Hands clasped my shoulders. They dug into me like blades, deep and thick as a picket of a fence. A tremor ran through my body as the breath of my captor slinked down my spine, thrilled every last nerve in my body. I watched as their shadow crept along the wall. There they were, unidentifiable, and surely about to kill me.
The person behind me made no noise, hardly even breathed. For some reason that made me tremble even more, knowing that the comfort of voice was not even present. I wondered if they were human- I had only ever felt the hands of the fiend, and they were covered in thick gloves. When they tied me up I had grasped one of them, but quickly let go, finding a slice left in my palm; there was something sharp hidden around their wrist, like a pocket knife left open.
A row of utensils lined the wall ahead, glinting and smiling like wicked counterparts of cutlery. There were more knives than I could count. Some looked freshly polished and sharpened, while the rest were dull, or worse, covered in mysterious brown splatters that made me splutter. I gasped, I begged.
But there was no response.
Soon an old radio was turned on, and all I could hear was the rough crackling of an empty station. Over the sound I could hear the drowned out screams of someone, but there were no words, just earsplitting, heartbreaking yells. I tried shouting for help over the radio, but it was no use; the static climbed higher and higher with each scream.
Every fifteen minutes a knife disappeared from the wall. This happened for what felt like an eternity, until only two were left. My voice had left me at this point, and all I knew was that my turn to die was coming up. I began to question why the other victims had not begged for mercy like I had, or at least said something. Were they drugged? Why was I not? Was it some sort of torture meant especially for me?
The lights flickered and went off, drenching me in the sadistic darkness that seeped from every corner of the room. I was untied and pushed to a standing position. The lights went back on and I stood there for several minutes until I realized nothing was going to happen. I slowly turned around.
Behind me was a party, but instead of people, pigs sat in chairs, by gifts, and among cake. The only thing that disturbed me about this scene was that the pigs were dead, their throats all cut, and blood washed out the hay beneath them.
I gulped and slowly looked up.
Above me crouched the figure who had brought me here, poised, and holding the last knife from the wall.