The crisp Autumn leaves crunched under Detective Janice Westingbrook’s boots as the 33-year old police woman crossed the unraked lawn towards a quiet, plain suburban home. She was dressed in plainclothes: a dark burgundy jacket lined with fur and black pants tucked in calf-high leather boots, but she had her badge hung prominently on her belt, opposite her holstered pistol.

“Nobody home…” Janice thought, surveying the dark building. “Probably been gone two…three days at the most. Damn! He knew we were on to him and flew the coop!” She brushed a leather-gloved hand through her smooth auburn locks which hung shoulder length.

For two weeks now, the detective had been on the trail of a serial kidnapper. She had hoped, still held out hope, they could rescue his latest victim: 18-year old Cynthia Peters: a cute all American high school sweet-heart. She had been snatched walking home after cheerleading practice three weeks ago and no one knew what had become of her.

Janice had set her suspicions on one Peter Franklin, a retired steelworker who had been seen around the high school on days when Cynthia had been out practicing with the rest of the cheerleading team, but any evidence beyond the circumstantial had proved elusive at best. Now, it seemed Janice’s suspicions had been confirmed…too late.

“Or maybe not…” She mused, glancing around. There might be some clues left behind which could point to where he, and hopefully Cynthia, had gone. “No way I could get a warrant to search the house though…” Janice thought, “At least not before the trail’s gone cold again. This will have to be off the books then.”

The neighborhood was, at the moment, empty. No one saw the young woman jog up to the door and casually try the knob. To her surprise, it was unlocked and she went inside. The house was comfortably, but spartanly furnished and had that quiet stillness which told Janice the house was empty and had been for some time now. She searched the place but found only a few signs of a sudden, but not hurried departure: closet doors and dresser drawers opened, clothes missing, a few dirty dishes from a last meal still sitting in the sink.

It wasn’t until Janice searched the basement she found what she was looking for. The small metal door had, previously, been hidden behind a low shelf, but the shelf had been swung back and left there. The hatch, likewise, hung open, the bolt drawn back, a padlock dangling from it. Behind, a small dark hole yawned open. Taking a small flashlight from her pocket, Janice stepped forward. The hatch was small and low enough the young woman had to get on her knees and crawl through. On the other side was a larger chamber. From the walls, two of them concrete, two of painted cinder block, she guessed this had originally been part of the larger basement, but it had been walled to make a secret room, accessible only through the small hatch.

This secret chamber was, undeniably, a dungeon. Half of the space was cordoned off into a cell, with metal bars set in floor and ceiling, with a narrow steel bed frame, holding an old, stained mattress and a small chemical toilet. The wall and bed were fitted with metal rings, some still hung with chains ending in shackles. The other half of the space was intended for ‘play.’ The floor was occupied by a heavy wooden cross and bench, both fitted with the same points for securing captives to them. The far corner, meanwhile, held a long, L-shaped workbench with shelves, hung with all sorts of restraints: shackles, collars, gags, hoods, and implements of pain: whips, crops, floggers and more.

The thought that she was standing in the chamber where Cynthia Peters, and doubtless other innocent girls before her, had been held captive and tormented made Janice’s skin crawl. “Got to focus…” She thought, forcing revulsion down. “I’m here to find out where they went.”

The police woman went to the bench and began searching. After a minute, she found a book, on one of the shelves leaned against a plastic tub filled with neatly coiled hanks of rope. Taking it out, she saw it was a large, leather bound album, of the sort used for scrapbooking. Setting the book on the table, Janice opened it to the first page.

In the middle of the page was a picture in black and white, showing a smiling girl with curly blonde locks, posing in a frilly prom dress. The picture seemed to have been cut out of an old High School yearbook. Surrounding it were a number of polaroids of the same girl naked and tied up in a variety of poses. The dungeon she was in wasn’t the same as the chamber Janice stood in now, but it was built to the same style.

Written at the top of the page in a neat hand were three short lines: Sally Chesterfield. Acquired: May 12th, 1989. Sold February 2nd 1990.” It was that last line which made Janice’s skin crawl with horror. Peter Franklin wasn’t just a kidnapper, torturer and rapist. He was also a white slaver! Looking at the picture in the center, Janice wondered if Sally Chesterfield was still alive, even now, and suffering in some forgotten hellhole.

She flipped to the next page. It followed the same layout as the first. In the center was a glamor shot of a young dark skinned woman with short curly hair, surrounded by lewd and terrifying snapshots detailing her time in her kidnapper’s dungeon. The description gave her name as Amanda Wallace. She’d been abducted in July of ‘92 and sold a little over a year later.

The rest of the album was more of the same. The polaroids switched to digital, the fashions changed with the times, but the fates of the young women in the pictures remained the same. Every couple of years, it seemed, Peter would kidnap a fresh girl, most in their late teens or early 20s, and hold her captive in his dungeons. The dungeons seemed to change after every three or four girls as he moved to avoid suspicions or to find fresh victims. Some of the girls he’d only hung on to for a couple months, some he’d kept more than a year, but all were eventually sold.

Finally, Janice got to the page for Cynthia Peters. The picture at the center was a promo-shot from one of her high school games. There were only a couple pictures of the girl, lashed spread-eagle to the rickety bed, stripped and blindfolded, or strapped to the heavy cross, her naked back stripped by the whip. At the bottom was the usual description: Cynthia Peters, Acquired September 14, 2023, Sold September 30, 2023. Janice gritted her teeth. 3 days. She’d been too late by just 3 days! The detective was about to toss the gruesome scrapbook aside when she suddenly noticed the current page didn’t rest flat against the next one, as it would have if it were blank. Something had been pasted to the next page.

“Maybe he already picked out his next victim.” Janice thought. “That could tell us where he’s going!” Hurriedly, she turned the page. Detective Janice froze, her eyes going wide…

Staring back up from the page was her own face. The picture she recognized. It was a screengrab of a press conference she’d given a little over a week ago, regarding the case. If any doubts remained, they were dispelled by what was written beneath the picture: Janice Westingbrook, Acquired October 3rd, 2023. Sold…”

The significance of the date sunk in Janice’s brain just a moment too late. As she turned, just in time to see the metal hatch slam shut with a clang which echoed in the enclosed space. As she threw herself against the hatch she heard the rasping of the bolt being slid in and the loud “click” of the padlock, trapping her in the dungeon.

“Hey! Let me out!” Janice called, pounding the palm of her hand on the metal. “You can’t keep me trapped in here!” With the noise she was making, the detective didn’t notice the quiet ‘hiss’ from the corner, at least not until her head became heavy. Everything went dark for her as the knockout gas took hold…

 ***

“Mmmm…” Janice moaned as she came too once more. As she came back to consciousness, several things became apparent in short order: Firstly, the young woman was lying on her back on the same rickety bed she’d seen earlier. Secondly, her arms and legs were outstretched and secured with steel cuffs to the four corners of the bed. Thirdly, a leather strap was pulled tight across her mouth, preventing her from spitting out a large cloth wadding that filled her mouth, muffling her increasingly panicked moans. And fourthly someone, presumably the someone who had done parts 1, 2 and 3 had also stripped the young woman completely naked.

“Mmmppphhh!!!” grunted, horrified by the predicament she found herself in. She tugged at the cuffs on her hands and wrists with all the strength she could muster. The bed creaked and rocked but she remained held fast. After a second, she gave it up as futile. Even if Janice could get away from the bed, she could now see the door of the cell, which had been open when she came in, was now shut fast, a fresh chain and padlock that hadn’t been there before, telling the young woman she wouldn’t be leaving the dungeon until she was let out, if ever.

As she was taking all this in, there was a rattle from the hatch. Someone was undoing the padlock and drawing back the bolt. A moment later, a short, stooped elderly man came in. He was dressed in an overcoat, jeans and boots.

“Well, you’re awake already, my dear.” Peter Franklin taunted, walking up to the bars. “I was just disposing of your car and the rest of your clothes. I do hope your panties taste alright!” He laughed as his captive gagged and wretched. “I am pleased you did come by. I must admit I was rather miffed to have to dispose of my last plaything so soon, but I suppose her new owner will enjoy her just as much as I would have. I’d just gotten back from delivering her…someplace in South America… Maybe that’s where you will be bound, when I’ve gotten bored playing and sell you off.” Janice grunted angrily into her panty-gag, fighting the shackles with renewed, but equally futile range.

“Heh! Settle down! You’re a spirited one! That’s good! They like girls to have a little fight in them when they arrive and you might just have a little left, after I’ve had my fun anyway!”