sea of shapes hurrying toward me. Homeless men and women pour into the office, coming to the aid of their fellow friend, taking up the fight against my gas masked attackers.
I didn’t stop to thank them. In that moment, I was only thinking about getting out. I manage to fumble out of my ropes and run from the building and into the night. To the road. To my car.
I don't remember how I got home.
But I did.
And I didn’t stop shaking.
Not until just a few moments ago.
Not until I finished writing that last sentence.
I emailed Chase.
He’s on the road from Wyoming now.
He’ll be here in a few hours.
I need to fall into the safety of his arms.
I need him here.
Screw being non-emotional.
I don't know what’s happening.
What did I just do?
I’m not scared —
I’m terrified!
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Deleted User 3263
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Two escapees. Things are looking up for the good guys.
-
Deleted User 3263
Kid Reporter — In Too Deep (Pt. 2)
by Dylan Tremont
Ten minutes have passed, and judging by his steady snoring, Mr. Black is still deep asleep.
Meanwhile, I’ve worked soundlessly and effectively to free myself from the chair tie he put me into. Once my wrists squirm loose of the final coils looping them, and my arms unlace from the sides of the chair, my first priority is to remove the white cloth and tie gag and get these rancid socks out of my mouth! Aaack! I can’t push them out fast enough. They fall in one wet warm mushy clump to my lap. I gulp-in welcome clean air and work my torpid tongue to get some fresh saliva going again. Uggh. Something tells me I’ll be tasting those socks well into my thirties.
Once I massage my wrists and upper arms to help the blood resume flowing, I spend the next couple of minutes silently releasing my ankles from their moorings to the front legs of the chair.
In all this time, Mr. Black hasn’t stirred. He remains blissfully unaware his captive reporter is on the edge of escape!
I stand, knot my tie back in position around my neck, take up my Burberry from the companion bed and creep toward the door, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to be certain my kidnapper doesn’t hear my footfalls to freedom.
Then I stop. Mr. Black has set his keys on the nightstand between the two beds. Something is connected to the key ring. It looks like a keepsake stolen from one of the kidnapped teens. It’s evidence!
I make a choice and reverse direction, tiptoeing slowly and carefully toward the nightstand.
As I pass Mr. Black, I can’t help admiring his form on the bed. He’s lying on his back, one knee bent in the air, one arm draped over his eyes. The other hand rests his gun atop his powerful chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. He has a stunningly sculpted body. His manhood, which he intimated was awakened by the sight of me bound, is still large and firm between his legs. Is he dreaming about me…kept hard by visions of how he is going to tie and torture me further? Well, he’ll never get the chance again, I think, as I reach for the key ring. Once I get this evidence to the police…that’ll be all…she…wrote…!
In an instant, his arm flies from across his face. His hand encases my wrist. He pulls me in and rolls me to the bed and on my back. He applies his full weight on top of me and holds the gun barrel under my chin. My breath catches.
“Find something new to report?” He says, glancing at the keys. “Why pick on a man’s hobbies?”
“Holding people against their will is not a hobby,” I manage boldly. “It’s a crime.”
“It would be a crime if I didn't keep you bound and gagged,” he hisses, leaning in close. “A gorgeous guy like you ought to feel as much rope as possible wrapping you tight.”
I swallow dryly, evaluating the moment and figuring my only recourse. I suddenly call out.
“HEEEEELLLLLP!” I scream. “SOMEONE, PLEEEEEASE H — Mmmmmmppppphf!”
He stuffs my tie into my mouth and clamps a powerful hand over my lips. The gun presses in tighter. I whimper.
“Make another stupid move like that, and I blow your pretty head clean off.”
I quiet down. He lifts himself from me and stands beside the bed, aiming the gun.
“Shoes off. Then the vest and shirt.”
I slowly sit up and kick off my shoes. I begin to unbutton myself out of my vest.
“Don’t forget you asked for this,” he admonishes, bringing the duffel bag to his side. “You were inches from that door, but you couldn't resist tempting fate one last time. Well, time’s run out, Kid Reporter. For you, anyway.”
I grab onto the tie loop around my neck and shirt and look up for permission. He nods, and I extract the crumpled tie from my mouth, finishing the buttons and removing the tie and shirt, revealing my low necked white tank top beneath. Mr. Black runs a hand over the fabric covering my chest. He thumbs my nipples through the shirt.
“We’ll have to get that hot chest of yours roped up good and tight later on. But first thing’s first. Hands together in front.”
I obey, drawing my hands together, palm to palm, and presenting them in front of me. He tucks the gun into his waistband and selects a long length of clothesline from the bag. He doubles the rope, wraps it once around my wrists, threads the loop and pulls it tight. He begins to wrap the cord around a dozen more times, then cinches my wrists together in the center. He leaves a long trail of rope at the end.
He pulls me forward by my legs and runs a thick hand from my buttocks down to my thighs and then to my calves, feeling the tightness of my body.
“You can keep the pants — for now. But I have other plans for those socks.”
He peels the black socks from my feet.
“Please, not again,” I beg him.
“Why?” he asks, sniffing the socks. “They won't taste so bad. Not as bad as mine.”
“That would be hard to top, but you don’t — ”
It’s all I get out until he’s stuffing again. First the right sock. Then the left. At first I think he’s going to use my tie to finish the gag, but when he turns back, he’s selected a roll of black gorilla tape from the bag, and he begins to wrap it around my lower face. Thwaaaack! He cements a line of tape across my lips and goes around one side. Thwaaaack! He pulls tight, denying any slack, and wraps back around again. Thwaaaack! Stretch, wrap. Thwaaaack! Stretch, wrap. Thwaaaack! Stretch, wrap, rip, smooth.
He selects some rope strands from my pile at the chair and lifts me off the bed by my outstretched hands.
“Walk,” is all he says as he pulls on the lead rope and guides me into the bathroom.
_______________
A light flips on.
The shower curtain draws back.
The shower is of a rounded, tube-like construction.
It is clear I am meant for it.
Mr. Black makes me step in and turn to face out. He expertly lassos the excess rope from my hands to the shower nozzle above. He pulls. My hands lift above my head. He ties off the excess to my wrists.
“Plenty of people go on and on about this “freedom of the press” bullshit,” he monologues as he ties my ankles together. “I’m more interested taking away their freedom.” He wraps rope above and below my knees. “You don't mind losing a little hard-won freedom, do you Kid Reporter?” He cinches the ropes tightly in their middles.
He takes another rope and steps in to me, running a hand across my swelling crotch. “Nah. From the feel of things, you don’t mind it one bit.”
He digs tightly between my legs and creates a V-shaped crotch rope that he ties off to the back bar of the shower. It pulls me against the shower wall, adding extra strain to my shoulders and arms. I grunt and moan behind my sock and tape gag.
Mr. Black moves around to the front, admiring my helpless state. Hands stretched and tied off to the shower head above, legs secured at ankles and knees, midsection crotch-tied to an
accessibility bar, securing me snugly to the shower back.
I freeze as I see his expression change. There is a devilish glint in his eye.
Mr. Black steps back into the shower and slides close. He slowly and seductively runs his hands up and down my torso. Tweaks my nipples through the cotton shirt. Nuzzles my bare neck. Bites my ear. Runs his hands through my hair. Kisses me on top of my tape-gagged mouth. Holds my bound body close and grinds into me. His own weapon and the handle of the gun digs-in painfully. He brings me to the edge of release —
— then he quickly steps out of the shower.
“Let’s see you get out of this one, Houdini,” he says as he draws the curtain closed, isolating me in the shower. I hear him walk to the door. “I’m going out. See you in a half hour or so.”
He douses the light and slams the bathroom door closed.
After a moment, I hear the locks on the front door turn and slide, and the door open and seal closed.
After a silent moment in the dark, I realize I’ve been holding my breath this entire time.
I begin to breathe once more.
...to be continued...
by Dylan Tremont
Ten minutes have passed, and judging by his steady snoring, Mr. Black is still deep asleep.
Meanwhile, I’ve worked soundlessly and effectively to free myself from the chair tie he put me into. Once my wrists squirm loose of the final coils looping them, and my arms unlace from the sides of the chair, my first priority is to remove the white cloth and tie gag and get these rancid socks out of my mouth! Aaack! I can’t push them out fast enough. They fall in one wet warm mushy clump to my lap. I gulp-in welcome clean air and work my torpid tongue to get some fresh saliva going again. Uggh. Something tells me I’ll be tasting those socks well into my thirties.
Once I massage my wrists and upper arms to help the blood resume flowing, I spend the next couple of minutes silently releasing my ankles from their moorings to the front legs of the chair.
In all this time, Mr. Black hasn’t stirred. He remains blissfully unaware his captive reporter is on the edge of escape!
I stand, knot my tie back in position around my neck, take up my Burberry from the companion bed and creep toward the door, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to be certain my kidnapper doesn’t hear my footfalls to freedom.
Then I stop. Mr. Black has set his keys on the nightstand between the two beds. Something is connected to the key ring. It looks like a keepsake stolen from one of the kidnapped teens. It’s evidence!
I make a choice and reverse direction, tiptoeing slowly and carefully toward the nightstand.
As I pass Mr. Black, I can’t help admiring his form on the bed. He’s lying on his back, one knee bent in the air, one arm draped over his eyes. The other hand rests his gun atop his powerful chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. He has a stunningly sculpted body. His manhood, which he intimated was awakened by the sight of me bound, is still large and firm between his legs. Is he dreaming about me…kept hard by visions of how he is going to tie and torture me further? Well, he’ll never get the chance again, I think, as I reach for the key ring. Once I get this evidence to the police…that’ll be all…she…wrote…!
In an instant, his arm flies from across his face. His hand encases my wrist. He pulls me in and rolls me to the bed and on my back. He applies his full weight on top of me and holds the gun barrel under my chin. My breath catches.
“Find something new to report?” He says, glancing at the keys. “Why pick on a man’s hobbies?”
“Holding people against their will is not a hobby,” I manage boldly. “It’s a crime.”
“It would be a crime if I didn't keep you bound and gagged,” he hisses, leaning in close. “A gorgeous guy like you ought to feel as much rope as possible wrapping you tight.”
I swallow dryly, evaluating the moment and figuring my only recourse. I suddenly call out.
“HEEEEELLLLLP!” I scream. “SOMEONE, PLEEEEEASE H — Mmmmmmppppphf!”
He stuffs my tie into my mouth and clamps a powerful hand over my lips. The gun presses in tighter. I whimper.
“Make another stupid move like that, and I blow your pretty head clean off.”
I quiet down. He lifts himself from me and stands beside the bed, aiming the gun.
“Shoes off. Then the vest and shirt.”
I slowly sit up and kick off my shoes. I begin to unbutton myself out of my vest.
“Don’t forget you asked for this,” he admonishes, bringing the duffel bag to his side. “You were inches from that door, but you couldn't resist tempting fate one last time. Well, time’s run out, Kid Reporter. For you, anyway.”
I grab onto the tie loop around my neck and shirt and look up for permission. He nods, and I extract the crumpled tie from my mouth, finishing the buttons and removing the tie and shirt, revealing my low necked white tank top beneath. Mr. Black runs a hand over the fabric covering my chest. He thumbs my nipples through the shirt.
“We’ll have to get that hot chest of yours roped up good and tight later on. But first thing’s first. Hands together in front.”
I obey, drawing my hands together, palm to palm, and presenting them in front of me. He tucks the gun into his waistband and selects a long length of clothesline from the bag. He doubles the rope, wraps it once around my wrists, threads the loop and pulls it tight. He begins to wrap the cord around a dozen more times, then cinches my wrists together in the center. He leaves a long trail of rope at the end.
He pulls me forward by my legs and runs a thick hand from my buttocks down to my thighs and then to my calves, feeling the tightness of my body.
“You can keep the pants — for now. But I have other plans for those socks.”
He peels the black socks from my feet.
“Please, not again,” I beg him.
“Why?” he asks, sniffing the socks. “They won't taste so bad. Not as bad as mine.”
“That would be hard to top, but you don’t — ”
It’s all I get out until he’s stuffing again. First the right sock. Then the left. At first I think he’s going to use my tie to finish the gag, but when he turns back, he’s selected a roll of black gorilla tape from the bag, and he begins to wrap it around my lower face. Thwaaaack! He cements a line of tape across my lips and goes around one side. Thwaaaack! He pulls tight, denying any slack, and wraps back around again. Thwaaaack! Stretch, wrap. Thwaaaack! Stretch, wrap. Thwaaaack! Stretch, wrap, rip, smooth.
He selects some rope strands from my pile at the chair and lifts me off the bed by my outstretched hands.
“Walk,” is all he says as he pulls on the lead rope and guides me into the bathroom.
_______________
A light flips on.
The shower curtain draws back.
The shower is of a rounded, tube-like construction.
It is clear I am meant for it.
Mr. Black makes me step in and turn to face out. He expertly lassos the excess rope from my hands to the shower nozzle above. He pulls. My hands lift above my head. He ties off the excess to my wrists.
“Plenty of people go on and on about this “freedom of the press” bullshit,” he monologues as he ties my ankles together. “I’m more interested taking away their freedom.” He wraps rope above and below my knees. “You don't mind losing a little hard-won freedom, do you Kid Reporter?” He cinches the ropes tightly in their middles.
He takes another rope and steps in to me, running a hand across my swelling crotch. “Nah. From the feel of things, you don’t mind it one bit.”
He digs tightly between my legs and creates a V-shaped crotch rope that he ties off to the back bar of the shower. It pulls me against the shower wall, adding extra strain to my shoulders and arms. I grunt and moan behind my sock and tape gag.
Mr. Black moves around to the front, admiring my helpless state. Hands stretched and tied off to the shower head above, legs secured at ankles and knees, midsection crotch-tied to an
accessibility bar, securing me snugly to the shower back.
I freeze as I see his expression change. There is a devilish glint in his eye.
Mr. Black steps back into the shower and slides close. He slowly and seductively runs his hands up and down my torso. Tweaks my nipples through the cotton shirt. Nuzzles my bare neck. Bites my ear. Runs his hands through my hair. Kisses me on top of my tape-gagged mouth. Holds my bound body close and grinds into me. His own weapon and the handle of the gun digs-in painfully. He brings me to the edge of release —
— then he quickly steps out of the shower.
“Let’s see you get out of this one, Houdini,” he says as he draws the curtain closed, isolating me in the shower. I hear him walk to the door. “I’m going out. See you in a half hour or so.”
He douses the light and slams the bathroom door closed.
After a moment, I hear the locks on the front door turn and slide, and the door open and seal closed.
After a silent moment in the dark, I realize I’ve been holding my breath this entire time.
I begin to breathe once more.
...to be continued...
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Deleted User 3263
Kid Reporter — In Too Deep (Pt. 3)
by Dylan Tremont
It was even easier getting loose this time around — though it takes about five minutes to actually make it happen.
I’m pretty sure the rope looping around the shower head will slide off if I can lift it above the nozzle. This pesky crotch rope holding me against the shower bar restricts my movement, but after a few tugs and strains, I’m able to gain a few more inches and a little more leverage. Of course, the rope cutting into my crotch has claimed my left nut, but sacrifices #am-I-right?
Finally, I can stretch on the tips of my toes and coax the rope free of the head.
So easy!
As I wriggle free of the wrist bindings, unlace the crotch rope and then go to town on the cords restricting my knees and ankles, I allow myself a little gloat-time. Dylan Tremont — the Kid Reporter who never met a tie-up situation he couldn’t escape. l laugh between moments of wincing as I peel the gorilla tape from my face and — ouch, hair — and spit out my wetted socks. He said he’d be gone for half an hour. By the time he slides that key card into the door, the authorities will already be closing in. I shake out the socks and fold them into my back pocket.
Now to collect the rest of my things and notify the police.
As I crack open the bathroom door, I remind myself not to forget my cellphone. The kidnapper dropped it on the floor when the front desk clerk surprised him. That’s the first time that he —
A shadow bolts out from behind the return wall of the bedroom and locks my arms behind my back with one hand while clamping the other solidly across my mouth. Mr. Black is back — or, rather, he never went anywhere in the first place! He has me in his clutches again. He tightens his grip victoriously.
“That was fun,” he says, “but now it gets serious.”
He angles me to face the companion bed.
The comforter, sheets and pillows have all been removed.
A rope web has been placed under the mattress.
It radiates out, creating a dozen tie-off points.
Eight from the sides, two from the top, two from the bottom.
Oh, no!” I exclaim behind the hand gag, and though my lips are sealed, my words are clear.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Black answers, a lilt in his voice. “It’s a world of “yes” for you.”
He moves me toward the edge of the bed. There is a stack of bandanas and a roll of tape at the foot of it.
“Your turn. You know the drill. Not a sound. I still have a gun. Understand?”
I nod behind the hand gag.
“Smart and pretty — a winning combination,” he says. “Though if you were smarter, you wouldn’t be about to gag yourself right now. Go on, get to it.”
He releases me, and I select a couple of the bandanas from the pile. I take a moment to work my mouth, generating extra saliva to help with what's to come. Mr. Black nods, approvingly.
I pack in the colorful bandanas. First one, then another, then another still. My distended cheeks ache from being forced out so far. I reach for the tape. He puts a firm hand on my arm and shakes his head. I grab another bandana, spin it to tighten it, then slip it between my teeth and knot it off behind my head. He nods. The tape next. Mr. Black helps with securely tightening the tape with each revolution around my lower face. He rips off an end and puts the roll on the bed. He turns me to face him, stepping in and using both hands to smooth down the tape. He grips my shoulders and leers over me, intimidating me with his height and presence. I shrink slightly, cowed by his dominance.
His hands go to the waistband of my Kenneth Coles, and he undoes the button in front and tugs on the zipper.
“Second escape,” he says, rendering his verdict. “loses you pants privilege.”
He jerks my pants down to my ankles. Miraculously, my briefs remain in place, no doubt helped to stay aloft by the noticeable swelling at my crotch.
“Fold them neat,” he says of the pants. “Put them with the bandanas and tape on the other bed.”
I step out of my pants and do as he instructs. When I turn back, he grabs my undershirt and starts a tear at the top. With another quick motion, he rips the shirt wide open. He pulls the straps free of my shoulders and tosses the remnants on the other bed. He uses his hands to
enjoy the naked exposure of my upper body. He especially zeroes-in on my nipples and the ticklish nature of my armpits.
He turns me, crosses my hands and proceeds to create a rope mummy out of my wrists. He uses more rope to fashion a rope harness that loops between my crotch and crack, tucks under both cheeks, and laces up my torso, binding my arms snugly to their sides.
He suddenly picks me up and tosses me, stomach first, to the bed top.
The dangling ends of the rope web now find their purpose. My ankles are tied to the sides of the bed, scissoring my legs wide. Rope threads around the knees and pulls them opposite of each other. Rope laces through the harness at my waist, forcing me further into the bed top. Rope links to elbows, does the same. From the top of the bed, rope wraps around both shoulders, pulling me up. From the bottom, two lengths of rope lace at each ankle, stretching me down.
“Still think you can escape?” he asks when he’s finished with his work. I grunt and stretch and pull and strain. Finally, I have to concede. There’s no way I'm getting free from this. I shake my head in defeat.
He undoes his belt and steps out of his pants. He climbs onto the bed.
“I never touch the kids we take,” he says, lowering himself onto me. “Tying them is my thrill,
so this is a real treat, Kid Reporter. I want to thank you for your journalistic service to the common man.”
He starts to grind on top of me. I can feel him through my briefs, rubbing up and down the length of my crack. The full weight of him presses on top. He forces a hand over my taped mouth, grabs a handful of my hair with the other. I moan and cry behind my gag. It only elicits more thrusts from him. The bed saws back and forth, increasing speed. His grinding climaxes. I do, too. With a final grunt, he collapses on top of me. We breathe in rhythm.
After a couple of minutes, he pulls himself away, disappears into the bathroom, and when he returns, he slides on his pants. There is motion, and I look over.
Mr. Black is gathering his things. His shirts and jacket go into a carrying case. Papers and trash in the waste can. He tosses the duffel on his bed and loads it up with discarded rope, the bandanas, tape, my ripped undershirt, my pants — and my phone. Anything else lying about, goes in. He zips up the bag.
He pulls the blackout curtain toward him slightly and glances out the window, making sure the parking lot is clear. He takes his gun from the nightstand — also the TV remote — and bends to me. He puts the remote in his lap and brushes a fallen strand of hair from my forehead. I pull against my bonds once more.
“Been thinking it over, kid,” he starts. “As much as I’d love to keep playing, there’s no future in it. Nothing financial, anyway. We’re done here, see, and moving on to Arizona. Lots of wealthy Nanas and Pop-pops that’ll pay any price to get their grandkids back safe and sound. But really, it’s been fun, kid…while it lasted…”
He grips the gun a bit tighter and slips a finger around the trigger. He gestures to the old TV set with the remote. I start to pull a little more frantically at the ropes.
“The TV will cover the gunshot, especially if I can find a crime show. Either way, no one really pays much attention in these places anyway. Not until they pick up on the smell.”
I cry out from behind my gag, shake my head, pull and strain with all I got.
“For what it’s worth, you came close, Kid Reporter,” he says. “Closer than anyone else. But you still fell short. That failure will be the last thing on your mind.”
Mr. Black turns on the TV, cycles through for a police show. He finds a shootout on TV. Why is there always a shootout on American TV? The sound of gunfire from the set fills the room. He tosses the remote and aims the gun. I stop flailing, accepting what’s about to come. I close my eyes and hold my breath.
Water sprays the side of my face.
I peek over to see a stream of liquid die from the end of the gun nozzle.
Chase giggles and drops the gun to the bed top.
“I told you you couldn’t escape the Beast,” he says darkly and winks.
He kisses me on top of the head.
“Baby, that was amazing! Let’s get you out of these ropes, so I can make out with you for the rest of the night. If that’s okay with you…”
My eyebrows lift, and I nod, agreeing. Tied and gagged as I am…who am I to object?
end
by Dylan Tremont
It was even easier getting loose this time around — though it takes about five minutes to actually make it happen.
I’m pretty sure the rope looping around the shower head will slide off if I can lift it above the nozzle. This pesky crotch rope holding me against the shower bar restricts my movement, but after a few tugs and strains, I’m able to gain a few more inches and a little more leverage. Of course, the rope cutting into my crotch has claimed my left nut, but sacrifices #am-I-right?
Finally, I can stretch on the tips of my toes and coax the rope free of the head.
So easy!
As I wriggle free of the wrist bindings, unlace the crotch rope and then go to town on the cords restricting my knees and ankles, I allow myself a little gloat-time. Dylan Tremont — the Kid Reporter who never met a tie-up situation he couldn’t escape. l laugh between moments of wincing as I peel the gorilla tape from my face and — ouch, hair — and spit out my wetted socks. He said he’d be gone for half an hour. By the time he slides that key card into the door, the authorities will already be closing in. I shake out the socks and fold them into my back pocket.
Now to collect the rest of my things and notify the police.
As I crack open the bathroom door, I remind myself not to forget my cellphone. The kidnapper dropped it on the floor when the front desk clerk surprised him. That’s the first time that he —
A shadow bolts out from behind the return wall of the bedroom and locks my arms behind my back with one hand while clamping the other solidly across my mouth. Mr. Black is back — or, rather, he never went anywhere in the first place! He has me in his clutches again. He tightens his grip victoriously.
“That was fun,” he says, “but now it gets serious.”
He angles me to face the companion bed.
The comforter, sheets and pillows have all been removed.
A rope web has been placed under the mattress.
It radiates out, creating a dozen tie-off points.
Eight from the sides, two from the top, two from the bottom.
Oh, no!” I exclaim behind the hand gag, and though my lips are sealed, my words are clear.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Black answers, a lilt in his voice. “It’s a world of “yes” for you.”
He moves me toward the edge of the bed. There is a stack of bandanas and a roll of tape at the foot of it.
“Your turn. You know the drill. Not a sound. I still have a gun. Understand?”
I nod behind the hand gag.
“Smart and pretty — a winning combination,” he says. “Though if you were smarter, you wouldn’t be about to gag yourself right now. Go on, get to it.”
He releases me, and I select a couple of the bandanas from the pile. I take a moment to work my mouth, generating extra saliva to help with what's to come. Mr. Black nods, approvingly.
I pack in the colorful bandanas. First one, then another, then another still. My distended cheeks ache from being forced out so far. I reach for the tape. He puts a firm hand on my arm and shakes his head. I grab another bandana, spin it to tighten it, then slip it between my teeth and knot it off behind my head. He nods. The tape next. Mr. Black helps with securely tightening the tape with each revolution around my lower face. He rips off an end and puts the roll on the bed. He turns me to face him, stepping in and using both hands to smooth down the tape. He grips my shoulders and leers over me, intimidating me with his height and presence. I shrink slightly, cowed by his dominance.
His hands go to the waistband of my Kenneth Coles, and he undoes the button in front and tugs on the zipper.
“Second escape,” he says, rendering his verdict. “loses you pants privilege.”
He jerks my pants down to my ankles. Miraculously, my briefs remain in place, no doubt helped to stay aloft by the noticeable swelling at my crotch.
“Fold them neat,” he says of the pants. “Put them with the bandanas and tape on the other bed.”
I step out of my pants and do as he instructs. When I turn back, he grabs my undershirt and starts a tear at the top. With another quick motion, he rips the shirt wide open. He pulls the straps free of my shoulders and tosses the remnants on the other bed. He uses his hands to
enjoy the naked exposure of my upper body. He especially zeroes-in on my nipples and the ticklish nature of my armpits.
He turns me, crosses my hands and proceeds to create a rope mummy out of my wrists. He uses more rope to fashion a rope harness that loops between my crotch and crack, tucks under both cheeks, and laces up my torso, binding my arms snugly to their sides.
He suddenly picks me up and tosses me, stomach first, to the bed top.
The dangling ends of the rope web now find their purpose. My ankles are tied to the sides of the bed, scissoring my legs wide. Rope threads around the knees and pulls them opposite of each other. Rope laces through the harness at my waist, forcing me further into the bed top. Rope links to elbows, does the same. From the top of the bed, rope wraps around both shoulders, pulling me up. From the bottom, two lengths of rope lace at each ankle, stretching me down.
“Still think you can escape?” he asks when he’s finished with his work. I grunt and stretch and pull and strain. Finally, I have to concede. There’s no way I'm getting free from this. I shake my head in defeat.
He undoes his belt and steps out of his pants. He climbs onto the bed.
“I never touch the kids we take,” he says, lowering himself onto me. “Tying them is my thrill,
so this is a real treat, Kid Reporter. I want to thank you for your journalistic service to the common man.”
He starts to grind on top of me. I can feel him through my briefs, rubbing up and down the length of my crack. The full weight of him presses on top. He forces a hand over my taped mouth, grabs a handful of my hair with the other. I moan and cry behind my gag. It only elicits more thrusts from him. The bed saws back and forth, increasing speed. His grinding climaxes. I do, too. With a final grunt, he collapses on top of me. We breathe in rhythm.
After a couple of minutes, he pulls himself away, disappears into the bathroom, and when he returns, he slides on his pants. There is motion, and I look over.
Mr. Black is gathering his things. His shirts and jacket go into a carrying case. Papers and trash in the waste can. He tosses the duffel on his bed and loads it up with discarded rope, the bandanas, tape, my ripped undershirt, my pants — and my phone. Anything else lying about, goes in. He zips up the bag.
He pulls the blackout curtain toward him slightly and glances out the window, making sure the parking lot is clear. He takes his gun from the nightstand — also the TV remote — and bends to me. He puts the remote in his lap and brushes a fallen strand of hair from my forehead. I pull against my bonds once more.
“Been thinking it over, kid,” he starts. “As much as I’d love to keep playing, there’s no future in it. Nothing financial, anyway. We’re done here, see, and moving on to Arizona. Lots of wealthy Nanas and Pop-pops that’ll pay any price to get their grandkids back safe and sound. But really, it’s been fun, kid…while it lasted…”
He grips the gun a bit tighter and slips a finger around the trigger. He gestures to the old TV set with the remote. I start to pull a little more frantically at the ropes.
“The TV will cover the gunshot, especially if I can find a crime show. Either way, no one really pays much attention in these places anyway. Not until they pick up on the smell.”
I cry out from behind my gag, shake my head, pull and strain with all I got.
“For what it’s worth, you came close, Kid Reporter,” he says. “Closer than anyone else. But you still fell short. That failure will be the last thing on your mind.”
Mr. Black turns on the TV, cycles through for a police show. He finds a shootout on TV. Why is there always a shootout on American TV? The sound of gunfire from the set fills the room. He tosses the remote and aims the gun. I stop flailing, accepting what’s about to come. I close my eyes and hold my breath.
Water sprays the side of my face.
I peek over to see a stream of liquid die from the end of the gun nozzle.
Chase giggles and drops the gun to the bed top.
“I told you you couldn’t escape the Beast,” he says darkly and winks.
He kisses me on top of the head.
“Baby, that was amazing! Let’s get you out of these ropes, so I can make out with you for the rest of the night. If that’s okay with you…”
My eyebrows lift, and I nod, agreeing. Tied and gagged as I am…who am I to object?
end
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Scottstud94
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 188
- Joined: 6 years ago
- Location: Michigan
I have a good feeling we’ll be seeing Alex soon. Dylan is meddling with stuff he shouldn’t be and I feel like he’ll be joining Alex soon in chains.
Still going strong! The factory scene is quite intense and additional info is well inserted into the story.
Our hero has the ultimate flexible mind: traumatic events feeding his fantasies
Our hero has the ultimate flexible mind: traumatic events feeding his fantasies
don't run ! I'm friendly ...
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I'm passing to warn that I'm loving where this story is going, it's something completely different from anything I've read, adding articles, photos and websites is an amazing way of tell all this. As always an amazing job !!
Yes, it's me in the picture. What are you waiting for to tie me up and gag me?
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Deleted User 3263
JOE HARDY in THE MYSTERY OF CASTLE SEASIDE
by Dylan Tremont
Chapter 1
“Young Detective of the Year”
I find the note folded on the breakfast table.
Joe,
I hope you get to feeling better. Dad and I are spending the day in San Diego
before attending the ceremony tonight. If the caretaker of Castle Seaside sends
a message, tell him I’ll be in touch. Above all else, Joe, do not investigate this
new mystery on your own. It sounds dangerous. When I get back, I’ll see to it
myself, little brother.
Frank
I hate it when he calls me “little brother.”
I’m only younger by a year and a half. And for the record, I’m feeling fine. I only said I was under the weather because I didn’t want to go to Frank’s silly award ceremony.
I came with him and Dad all the way to California from our home in Bayport (Mom stayed behind to help Aunt Gertrude with canning season). But now, I can’t do it. I’d just be sitting in the banquet room red-faced, getting more jealous by the second as they call Frank onstage to accept the “Young Detective of the Year” award.
It should have been both of us on that stage, not Frank! He only got the award because he’s older than me. By a measly year and a half.
There is a ping on my phone with a message from a Mr. Dyson. He introduces himself as the caretaker of Castle Seaside. He thinks he’s called Frank’s phone instead.
His message ends with a plea: “Please, young Mr. Hardy, can you help solve this mystery?”
I take a few seconds to make my decision and message back to set a time and location to meet. I sign-off the message as Frank Hardy.
I grab a fast shower, towel off, and dash on jeans and a light plaid shirt. I grab my bag of supplies and, most importantly, the notes Frank left behind about Castle Seaside. I snatch up the keys to the rental car and hurry out to solve this mystery — on my own!
Chapter 2
“The Solitary Sleuth”
According to Frank’s notes, the castle is a reproduction of an old fort found in San Marino (a republic near Italy). This new castle has been erected on the shore of Victoria Beach on the same property that houses an old stone lighthouse and tower.
Castle Seaside is a foreboding structure replete with big halls, lofty turrets, even a dark dungeon situated somewhere in the hollows of the hillside. To create the structure, builders imported stones from another castle in Italy — and that, according to the Victoria Beach locals, is why the castle is haunted!
A haunted castle???
When I see that part in Frank’s notes, it makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand at attention. I read on.
For the past week or so, the normally quiet castle has seen a number of chilling disturbances. Strange noises have emanated from within the stone walls. According to some, screaming and moaning have been heard coming from the depths of the castle. What’s more, the spectral image of a tall, dark-hooded man has been seen walking the parapet of the castle’s highest peak. His appearances usually happen right around midnight!
The residents of Victoria Beach are convinced the stones used in the fortification’s construction came from a haunted castle in Italy, and that some evil has been brought across the ocean to take up residence in this new seaside structure.
I close the folder of notes.
A creepy lighthouse and castle — strange sounds — and a spectral ghost? What a mystery! I have to admit, I’m a little scared — but more than ready for a new adventure.
It takes an hour to travel up the coast, but I find the castle easily enough. I park off the elevated highway and walk down to the beach area via a set of stone steps.
The castle is an amazing recreation. Very detailed…and very spooky. I listen and can’t detect any strange sounds coming from within. The only thing I hear is the sound of lapping waves and seagulls nearby.
I notice a wide cave under the castle with ocean trailing beneath.
I am suddenly reminded of that time last summer when Taffy Marr’s goons kidnapped me and kept me tied and gagged in a similar cave for two days. Frank and our friends came to my rescue — and just in the nick of time — I barely survived the ordeal. But Taffy Marr was caught by the Bayport police, and he’s now safely in custody. His diamond smuggling ring was busted-up. So there’s nothing to fear from the smugglers any longer.
I hear splashing and look over to see a couple of dorsal fins breaching the water near the cave’s entrance.
“Sharks,” a gravelly voice says behind me.
I turn to see a tall, fair-haired man. He wears a long dark coat and a cap pulled down low to shade his eyes.
“There’s no swimming or surfing at Victoria Beach,” he goes on. “Too many sharks.”
“That’s probably a good rule,” I say.
“You’re trespassing,” he says abruptly. “This is private property.”
“I’m not trespassing. I’m meeting the caretaker here.
“That’s me. I’m Dyson. You must be Frank Hardy.”
“Actually, I’m his brother, Joe.”
“But my boss wanted the Young Detective of the Year on this case…”
My face flushes hot.
“I’m a detective, too,” I point out. “And besides, my brother’s not Detective of the Year. Not officially — not until the ceremony tonight.”
Mr. Dyson smiles and takes a long pause to consider.
“Sort of a solitary sleuth, are you?”
“I’ve read up on your case,” I reassure him, “and I’m ready to get to work.”
“All right, then,” he responds. “Boss won’t mind, long as it’s a Hardy. But we can’t go in the castle. We don’t have permission yet. The Boss wants you in the lighthouse. Strange things’ve been happening in there. A young boy like you should find it most intriguing.”
“The lighthouse, huh?” I say. “Okay, Mr. Dyson. Lead the way.”
Chapter 3
“The Old Lighthouse Tower”
The ancient stone lighthouse is built into the side of a cliff. The edifice is designed to look like a medieval tower, straight out of “Rapunzel.”
We climb up crumbling stone steps to the wooden door.
“She used to be a lighthouse,” Mr. Dyson says as he utilizes a large skeleton key to open the heavy door. “Kids kept breaking in to do their drugs, or to make out, or to take pot shots at the reflectors. Authorities ended up putting a signal beacon on top of a jetty half a mile up beach.”
He opens the door, and I step in with him.
It’s roomy inside with an elevated wooden floor and winding metal stairs leading to the top spire. Construction equipment is scattered about. A piece of scaffolding — what looks like one of the narrow steel laddered sides — leans against the round wall, attached on top by chains that rise to an electronic wench high above.
“We had a construction crew in here working to shore up the tower,” he explains of the tools and hanging scaffold piece. “Their tools started disappearing. They found them moved all over the place. It spooked them so much, they swore they’d never come back. Not even to collect their equipment. Can you imagine that? Men like that don't scare easy. Wanna know what I think? I think they saw something else in here. Maybe that hooded specter come to pay them a visit…”
“Mr. Dyson,” I interrupt. “Would you mind if I looked about on my own?”
He stops talking and appears wounded, gives me a surly nod and goes out the door, silently closing it behind him.
“Thank you, sir,” I call after, appreciatively. I didn't mean to hurt his feelings. But his constant chatter was distracting me. I need to concentrate.
I start to investigate…and speculate.
Of course, the workers might have been scared off…but why would a ghost move tools around? Can ghosts even do that?
More likely, someone was using the tools without their permission and not putting them back in the same place.
Maybe someone wanted to scare the workers out of the tower because they were in the way, somehow.
But in the way of what?
I decide to investigate up top.
As I take the circular stairs, I notice maritime maps taped to the rounded walls.
There are several stacked on top of each other.
I’ll have to give the, maps a closer look when I come back down.
Once at the top, I see the main advantage of the tower.
At its position at the edge of the promontory, a person on top of the tower has a clear view of the bay to the north or the approach to the castle to the south. It’s a perfect lookout spot!
I look about the room. There are crushed cigarette butts kicked to the sides of the wall…a pair of binoculars…and a place on the wall where dust has been disturbed. It’s the same size as — yes! — the maritime maps below. That’s the connection!
I circle down the tower and stop at the maps.
I remove the top layer on the stack and see another map beneath with fresh markings.
It appears to be a schedule of arrival times and departures.
This is definitely the map that was up top —stashed behind the other maps so no one would find it…
…no one except Joe Hardy, of course.
I quickly take a snapshot of the map with my phone.
Behind me, I hear the wooden door open and close.
“Mr. Dyson,” I say, tucking my phone into my pocket and looking closer at the markings on the map, “I think I know why the workers were scared away. And I don't think it has anything to do with some ghost — ”
Suddenly, a wooden board connects flat with the back of my neck. My knees buckle, and as I slump, I am caught under my armpits by a pair of powerful hands.
“That oughta knock you out for awhile,” a voice says. “Long enough for me to get you trussed up good and tight…”
My eyes flutter closed, and I go limp in my attacker’s arms.
Chapter 4
“Captured!”
I slip in and out of consciousness, but I am aware of what’s being done to me:
I am dragged to the scaffolding ladder and my body leaned against it.
My ankles are lashed together with rope, cinched in the middle and tied off to a bottom rung.
My knees are joined, roped and cinched tight.
My hands are brought in front of me and bound together at the wrists.
Rope is laced across by chest and under/over each armpit, cuffing my shoulders to the nearest rung.
Another length of rope is then tied around my hands and pulled between my legs and roped tight to the ladder rung behind me. This draws my hands flat against my midsection.
As I stir awake, a cloth gag is pushed into my mouth and wrapped around my head, cleave gagging me tightly.
When the man steps back from securing the gag, I can see it is Dyson.
“It shoulda been your brother Frank tied to this ladder,” he says, “but like I said before, “Boss doesn’t mind — long as it’s a Hardy.”
I try to speak, but my words are garbled behind the cloth gag.
“Mpfffh ar pffew fdoingh fffis? Leppph mffph go!”
“I can tell you're trying to say something important. Let me help with that.”
He unfolds a long, thick, white cloth from his pocket and criss-crosses it around my mouth several times, flattening the cloth and muffling the sound from my lips, then tying the ends off to the rung behind my head. I'm now well-silenced, my head pulled back against a rung, lashing me even more securely to the ladder.
Dyson goes to the electrical controls for the wench and engages the motor.
The ladder to which I am bound begins to raise up straight. Then it slides to the center of the room. Then it lifts into the air.
I’m trembling with fear as I hover one foot…two feet…five feet off the ground!
Dyson stops the motor.
He walks around, appreciating my helpless state. During my collapse and relocation to the ladder, the last of the buttons on my shirt has come undone, and my bare chest is exposed. He runs a rough hand across my smooth chest. I try to recoil, but I can barely move.
“You Hardys won the gene pool lottery, that’s for sure,” he coos. “It’s a shame to waste such a fine-looking boy. But the boss has his orders.”
Dyson reaches down and undoes a latch on the wooden floor. He steps to the side and pulls an iron bar. The wooden floor beneath me falls open. I feel the cold clammy rush of ocean air rise up. The floor was really a set of doors and has now opened to a well that terminates into the sea water beneath the tower.
Suddenly, I hear the same splashing as earlier. Even though my head is tied back and my view is restricted, I know there are sharks in the water beneath me.
“So long, Joe Hardy, boy detective,” Dyson says as he reverses the wench motor, and the chain starts to lower me down. “This is one mystery you’re never going to solve.”
He laughs, turns to go, and closes the door behind him…as I squirm and mmmpfh behind my gag and slowly and steadily lower to the shark-infested waters below.
…to be continued…
What is the secret of the maps and markings?
Who is Mr. Dyson?
Who is the Boss, and why does he want the Hardys dead?
And most importantly…will Joe be fed to the sharks…
…or will he escape his bound and gagged peril???
by Dylan Tremont
Chapter 1
“Young Detective of the Year”
I find the note folded on the breakfast table.
Joe,
I hope you get to feeling better. Dad and I are spending the day in San Diego
before attending the ceremony tonight. If the caretaker of Castle Seaside sends
a message, tell him I’ll be in touch. Above all else, Joe, do not investigate this
new mystery on your own. It sounds dangerous. When I get back, I’ll see to it
myself, little brother.
Frank
I hate it when he calls me “little brother.”
I’m only younger by a year and a half. And for the record, I’m feeling fine. I only said I was under the weather because I didn’t want to go to Frank’s silly award ceremony.
I came with him and Dad all the way to California from our home in Bayport (Mom stayed behind to help Aunt Gertrude with canning season). But now, I can’t do it. I’d just be sitting in the banquet room red-faced, getting more jealous by the second as they call Frank onstage to accept the “Young Detective of the Year” award.
It should have been both of us on that stage, not Frank! He only got the award because he’s older than me. By a measly year and a half.
There is a ping on my phone with a message from a Mr. Dyson. He introduces himself as the caretaker of Castle Seaside. He thinks he’s called Frank’s phone instead.
His message ends with a plea: “Please, young Mr. Hardy, can you help solve this mystery?”
I take a few seconds to make my decision and message back to set a time and location to meet. I sign-off the message as Frank Hardy.
I grab a fast shower, towel off, and dash on jeans and a light plaid shirt. I grab my bag of supplies and, most importantly, the notes Frank left behind about Castle Seaside. I snatch up the keys to the rental car and hurry out to solve this mystery — on my own!
Chapter 2
“The Solitary Sleuth”
According to Frank’s notes, the castle is a reproduction of an old fort found in San Marino (a republic near Italy). This new castle has been erected on the shore of Victoria Beach on the same property that houses an old stone lighthouse and tower.
Castle Seaside is a foreboding structure replete with big halls, lofty turrets, even a dark dungeon situated somewhere in the hollows of the hillside. To create the structure, builders imported stones from another castle in Italy — and that, according to the Victoria Beach locals, is why the castle is haunted!
A haunted castle???
When I see that part in Frank’s notes, it makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand at attention. I read on.
For the past week or so, the normally quiet castle has seen a number of chilling disturbances. Strange noises have emanated from within the stone walls. According to some, screaming and moaning have been heard coming from the depths of the castle. What’s more, the spectral image of a tall, dark-hooded man has been seen walking the parapet of the castle’s highest peak. His appearances usually happen right around midnight!
The residents of Victoria Beach are convinced the stones used in the fortification’s construction came from a haunted castle in Italy, and that some evil has been brought across the ocean to take up residence in this new seaside structure.
I close the folder of notes.
A creepy lighthouse and castle — strange sounds — and a spectral ghost? What a mystery! I have to admit, I’m a little scared — but more than ready for a new adventure.
It takes an hour to travel up the coast, but I find the castle easily enough. I park off the elevated highway and walk down to the beach area via a set of stone steps.
The castle is an amazing recreation. Very detailed…and very spooky. I listen and can’t detect any strange sounds coming from within. The only thing I hear is the sound of lapping waves and seagulls nearby.
I notice a wide cave under the castle with ocean trailing beneath.
I am suddenly reminded of that time last summer when Taffy Marr’s goons kidnapped me and kept me tied and gagged in a similar cave for two days. Frank and our friends came to my rescue — and just in the nick of time — I barely survived the ordeal. But Taffy Marr was caught by the Bayport police, and he’s now safely in custody. His diamond smuggling ring was busted-up. So there’s nothing to fear from the smugglers any longer.
I hear splashing and look over to see a couple of dorsal fins breaching the water near the cave’s entrance.
“Sharks,” a gravelly voice says behind me.
I turn to see a tall, fair-haired man. He wears a long dark coat and a cap pulled down low to shade his eyes.
“There’s no swimming or surfing at Victoria Beach,” he goes on. “Too many sharks.”
“That’s probably a good rule,” I say.
“You’re trespassing,” he says abruptly. “This is private property.”
“I’m not trespassing. I’m meeting the caretaker here.
“That’s me. I’m Dyson. You must be Frank Hardy.”
“Actually, I’m his brother, Joe.”
“But my boss wanted the Young Detective of the Year on this case…”
My face flushes hot.
“I’m a detective, too,” I point out. “And besides, my brother’s not Detective of the Year. Not officially — not until the ceremony tonight.”
Mr. Dyson smiles and takes a long pause to consider.
“Sort of a solitary sleuth, are you?”
“I’ve read up on your case,” I reassure him, “and I’m ready to get to work.”
“All right, then,” he responds. “Boss won’t mind, long as it’s a Hardy. But we can’t go in the castle. We don’t have permission yet. The Boss wants you in the lighthouse. Strange things’ve been happening in there. A young boy like you should find it most intriguing.”
“The lighthouse, huh?” I say. “Okay, Mr. Dyson. Lead the way.”
Chapter 3
“The Old Lighthouse Tower”
The ancient stone lighthouse is built into the side of a cliff. The edifice is designed to look like a medieval tower, straight out of “Rapunzel.”
We climb up crumbling stone steps to the wooden door.
“She used to be a lighthouse,” Mr. Dyson says as he utilizes a large skeleton key to open the heavy door. “Kids kept breaking in to do their drugs, or to make out, or to take pot shots at the reflectors. Authorities ended up putting a signal beacon on top of a jetty half a mile up beach.”
He opens the door, and I step in with him.
It’s roomy inside with an elevated wooden floor and winding metal stairs leading to the top spire. Construction equipment is scattered about. A piece of scaffolding — what looks like one of the narrow steel laddered sides — leans against the round wall, attached on top by chains that rise to an electronic wench high above.
“We had a construction crew in here working to shore up the tower,” he explains of the tools and hanging scaffold piece. “Their tools started disappearing. They found them moved all over the place. It spooked them so much, they swore they’d never come back. Not even to collect their equipment. Can you imagine that? Men like that don't scare easy. Wanna know what I think? I think they saw something else in here. Maybe that hooded specter come to pay them a visit…”
“Mr. Dyson,” I interrupt. “Would you mind if I looked about on my own?”
He stops talking and appears wounded, gives me a surly nod and goes out the door, silently closing it behind him.
“Thank you, sir,” I call after, appreciatively. I didn't mean to hurt his feelings. But his constant chatter was distracting me. I need to concentrate.
I start to investigate…and speculate.
Of course, the workers might have been scared off…but why would a ghost move tools around? Can ghosts even do that?
More likely, someone was using the tools without their permission and not putting them back in the same place.
Maybe someone wanted to scare the workers out of the tower because they were in the way, somehow.
But in the way of what?
I decide to investigate up top.
As I take the circular stairs, I notice maritime maps taped to the rounded walls.
There are several stacked on top of each other.
I’ll have to give the, maps a closer look when I come back down.
Once at the top, I see the main advantage of the tower.
At its position at the edge of the promontory, a person on top of the tower has a clear view of the bay to the north or the approach to the castle to the south. It’s a perfect lookout spot!
I look about the room. There are crushed cigarette butts kicked to the sides of the wall…a pair of binoculars…and a place on the wall where dust has been disturbed. It’s the same size as — yes! — the maritime maps below. That’s the connection!
I circle down the tower and stop at the maps.
I remove the top layer on the stack and see another map beneath with fresh markings.
It appears to be a schedule of arrival times and departures.
This is definitely the map that was up top —stashed behind the other maps so no one would find it…
…no one except Joe Hardy, of course.
I quickly take a snapshot of the map with my phone.
Behind me, I hear the wooden door open and close.
“Mr. Dyson,” I say, tucking my phone into my pocket and looking closer at the markings on the map, “I think I know why the workers were scared away. And I don't think it has anything to do with some ghost — ”
Suddenly, a wooden board connects flat with the back of my neck. My knees buckle, and as I slump, I am caught under my armpits by a pair of powerful hands.
“That oughta knock you out for awhile,” a voice says. “Long enough for me to get you trussed up good and tight…”
My eyes flutter closed, and I go limp in my attacker’s arms.
Chapter 4
“Captured!”
I slip in and out of consciousness, but I am aware of what’s being done to me:
I am dragged to the scaffolding ladder and my body leaned against it.
My ankles are lashed together with rope, cinched in the middle and tied off to a bottom rung.
My knees are joined, roped and cinched tight.
My hands are brought in front of me and bound together at the wrists.
Rope is laced across by chest and under/over each armpit, cuffing my shoulders to the nearest rung.
Another length of rope is then tied around my hands and pulled between my legs and roped tight to the ladder rung behind me. This draws my hands flat against my midsection.
As I stir awake, a cloth gag is pushed into my mouth and wrapped around my head, cleave gagging me tightly.
When the man steps back from securing the gag, I can see it is Dyson.
“It shoulda been your brother Frank tied to this ladder,” he says, “but like I said before, “Boss doesn’t mind — long as it’s a Hardy.”
I try to speak, but my words are garbled behind the cloth gag.
“Mpfffh ar pffew fdoingh fffis? Leppph mffph go!”
“I can tell you're trying to say something important. Let me help with that.”
He unfolds a long, thick, white cloth from his pocket and criss-crosses it around my mouth several times, flattening the cloth and muffling the sound from my lips, then tying the ends off to the rung behind my head. I'm now well-silenced, my head pulled back against a rung, lashing me even more securely to the ladder.
Dyson goes to the electrical controls for the wench and engages the motor.
The ladder to which I am bound begins to raise up straight. Then it slides to the center of the room. Then it lifts into the air.
I’m trembling with fear as I hover one foot…two feet…five feet off the ground!
Dyson stops the motor.
He walks around, appreciating my helpless state. During my collapse and relocation to the ladder, the last of the buttons on my shirt has come undone, and my bare chest is exposed. He runs a rough hand across my smooth chest. I try to recoil, but I can barely move.
“You Hardys won the gene pool lottery, that’s for sure,” he coos. “It’s a shame to waste such a fine-looking boy. But the boss has his orders.”
Dyson reaches down and undoes a latch on the wooden floor. He steps to the side and pulls an iron bar. The wooden floor beneath me falls open. I feel the cold clammy rush of ocean air rise up. The floor was really a set of doors and has now opened to a well that terminates into the sea water beneath the tower.
Suddenly, I hear the same splashing as earlier. Even though my head is tied back and my view is restricted, I know there are sharks in the water beneath me.
“So long, Joe Hardy, boy detective,” Dyson says as he reverses the wench motor, and the chain starts to lower me down. “This is one mystery you’re never going to solve.”
He laughs, turns to go, and closes the door behind him…as I squirm and mmmpfh behind my gag and slowly and steadily lower to the shark-infested waters below.
…to be continued…
What is the secret of the maps and markings?
Who is Mr. Dyson?
Who is the Boss, and why does he want the Hardys dead?
And most importantly…will Joe be fed to the sharks…
…or will he escape his bound and gagged peril???
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