Masked (Abducted Hearts Duet Book 1)

Elise Lang
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Masked
Abducted Hearts Duet Book 1

Elise Lang
 Masked
Copyright © 2023 by 2023

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and
products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Melissa Cunningham (To.All.The.Books.I.Love)
 Contents

Dedication
Content Warning
1. Prologue
2. Chapter 1
3. Chapter 2
4. Chapter 3
5. Chapter 4
6. Chapter 5
7. Chapter 6
8. Chapter 7
9. Chapter 8
10. Chapter 9
11. Chapter 10
12. Chapter 11
13. Chapter 12
14. Chapter 13
15. Chapter 14
16. Chapter 15
17. Chapter 16
18. Chapter 17
19. Chapter 18
20. Chapter 19
21. Chapter 20
22. Chapter 21
23. Chapter 22
24. Chapter 23
25. Chapter 24
26. Chapter 25
27. Chapter 26
28. Chapter 27
29. Chapter 28
30. Chapter 29
31. Chapter 30
32. Chapter 31
33. Chapter 32
34. Chapter 33
To Be Continued
Acknowledgements
Thank You
About the Author
To all my girls that think masks are sexy and being kidnapped could end well.
 Content Warning

Masked is a dark romance with heavy themes. For those of you that need to check trigger warnings for your own safety, please
do so before continuing on. Your mental health is important.
Nothing about this book is to be taken seriously. It is a work of fiction written strictly for your smutty enjoyment.
For those of you that choose to use trigger warnings as a shopping list, I hope there's enough here to make you smile.
Trigger warnings include but are not limited to:
Stalking, kidnapping, masks, drugging, praise, degradation, primal play, breath play, abuse, spitting, non con, dub con,
bondage, human trafficking, and rape.
 Prologue

I 've always found this house creepy, though I never really understood why. In my childish brain, snakes slithered through the
tall grass unseen and monsters hid in every dark corner. It’s the place my best friend calls home, even though he’s ashamed to
show it to anyone other than me.
“Ainsley, I can’t find you!”
I clamp my hand over my mouth to prevent myself from giggling and ruining my hiding spot, one of the best ones I’ve found
so far.
Ethan's parents rarely allow anyone in the house, so he prefers playing outside. But today, they let us stay inside. It’s
storming outside and it wouldn’t have been safe for us. Our only rules were that we needed to behave and not get underfoot, so
we played hide and seek for hours.
It took me a while to build up the courage to hide in the basement, and I almost regret coming down here. Though Ethan has
yet to find me, the basement is a dark, damp room that reeks of something foul. I’ve been holding my nose since I came down
here, trying to prevent myself from inhaling the scent and involuntarily gagging myself.
Small footsteps run around overhead, moving back and forth through the house in search of me. I should probably reveal
myself before Ethan gets worried enough to involve his parents, but I want to revel in my glory for a few more minutes.
Since it’s his house, Ethan always wins hide and seek. He knows all the best hiding places around here, and I just have to
play along. I’ve always begged my parents to let us play at my house, but every time, they say no.
My parents don’t like my friendship with Ethan. They haven’t tried to hide their feelings, but they haven’t explained them,
either. Their reasoning is that my eight-year-old mind won’t understand. One day, when they didn’t know I was listening, I
heard Mommy crying to Daddy that I wasn’t safe playing with Ethan anymore. She said this neighborhood was dangerous, and
she was afraid I wouldn’t come home. But Ethan will always keep me safe.
We’ve been friends for as long as we can remember; since we were both in diapers. Neither of us have siblings, so we
leaned on each other for companionship. Others have come and gone in our friend group since we started school, but we’ve
always remained constant.
“Ainsley? Ainsley!”
A giggle finally escapes me at the frustration in his voice, knowing I’ve beaten him at his own game. The footsteps above me
come to an abrupt halt and I slap my hand back over my mouth to keep quiet. After a moment, the footsteps turn into a full
sprint, and they pull the door to the basement open.
“Ainsley? Are you down here?” Instead of sounding frustrated, he sounds panicked. As if there really are monsters hiding
down here and he’s afraid they’re going to eat me.
“Ethan, why are you yelling? And why are you going into the basement? You know you’re not allowed down there.” Ethan’s
father’s voice sounds from the top of the stairs, and the basement door is quickly shut, leaving me alone in the darkness again.
This time, it’s me that starts to panic. If his dad doesn’t want Ethan down here, surely there’s a reason. Am I lucky I haven’t
met the monsters that live down here yet? Did I hide from them, too?
Afraid they’ll find me before Ethan does, I climb out from the space behind an old couch and stand to my full height, just
enough to see over the couch. No monsters are lurking in front of me, ready to laugh as they eat me alive, but that doesn’t
change the creepy feeling crawling down my spine.
Heavier footsteps join Ethan’s in the search for me, so I make my way around the furniture down here and find my way to the
steps. His parents will never let us play in the house again after this. We shouldn’t have disrupted them, and it’s my fault for
hiding so well. The glory I felt for finally winning is short-lived as dread sets in.
Just as my foot lands on the bottom step, a hand clamps around my mouth and drags me back until I’m knocked against a hard
surface. Thinking the monsters found me before I could escape, I scream as loudly as I can, hoping to get Ethan’s attention. The
monster muffles my screams through its hand, barely allowing me to make any noise. Not enough for them to hear me upstairs.
I’m never going to make it out of this creepy basement.
“Never come down here again, little one. You never know what monsters are lurking in the dark.”
The monster releases me, and without a backward glance, I launch myself up the steps as quickly as my legs will carry me
and crash through the door back into the house.
 Chapter 1

Ainsley

H alloween is only three weeks away and I still haven’t found a costume. No matter how much I scroll online or look through
the stores, I just can’t find anything that feels right.
“Come on, Ains, you need something,” Cassie reminds me. My parents were never big fans of celebrating Halloween when I
was little, saying it was the devil’s holiday. The funny thing is, that’s exactly why I celebrated it when I went off to college.
During Halloween, two types of people emerge: those who enjoy scaring and being scared, and those who use it as an excuse
to wear lingerie in public..
Since I haven’t grabbed a lacy black corset and called it a costume, it’s clear which person I am. I’ve already dragged
Cassie out three times, and each trip was unsuccessful. She found fishnets, a tight dress, and some fake fangs and decided she
was going to dress as a slutty vampire. I tried to tell her she would be cold walking around the fair like that, but she wouldn’t
listen.
The six of us are going to the Halloween fair in town, and it was made clear that only couples are allowed in our group.
Nobody wanted to feel weird about bringing their boyfriend, or being the one that didn’t bring their boyfriend.
“What’s Ethan dressing up as? You can try to match him,” Cassie encourages me.
Everyone thinks Ethan and I are dating, and though we’ve tried to deny it, nobody believes us. We’ve given up and just
accepted it as our little joke, and it comes in handy for things like couples Halloween parties.
“He’s not,” I sigh. Ethan doesn’t appreciate Halloween the way I do, and only goes to the fair to be with me when I get too
scared. “He’s too busy this semester and didn’t want to spend a bunch of time on finding a good costume, so he just bought a
mask and called it good enough.”
I walk down the aisle and away from here, looking at every costume as I walk by to find some inspiration. She doesn’t
follow me, too busy looking at a sexy devil costume that’s caught her attention. I disappear around the corner, headed to the
back of the store. The selection is pretty picked over in this store. Most people bought their costumes a month ago to prepare
for the big day.
At the back of the store, tucked away in a corner, I find a gorgeous black lacy veil. I pull it off of the hook and examine the
detailing of it. It doesn’t look like something you’d find in a Halloween shop, but like something you’d find in a widow’s
closet. It’s long enough to cover my entire head and fall to my shoulders.
“That would look gorgeous on you, darling,” a deep voice says from beside me. I jump in surprise, dropping the veil on the
floor as my heart attempts to escape my chest.
Dark blue eyes clash with mine as he bends down to pick up the veil. Eyes I could get lost in if I let myself stare long
enough. As he stands back up to his full height, handing me the veil with one hand and sweeping the black hair off of his
forehead with the other, I tear my eyes from his face to take in the rest of him.
This is the type of man you think of when you hear the term ‘devilishly handsome’. My heart thuds uncontrollably in my
chest, while my brain is screaming at me that everything about this man is a bad idea. His face alone is enough to tell me he
would bring nothing but trouble.
 Not to mention the defined muscles over his entire body. I’m not ashamed as I let my eyes travel down his body. He’s
wearing all black, from his t-shirt to his jeans, and the color suits him. He has tattoos running down both arms and some
peeking out from the dip in the front of his shirt. A clear bulge on his hip makes me wonder what he’s hiding under his shirt, but
not enough to make me run away from him.
This is the type of man fathers try to warn their daughters about, and I can see why. He looks dangerous and sexy, and his
eyes are burning into me, letting me know he likes what he sees, too.
My thighs clench together involuntarily, my body already knowing that this is exactly the type of guy I would let ravish me.
“Did you find anything?” Cassie rounds the corner and finds me staring at this man as he holds the veil in front of me, and she
comes to an abrupt halt. Her eyes travel from him to me and back again.
“Wear it with a long black dress and throw some gothic makeup on and you’ve got a winner,” the mystery man tells me. I
grab the veil from his outstretched hand and hold it close to my chest, unable to find my voice to answer him. He throws a wink
at me and disappears down the aisle as quickly as he appeared, leaving me disappointed. I didn’t even get his name.
Maybe it’s for the best. Hookups have never been my thing, and that guy doesn’t strike me as the type to want something
serious.
“Holy shit, he was hot. I’d bone him,” Cassie announces as she watches him disappear with me.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“A girl can dream,” she sighs wistfully. “He was right, though. You could go for a gothic bride look. Maybe even throw in
some fake contacts to make it creepier.”
Hooking my arm through hers, I drag her up the aisle, clutching the veil in my hand. I check out quickly and convince Cassie
to go to a few more stores with me to look for the right dress. She groans and protests, but I know she secretly enjoys our
shopping excursions. It gives her a break from college life and the desk she’d trap herself at otherwise.
We find the perfect dress at the third store we visit. It’s a black, strapless ballgown with a slit up the left side that goes all
the way to my hip. There are no details in the fabric, letting the veil stand out even more. It’s a corset style, and when Cassie
laces me into it as tightly as she can, it gives me a perfect hourglass figure. I always thought I had a boyish build, but this dress
makes me look like I actually have boobs and a butt. There’s no way I’m looking for anything else.
“Imagine some white contacts and dark red lipstick on me. What do you think?”
“I think if it weren’t for your long blonde hair adding a pop of color, you’d look like a creepy ghost bride,” Cassie answers.
“Then it’s perfect.” I smile in the mirror at her while she fakes a shiver from horror, but smiles back at me. This is going to
be my best costume yet.
When we get back to our apartment, I throw my costume into my closet for later and call Ethan. I tell him all about my
shopping trip, minus Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, and he laughs at my excitement for a holiday he’s accustomed to. Even
though we grew up side by side, it still amazes me how different our experiences were.
My parents always tried to shelter me from the world, especially when my mom was alive. Ethan grew up understanding that
life isn’t all sunshine and roses, while my parents taught me that I could have anything I wanted. There was no devil in my
childhood, only angels. Until the monster made an appearance.
“I’m glad you’re excited, Ains, but don’t you have an exam to study for? Oh wait, let me answer that. Yes, you do, because
I’ve been studying for the same one all day,” Ethan teases me, the smile sounding through his deep voice.
“Yes, Dad,” I tease him right back. “Sorry I wanted to share the exciting news with you.”
“I’m sure you’ll look great. You always do,” he tells me sincerely. “Now, get off the phone and study!”
“Bye, Ethan.”
“Bye, Ainsley.”
I hang up the phone and throw it on my desk next to the stack of books I’m avoiding. This semester has barely started, and
already I can’t find the motivation to get through it. It’s been three years of constant studying just to get through, and I still don’t
know what I want to do when I graduate.
Ethan and I majored in completely different subjects, but we still like to take our elective classes together. I majored in
English, but I’m not sure if I want to be an Editor, a Publisher, or go a completely different route. One day, I hope I’m brave
enough to publish my books, but I’m not there yet. Ethan majored in business so he can either run his own business one day, or
be a higher-up in one.
Channeling his motivation, I sit at my desk and crack open my notebook. We took Greek mythology to satisfy a History credit,
and so far, it’s more interesting than I thought it would be. I enjoy seeing all the art and hearing all the stories that people
believed enough that they based their lives around them. The professor for the class is enthusiastic about the topic, making sure
we all stay invested in his lectures. It’s the first class I’ve ever been sad to have to walk out of.
My phone buzzes loudly against the wooden desk, and thinking it’s Ethan making sure I’m actually studying, I pick it up and
look at the message.
UNKNOWN: Looking forward to playing with the monsters? Never forget the monster you met in that basement. I hope your
hiding skills have gotten better, little one.
 Ice forms in my chest as my entire body stiffens. No. That’s not possible. How could he have found me after all these years?
My breathing becomes erratic as I read over the message. I throw my phone on my bed, wanting to get it and the creepy
message away from me. I’ve told no one about what happened in that basement, not even Ethan, but that day still haunts my
nightmares.
In my nightmares, the hand never lets me go. It drags me back into the basement until it’s so dark I can’t see anything, not
even my hand in front of my face. Sometimes, the monster slits my throat and gives me a quick ending. Other times, he ties me
up and tortures me until I wake up sobbing. I’ve learned to keep my screams quiet since I was a kid. I used to terrify my dad
when I would scream in my sleep every night and refuse to tell him what happened. He gave up asking after a while and started
to just comfort me, and in return, I learned to keep my screaming to a minimum. He thought the nightmares went away. Only I
knew the truth.
You never know what monsters are lurking in the dark, the voice always whispers in my head.

"That test wasn’t so bad," Ethan announces as we walk out of class the next day.
"No, it wasn't," I agree, even though I know I failed it. After I got that text, I couldn't focus on anything, especially studying
for an exam. No matter how much Greek Mythology interests me, nothing beats a creepy text from an unknown number that
presumably belongs to the monster that's been haunting you since your childhood.
Ethan and I walk out of the building together, but after that, we have to split ways. Being a senior this year, I could get one
class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It makes the rest of my days pretty full, but at least I have downtime, unlike during my other
semesters. Ethan wasn't a fan of having all of his classes shoved into the same day and repeated three times a week, so he
spread his schedule out more than I did. After Greek Mythology, I get to go home and take a nap, but Ethan has to attend another
class.
When I get back to the apartment, I drop my bag in my room and climb into bed. My two roommates are both still on campus,
giving me peace for the afternoon. Unfortunately, the quiet that stretches through the apartment doesn't make its way into my
head, which is still refusing to shut off after last night.
Grabbing my phone, I pull up the text message and stare at it. Maybe if I stare hard enough, the sender will get the message to
back off.
Screw this. I can just send a message right back. Not literally, though. I don't want to talk to whoever this creep is, and I
certainly don't want to get any more texts from him. Pulling up the contact information, I click the button I'm looking for and
block the number from sending me anything else.
Feeling accomplished that I dealt with the monster myself, I place my phone on my nightstand so I can roll over and fall
asleep.
I sleep restlessly, tossing and turning as my childhood nightmare threatens to make an appearance each time I close my eyes.
An hour later, I’m woken by the dinging of an incoming text. I should really start turning my sound off when I nap so no one
can wake me up. I'm always grumpy when I'm woken up. Scratch that, I'm grumpy whether I wake up on my own or if I'm
woken up by someone or something. I just hate waking up.
I roll back over and grab my phone off of the nightstand to see who wants me to bite their head off today.
UNKNOWN: You didn't think it would be that easy to get rid of me, did you?
Ice courses through my veins as I read over the text that shouldn’t be possible. If I wasn't awake before, I am now, but I'm no
less mad about it. Now, I just have fear laced in with anger. I unlock my phone and tap into the message and, sure enough, it's
the same person from last night. I blocked them, though. How did they get around that so easily?
As I'm staring at the screen in shock, another text shows up.
UNKNOWN: Don't even think about doing it again. You don't want to see me mad.
I don't want to see this person, period. Mad or otherwise, I want them to stay as far away from me as possible. I should go to
the store and get a new phone, or a whole new phone number, but something tells me it would be more of an inconvenience than
an obstacle for this person.
If I can't get rid of the creep, I might as well figure out who I'm dealing with. Isn't that what people always say before they're
killed, though? Oh, well. Here goes nothing.
ME: What do you want?
 Chapter 2

Ainsley

T hehe story of Hades and Persephone is one we’ve all heard since we were children. Hades visited Earth one day, and when
saw Persephone strolling through a field of flowers, he fell in love with her. He didn’t know what to do about it but
knew he needed her in his life, so he went to Zeus for help.
Hades and Zeus concocted a plan to steal Persephone away from her home and trap her in the Underworld. One day, she was
playing in the fields with her nymph friends, and the Earth split under her feet. From the Earth came Hades, who grabbed
Persephone and brought her to his realm.
Persephone was angry, as any rational woman would be in her situation, but at some point, she must have developed
Stockholm syndrome because she ended up falling in love with Hades. It probably didn’t help that she ate the pomegranate
seeds and had to spend half of every year in the Underworld with Hades. Who wouldn’t try to make that fate a little easier?
Not that I’m saying Persephone should’ve ever forgiven Hades for stealing her away instead of courting her like a decent
person would. She simply made the best of a terrible situation.
It’s been a week since I texted the unknown number back with no response. I’ve been hoping that by standing up for myself
instead of cowering away and pretending nothing happened, I might have scared them away. As the days have gone on, I’ve
stopped looking over my shoulder so much and I’m not afraid of every notification that comes across my phone.
I didn’t tell any of my friends about the creep, not even Ethan. It was my problem, and I handled it, and now he’s gone.
It’s funny, though, that our topic in Greek Mythology today is the story of Hades and Persephone. A creepy God that didn’t
know how to walk up to the girl he liked and give her flowers or say a few kind words. Instead, he decided he’d be better off
stealing her away and scaring the shit out of her.
Not that I plan on being stolen away or falling for some creep that’s been texting me, but clearly he has some kind of ulterior
motive here. I really should mention all of this to Ethan. After all, I first met the creep while hiding in his basement. Surely they
don’t let random people live in their basement, so he would know who’s messing with me.
If I talk to him about it, I’ll have to tell him what happened in his basement, and those nightmares are best left buried. I’ll
stick to dressing as the monster instead of being haunted by them, thank you very much.
Dr. King flips through the PowerPoint, showing us pictures and statues depicting Hades and Persephone. Some of them show
the two as an equal pairing, while others show Persephone as a dark queen, ruling over the Underworld as Hades looks on
with pride. The one I find the most powerful is a well-known statue depicting Persephone being kidnapped. Whether
Persephone ended up falling in love with him or not, Hades can never change how he started the relationship.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I steal a glance at Ethan beside me. He’s diligently taking notes on everything Dr.
King is saying, telling me it’s not him who texted me. Not that I would expect it to be with him sitting right next to me.
Discreetly, I dig my phone out without alerting the professor and read over the text.
UNKNOWN: If I stole you away like Hades stole Persephone away, would you fall in love with me, too?
I look around the room, trying to spot anyone looking at their phones. For once, the lecture enthralls everyone, giving me no
hints as to who my creep is.
 ME: No.
Let's squash any ideas he has about recreating this myth and ruining my life. Stockholm syndrome may be real, but I’d like to
believe I would never be a victim. More than likely my kidnapper would tire of dealing with me and send me back. Half the
time, I don’t even want to deal with myself.
I had set my phone down on my desk after sending the text, not expecting an answer. When it comes through, the vibration
against the desk has multiple heads whipping in my direction, including Dr. King’s. Ethan looks at me with furrowed eyebrows,
knowing I’m not one to get distracted by my phone in class, and I just shrug my shoulders.
I ignore the text for the rest of the class, even though my eyes keep darting to my phone. When Dr. King dismisses us, I throw
my notebook into my backpack and sling it over my shoulder quicker than Ethan can even close his books and grab his pencil.
“In a hurry for that afternoon nap?” he teases me as he slowly puts everything into his backpack. I shift on my feet, eager to
see what the creep said. Did my refusal to fall for him make him lose hope? Please, please, please.
“Something like that,” I tell him. As soon as he stands up and places his backpack on his shoulders, I turn on my heels and
start heading for the doors.
“Slow down, Ains, you’ve got all day to sleep,” Ethan calls after me. “Hey, there’s actually something I want to talk to you
about.”
I slow down and let him catch up to me. “Yes, I was paying attention in class,” I tell him. Ethan treats me like a little sister
and wants to make sure I’m doing my best instead of wasting my time in school, though sometimes he can be a little
overbearing.
“Good, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” He fidgets with his fingers as we continue walking. After years of
knowing Ethan, I know what he’s about to say is something I will not be happy about. “I promised my parents I would come to
visit for the weekend. You should come with me. You haven’t seen your dad in a while, and I know he really misses you.”
I sigh at the mention of my dad. Him and I have a complicated relationship. I love him, but I don’t know how to take him
sometimes. My mom died from cancer when I was ten, and my dad became a different person. He didn’t know how to go on
without the love of his life, so he threw himself into his job. He’s an Engineer, so there was always plenty for him to do, which
left me to grow up pretty fast.
We would eat dinner together and he would comfort me after my nightmares until I learned to be quiet, but other than that, we
became strangers. When I grew up and he found the will to live again, he tried to make up for all the lost years. By then, I was
applying to colleges, and I just wanted to get away.
Ethan has grown close to my dad over the last three years. He keeps my dad informed on how I’m doing and if I’m struggling
in any of my classes, and in return, my dad accepts him as my best friend, even though my mom never did.
“You can stay at my house and you and I could go have dinner with your dad so you don’t have to do it yourself.” Ethan
pushes with a hopeful smile on his face. He waits for me to answer, and when I stay quiet, he pushes on. “He’s trying, Ainsley.
Your dad just wants to be a part of your life.”
“Fine,” I huff out. “But it’s just dinner, nothing more.”
“Deal. We’ll leave Saturday morning and come back Sunday night, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree.
We part ways as Ethan goes to his next class and I leave campus for the day. He distracted me by bringing up my dad, but I
didn’t forget about the text waiting on my phone. I read it as soon as I get to my car.
UNKNOWN: I love a challenge, little one. But, I promise, I can be much scarier than Hades if I need to be.
Oh, fuck this guy and his warped sense of reality. Who goes around threatening to kidnap random people just for kicks? I
click through his contact and block his phone number again. He might have gotten around it once, but I dare him to try it again.
I drive to my apartment and storm inside, trying to push off some of my frustration so I can actually sleep. It ends up not being
too difficult because as soon as my head hits the pillow, my eyes start to droop.
I wake up hours later, feeling rested and much less angry. The sound of my phone going off didn’t wake me up, and it makes
me feel victorious. I bested him this time, and I won’t be hearing from him again.
I roll onto my back to stretch out my body, and as soon as my head moves, something crinkles on the pillow. Confused, I
shoot straight up and look for whatever made that sound. On my pillow, I find a folded piece of paper with my name on it.
Hesitantly, I pick it up and read the words written to me.

I WARNED YOU NOT TO MAKE ME MAD, LITTLE ONE, AND YOU DISOBEYED ME. IF YOU PREFER I SNEAK IN YOUR WINDOW AND LEAVE YOU SWE
LITTLE NOTES, I CERTAINLY WON’T OBJECT . I SUGGEST YOU THINK THAT ONE THROUGH. BY THE WAY, YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL WHEN YOU SLEEP.
YOUR MONSTER

My phone chimes as I finish reading the note. I’m wide awake now, and terrified to look at my phone. This just went from
some creepy guy texting me to a creepy guy threatening to kidnap me and breaking into my apartment to leave threatening notes.
 UNKNOWN: What’s it going to be? Are you going to upset me again?
My best bet is to placate him until he loses interest.
ME: No.
As I watch the message send, I decide to send another.
ME: Who are you?
Maybe by asking him something about himself again, he’ll leave me alone for another week. Maybe this time he’ll leave me
alone for good, though that’s doubtful if he’s going to this extent to get to me.
UNKNOWN: Like the note said, I’m your monster. Maybe I’ve just gone from living in the basement to living under your
bed. Why don’t you check and see if I’m under there?
It’s stupid and I know I’m playing right into his hand, but suddenly, I’m not so sure he’s not still here. He was obviously here
while I was sleeping and invaded my personal space. Was I just naïve to think he wasn’t still hiding in here somewhere?
I throw my phone on the bed next to me and take a deep, steadying breath before launching myself over the edge and looking
at the space under the bed. Darkness greets me, but no eyes are staring back at me. I stand up and close the distance from my
bed to my closet and whip the door open, bracing myself to find someone standing there, but all that stares back at me are my
clothes.

“Stop fidgeting,” Ethan reprimands me. We arrived at his parents’ house this morning and got settled in for the weekend.
Now we’re on our way to my house and I can’t stop playing with my fingers.
We go to school half an hour from our hometown, so I had little time to freak out about dinner tonight. When we got to
Ethan’s house, I was so distracted by seeing his parents again that I almost forgot. After my mom died, his parents treated me
like their own, even when my dad didn’t. They’ve become my family, and staying the weekend with them happens regularly.
I visit them much more often than I visit my dad, even though my dad is just on the other side of town. I never feel the need to
make that effort.
“It’s just dinner,” Ethan reminds me. “We’ll be in and out quickly, okay?”
“It’s never just dinner,” I argue. “He’s going to bring up mom and blame his absent parenting style on her death and not
acknowledge that I miss her, too. We’re probably going to get into some kind of argument, and by the end, he’ll go back to
avoiding me and texting you for updates.”
Ethan sighs from the driver’s seat, knowing he can’t disagree with me. He’s been through enough of these dinners with me
over the last three years to know exactly what to expect.
He pulls into the driveway in front of my childhood home, a large two-story house with a white picket fence around it. It’s
the type of house people picture when they think of the American dream, but for me, it only represents a broken family.
“Ready?” Ethan asks as he parks the car.
“No,” I sigh. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I tell him, “Let’s get this over with.”
He climbs out of the car with me and together we walk to the front door. My dad opens the door before we even ring the
doorbell. He must have been watching through the window for our arrival.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he greets me with an enormous smile. He steps forward to wrap me in an awkward hug, something he’s
been trying to do a lot more recently. He was never the most affectionate dad, but he’s tried to be better about that, too. Just as
awkwardly, I wrap my arms around his waist and count my breaths until he lets go of me.
One, two, three…
His arms reluctantly leave me, and he turns his attention to Ethan. He claps Ethan on the back as he asks, “Ethan, how have
you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been good, Mr. Cross, how about you?”
Great, the dreaded small talk, as if they don’t talk to each other all the time. Suddenly the mystery texter's threat to steal me
away doesn’t sound so bad, as long as it gets me away from this situation.
“Ethan, how many times do I have to tell you to call me David?” It’s a conversation they have every time we’re here, but
Ethan still feels weird about calling my dad by his first name, so he gives a small smile instead of a response. “Come in, come
in, dinner’s just about ready.”
Ethan and I step into the house while Dad closes the door behind us. As we walk through the house still decorated the way
my mother left it, the smell of steak grows stronger. There’s not much my dad could ever cook, which led us to order in a lot,
but steak is one of his best dishes.
“Make yourselves at home,” Dad tells us as he walks into the kitchen. “There’s beer and wine in the fridge, you know where
the glasses are.”
Not one to pass up the chance to make this a little easier, I go straight for the wine in the fridge and pour myself a glass.
Ethan isn’t much of a drinker, so he gets himself a glass of water and leans against the counter beside me.
“Tell me about school, kiddo,” my dad says over his shoulder as he checks whatever’s in the oven. The steaks are piled on a
plate on the counter, already cooked, so we must be waiting on what’s in the oven to finish cooking before we can eat.
“I’m a senior, so things are pretty calm this semester. I still haven’t decided what I want to do after graduation, so I’m trying
to take classes for each possibility. Actually, my favorite class this semester is the Greek Mythology class Ethan and I are
taking. This week we learned all about the Hades and Persephone myth.”
Dad nods his head as I talk, acknowledging everything I’m saying without making a comment. “How about you, Ethan? Still
hitting the books pretty hard?”
“You know me, sir, I always have my head shoved in a book. I packed my semester pretty full, and I’m still at the top of my
class. I’m excited to see what opportunities I’ll have after graduation,” Ethan tells him with a smile. Companies are going to
fight over him when he graduates, and he’ll be able to go wherever his heart desires. I’m so proud of my best friend, and I
know it shines through my smile every time he talks about how well he’s doing.
“Do you kids know where you want to move after graduation yet?” Dad asks as he pulls the food out of the oven. On one pan
he has asparagus coated in oil, and on the other are potatoes wrapped in tinfoil.
“Wherever I get a job,” Ethan and I answer simultaneously. We smile at each other teasingly before turning our attention back
to my dad, who’s looking at us with furrowed eyebrows.
“Yeah, but you guys are going together, right?”
It’s a question we get asked a lot at school. People expect us to get engaged and move away together after graduation, and
we’ve stopped reminding those people that we’re just friends. But it’s a topic we’ve avoided since we started college. We’ve
been a constant in each other’s lives, but there’s always the possibility that we’ll get jobs on the opposite side of the country
and not get to see each other anymore.
I can’t imagine my life without Ethan in it every single day. He’s my other half, even if there’s nothing romantic between us.
“We’ll find out after graduation,” I answer evasively, looking away from Ethan. The mood between us turns somber as we
both get lost in the idea of a future apart from one another.
Dad steps back from the oven after turning it off, and motions for us to serve ourselves. Ethan starts, grabbing a large piece
of steak, a few pieces of asparagus, and one of the baked potatoes. I follow behind him, grabbing smaller portions than him,
and my dad goes last.
We all take our food to the dining room and sit down.
“Listen, kids, because this old man has some advice,” my dad tells us. He likes to refer to himself as old, even though his
hair has barely any gray and the laugh lines around his eyes are just starting to become permanent. “You guys have been
together since you were in diapers. You’re a shoulder to lean on for each other, and you bring each other comfort when you
need it. Even if there’s nothing romantic between you yet, you would be lost without each other.”
We share a glance at his emphasis on the word yet, and Ethan rolls his eyes dramatically while I try to hide my laugh. Even
my dad is trying to get us together at this point.
“Trust me, I have no intention of moving away from Ainsley,” Ethan tells my dad with a mischievous smirk on his lips. “Who
else would force me to watch every scary movie that’s released and then make me stay with them when they can’t sleep?”
“And I certainly can’t leave Ethan,” I tease right back. “Who else is going to give me a curfew simply because they can only
handle a certain amount of social interaction, which has been determined before even leaving?”
My dad chuckles at our teasing as he cuts into his juicy steak. “Tease all you want, but your mother and I were the same way.
We didn’t realize we were in love until we moved to different cities and couldn’t see each other anymore.”
The reminder of my parents’ love story has me quietly focusing on eating my dinner. They met at freshman orientation and
became instant best friends. They were inseparable throughout their four years at college, and people always teased them about
being in love, but they were always only friends. After graduation, Dad got a job offer in North Carolina, and they offered
Mom a job in California.
My parents both accepted their jobs and promised to stay in touch. They talked every day, but it wasn’t the same without
being right next to each other. It didn’t take long for them to realize that all the people that teased them throughout school were
right, and they were in love with each other. Mom quit her job in California and flew across the country to profess her love to
Dad, but he met her at the airport and beat her to it. They moved to Oklahoma and had me, and the rest is history.
That’s not Ethan and me, though. We really are just best friends. The two of us have watched each other go through different
relationships without feeling the need to intervene or be jealous. We want the best for each other, and we each want the other to
have a happy life.
“So, what do you guys have planned for this semester other than studying? Any exciting trips you’re taking?”
“Just the Halloween fair,” I answer. Not much happens during the Fall semester until the holidays start, other than partying on
campus and just trying to make it to Winter break. “That’s next weekend. We’re going as a group, but we do it every year.”
“And your birthday, Ains. We’ll have a party to celebrate that,” Ethan reminds me. My birthday lands between Thanksgiving
and Christmas, and my friends always insist on throwing me a party to celebrate. I always roll my eyes at them, but secretly I
love that they want to celebrate me.
“Well, that sounds like fun,” Dad answers. “What about holiday breaks? Any plans for those?”
We small talk our way through dinner, working to be pleasant and not tipping over into any arguments. When my stomach is
full and I can’t eat another bite, I offer to help clean up. Dad puts all the food away while I load the dishwasher and Ethan
stands by awkwardly.
“Are you guys heading back tonight?” my dad questions as I close up the dishwasher and start it.
“No, we’re going back tomorrow night. We’re just going back to Ethan’s house for now,” I answer.
Dad’s face falls at my answer, and I know our peace is about to be broken. “You’re staying at Ethan’s? You can stay here,
kiddo. I didn’t turn your room into a gym or anything like that.”
“I know, but I want to stay there. They’re my family, too, and I want to spend time with them.”
He flinches as if I slapped him in the face, and Ethan slowly slinks out of the room to give us some privacy. I know he’s
probably getting his shoes on so he can be ready for a quick exit.
“I’m glad they were there for you when I couldn’t be, but I’m your family, Ainsley. You barely come to see me, and when you
do, you spend more time with them,” Dad accuses.
“Sounds like my childhood stretched into my adult years,” I throw back at him. My words are like daggers, and I almost
regret when they hit their target. Almost.
“After your mom died, I wasn’t the same, Ainsley. I would have done more harm than good by trying to be here with you.
But, I’m trying now, can’t you see that? I want to be better.”
“Good or not, I still needed you. I was a child, who had just lost her mother, and then my father abandoned me, too. Ethan’s
parents took me in so I didn’t feel like an unwanted orphan.”
“Ainsley.” Dad takes a step toward me with his arms outstretched like he can wrap me in them and make the hurt go away.
The gesture is twelve years too late. I throw my hands up in a defensive gesture and take a step back.
“I’m not doing this right now. I’m tired of having this argument. When you’re ready to admit that you were the one
responsible for your actions and stop placing the blame on Mom, I’ll be ready to listen. But I’m tired of listening to excuses.”
With that, I walk out of the kitchen and meet Ethan at the front door. His shoes are on and his keys are clutched in his hands,
ready to go. Quickly, I slip my shoes on, and when I open the door, I hear my dad’s footsteps behind me. I step outside, but not
before I see Ethan give him a small smile and a nod. They’ll continue their arrangement even though I still haven’t made up
with my dad, and that only makes me angrier.
As we drive away, my dad stands in the front door with his hands shoved in his pockets and a frown on his face.
 Chapter 3

The Monster

I t’swatched
taking all of my self-control not to pull her from the bed and strangle the boy wrapped around her like he owns her. I’ve
her with different boys through the years, but they were all that. Boys. While this one is no different, I know how
close they are.
The only thing keeping me from wrapping my hands around his pretty little neck for throwing his arm around my girl’s waist
is that I know he wouldn’t cross me. His job has been to watch over her and keep her safe until she’s ready for me, and so far,
he’s done that.
His true test is coming up soon. My plan is going perfectly, and it’s almost time to reveal myself. If Ethan stands in my way,
he becomes a problem. He won’t be stupid enough to do that. But clearly, I’ve underestimated his stupidity when it comes to
my girl.
Walking out of the small bedroom they’re sharing for the weekend, I close the door a little louder than necessary and tiptoe
through the house until I reach the basement.
Meeting her that day was an accident, something that should’ve never happened. I came over that day to spend some time
with Ethan, but his parents kept me away from him again. Pissed off, I stormed into the basement to avoid everyone. I meant to
use the door in the basement to exit the house, but then she came down the stairs in a rush and hid behind the couch.
She was such a small thing, and so innocent. She represented everything I never had as a child. I should have let her run up
those stairs when she tried, but I wanted to know how she would react to me. Would she fear me and hate me as everyone else
did, or would she be curious?
She avoided the basement every time she came to the house after that. I scared her away, but that didn’t stop my intrigue. I
watched that innocent young girl turn into a broken teenager desperately searching for affection, and now into a beautiful
woman who secretly finds excitement in being stalked by her monster.
As I settle onto the old couch that should have been thrown out years ago when the cotton started falling out of the holes in
the fabric, the basement door creaks open. The first step squeaks under someone’s feet, and the basement door closes.
Whoever’s coming down the steps pauses, trying to decide if they really want to come down. I wait for the lights to flicker on
and give away my presence, but the feet suddenly start up again, making every step squeak until the person hits the bottom.
From the moonlight streaming in through the door, I can see Ainsley standing at the bottom of the steps in her white t-shirt and
blue sleep pants. She looks half asleep but still determined.
The couch hides in the dark outside the touch of the moonlight, and I’m dressed in all black, blending into the shadows. Even
the mask covering my head is all black with a few silver details.
Ainsley takes a few steps forward, waiting for something to come out and attack her. When nothing does, her steps become
bold until she’s standing only a few feet in front of me without realizing it.
“Hello?” Her voice is small but still beautiful, like wind chimes slowly blowing in the breeze on a summer day. She takes
another step forward, and I silently stand from the couch.
“It fascinates me that you’re searching for me now, little one.” She jumps at the same time she gasps, and before she can turn
and run, I grab her wrist and pull her body into mine. “Tell me, is it the fear that intrigues you, or do you truly wish to be
kidnapped?”
“Who would want to be kidnapped?” she spits out. I chuckle darkly, knowing more of her secrets than she realizes.
“You do. That’s why the last handful of books you’ve read have been kidnapper romances or primal play. And you’ve gotten
yourself off to every single one. The question I don’t have an answer to is this: is it the hunt or the capture that excites you
more?”
Her entire body stiffens against mine, realizing this is much more than sending creepy texts and breaking into her apartment
while she’s sleeping. Since she went to college, I’ve placed cameras in every room she’s ever lived in. Some might call it an
invasion of privacy, but it was the only way for me to monitor her and find out what she likes.
“Just because I read it doesn’t mean I like it. I also read about girls getting fucked by guns, do you think that means I would
want that?”
Her voice wobbles even as she tries to hide it. I pull the gun out of the waistband of my pants and run it across her cheek.
“Do you want to find out?”
She’s squirming to get away from me, fighting to break my hold, but her fight is turning me the fuck on. My cock is rock hard
as she brushes against it again and again, and when she finally feels it, she grows still.
“I don’t enjoy seeing you in another man’s bed, little one,” I growl at her. It’s been their arrangement since they started
making trips home together, though he usually takes the floor and gives her the bed. He’s never been bold enough to climb into
bed with her. “Do I need to teach that boy a lesson about touching my girl?”
“N-no,” she cries out, her voice shaking forcefully now. “He was only trying to comfort me, and we fell asleep.”
“What did you need comfort from?”
Ainsley sucks in a deep breath and lets it out before letting it all spill. I know she’s been desperate to talk to someone
outside of the situation, and this is her chance. She may blame her openness on having a gun against her skin when she thinks
back on this moment, but I’ll know the truth. She needed to talk to someone, to me. “My dad. We don’t get along very well. He
practically abandoned me when I was growing up, and now he’s trying to make up for it. We got in an argument and I walked
out.”
While she was talking, I released her wrist and started stroking her arm without her realizing it. “When we came back, I was
really upset, and he was just hugging me for comfort. We must’ve fallen asleep without realizing it.”
“Let me comfort you,” I suggest gently. I slide the gun back into my pants, hoping to show her I can be gentle if she needs me
to be. As if snapping back to reality, her mouth closes, and she stiffens again.
“The last thing I want from you is comfort,” she spits out.
“So you want something from me?” I ask cockily.
“Yeah, I do,” she taunts. She slides a hand seductively up my chest before spitting her next words out. “I want you to leave
me the fuck alone.”
She takes a few steps back, and this time, I don’t stop her. She opened up to me without thinking about it. That’s a bigger step
than I expected at this point.
She keeps walking until her heels hit the steps, and then she pauses.
“I will not do that, little one, and soon you’ll be glad I didn’t.”
She scoffs at me and then turns to grab the handrail. The steps creak under her weight as she climbs them, the lack of her
body heat making me feel alone again.
“I’ll be seeing you, very soon,” I promise her retreating form as she opens the basement door and walks out.

“Ryker,” a familiar voice calls out as I walk into the compound.

“Canton,” I call out as he approaches me. Even though we’ve known each other since we were teenagers, we still rarely use
first names when greeting one another. John does it out of respect for me. Technically, I’m higher up the food chain than him,
and one day I’ll be the boss. I use his last name because I view him as an equal, regardless of my status.
“Boss is looking for you,” he informs me. “He seems pretty pissed about something, too.”
“It’s the middle of the fucking night, what could he want?”
John only shrugs his shoulders in response. With a huff of frustration, I stride back to the boss’s office, feeling like I’m back
in high school being sent to the principal’s office. Which was something that happened frequently.
As soon as I open the door, the conversation dies as three sets of eyes turn to look at me. “Out,” the boss orders the two men
across from him.
They spring out of their chairs and brush past me, relieved to get out of there. Few people walk out of there without sporting
a few new bruises. I shut the door behind them and casually plop into the chair. Getting comfortable, I cross my feet on top of
his desk and rest my hands behind my head.
“You’re looking for me?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
“Get your feet off my desk, boy,” he orders. “I’m not in the mood for your games tonight.”
I let my feet fall with a thud to the floor, not nearly as comfortable in this position. “Happy?”
“You’ve been distracted lately,” he observes. “Want to tell me why?”
“Not particularly,” I answer with ice in my tone. No way am I about to tell him about my girl. He would just use her to his
advantage when I won’t listen to him, and I’m not giving him that leverage. I won’t put her in harm's way like that. “Is there
something else you wanted to talk about, or can I go get a few hours of sleep?”
“I’m getting closer to retirement,” he announces. “Which means, you need to get your head in the game and get ready to take
over.”
“My head is in the game. I am ready.”
“I barely see you and even I know you’re not all in right now. Fix that. It’s time to pick your team. Your right-hand men, the
ones you trust with your life. You need to spend more time with me and learn how to run things.”
“What’s there to learn? If they don’t listen to my orders, point a gun to their head and watch them listen or blow their brains
out.”
“It’s not that simple, son,” he sighs. “You can rule with an iron fist but you’re going to get a lot more done if you’re respected
instead of feared.”
“Aren’t I already respected?”
“No,” he answers without hesitation. “You’re feared because you’re a brute. You find joy in torturing and killing people, and
those around you are terrified that they’ll be your next victim. They mask their fear and make it look like respect because
you’re my son and they don’t want to be on your bad side.”
“So, you’re telling me to stop being such a sadistic bastard and make friends?”
“Precisely. Your sadistic side will help when you’re dealing with our rivals, but you need to show kindness to your men.”
“Fine. I’ll work on it,” I give in. Truthfully, I never really wanted to take over the family business. I was content just being
the soldier and carrying out orders, especially when those orders helped me get some of my anger out. “Is that all?”
He sits back in his chair and relaxes, his eyes never leaving me. “You sure you don’t want to tell me where you’ve been
disappearing to?”
“No.”
He sighs, knowing not to push this any further. “Fine. Go home and get your head in the game.”
I don’t wait for another dismissal. I pop out of my chair and walk out of his office like it’s catching on fire, then exit the
compound without doing what I came here for.
 Chapter 4

Ainsley

I couldn’t fall asleep once I got back to the bedroom. I felt his eyes watching me, judging me for sharing a bed with my best
friend. How long has he been watching me? How did he know what I’ve been reading?
But why did I like the way he was rubbing my arm? I could explain my hand pausing on his chest as a normal female
reaction. The guy is made of muscle; any girl would want to feel that, psychotic asshole or not.
When the sun finally peeked through the windows in Ethan’s bedroom, I decided it was time to get up and get my day started
instead of continuing to stare at the ceiling.
I came downstairs and made a pot of coffee, and I’ve been sitting in the kitchen's silence ever since, lost in my own thoughts.
I couldn’t see the monster in the basement last night, just like years ago when he was behind me. When I went into the
basement, I was too afraid of what I’d see if I turned on the lights, but now I regret walking through the darkness. I could hear
him, and feel his presence looming over me, but I couldn’t see him.
Let me comfort you, he had whispered. The monster acted like he was a guy in love with me, instead of the guy trying to
terrify me and threatening to kidnap me. He certainly wasn’t acting like the guy that told me to never come back into the
basement all those years ago. It’s almost like he was relieved that I was there, like touching me was the only thing that could
make him feel better.
Stop, Ainsley. You’re being stupid. This isn’t one of those books where the guy kidnaps the girl away from the life she hates
and they fall in love and live happily ever after. This is my life, and I love it. And I certainly wouldn’t fall for a man that hid
me away and tried to force himself on me.
“You’re up early.”
The tired voice has me jumping in my chair, working to get me out of my head. Mrs. Nash walks down the hallway toward
the kitchen, going straight for the pot of coffee still steaming. She pours herself a cup and claims the seat across from me.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I admit to her. “I figured I should get the day started.”
“Let me guess, Ethan is still snoring away?” I nod my head and smile. “I swear, that boy could sleep through anything. The
world could end today and he wouldn’t care, as long as he doesn’t have to wake up before noon.”
“I’ve never understood it,” I admit. “He’s the first one up during the week, ready for his early morning classes, but he can’t
be separated from his bed during the weekend.”
“Men. They really are something else. Speaking of men…” she trails off, warning me I probably won’t like the change of
subject. “I didn’t see you come back last night. How did it go with your dad?”
I sit back in my chair and sigh. “About the same as always. I thought we were going to have a decent night for once, but he
implied I was abandoning him now that I’m an adult, even though he abandoned me as a child.”
“Has he ever apologized, sweetie?”
“No. He just keeps blaming it on Mom’s death, saying he wasn’t in a place to raise a child without her. He’s never admitted
he was wrong, he just keeps acting like mom’s death explains everything.”
She reaches across the table and grabs my hand from around my coffee mug for comfort. “I will not excuse what he did, but I
want you to think about my next words. I… have a friend. This friend has a son from when she was very young, and she didn’t
think she was in a place to raise him. Now, it’s too late to make things right, so she doesn’t even try anymore. She’s given up on
having her son forgive her because she doesn’t think he ever will. Being a parent is hard, Ainsley, but there are two types of
parents. Those that try, and those that give up. Your dad is at least the kind that’s trying, even though it’s a few years too late.”
“I know, and I’m glad he is, but I’m just not ready to forget everything that happened,” I rush out as I feel a sob building. A
tear slips from my eye and trails down my cheek before I roughly brush it away.
“No one is asking you to forget, only to forgive,” she reminds me.
“What about your friend? It’s never too late to make things right.”
She smiles sadly at me and stares into her coffee mug as if it holds all the answers. “I’ve tried to tell her that, but she thinks
she messed up too many times in his life. She’s terrified of what will happen if she tries to make things right and her son
doesn’t accept her.”
“She won’t know unless she tries,” I point out. It’s clear this person is more than a friend with the way she’s talking about
her. It may be a sister, or maybe even her mother with a brother I don’t know about. She certainly doesn’t have a strained
relationship with Ethan.
“You’re right,” she tells me. She pushes a smile onto her face and changes the subject, asking me about school and Ethan
while we sip our coffee together.
After coffee, I disappear back to Ethan’s room to find him still fast asleep, snoring enough that the house should be shaking. I
grab my clothes from my suitcase and leave the bedroom to take a shower.
Showered and ready to get the day started, I pack up all of my stuff so I don’t have to worry about it later and then decide
Ethan’s had enough sleep.
I grab the pillow I slept on and throw it at his head while I yell, “Wake up!”
He sits straight up and looks around for an attacker, and is confused when he only finds me standing there. “What the hell,
Ainsley?”
“You’re sleeping the day away. Get up so you can actually spend some time with your parents before we have to leave.”
He groans and gives me a murderous glare for interrupting his beauty sleep, but slowly climbs out of bed and goes to take a
shower. I collapse into the now empty bed and grab my phone off of the nightstand and scroll through social media to kill time.
I’ve jumped down the rabbit hole of funny videos when a text message pops up in my notifications.
UNKNOWN: It didn’t escape my notice that you never answered my question about fear intriguing you, little one. I’ll keep
that in mind for the future.
Angrily, I type back my own message.
ME: It didn’t escape my notice that you threatened me with a gun, either. Leave me alone.
Ethan comes back from his shower, rubbing the towel through his wet hair with his jeans hanging low on his hips. Though
there’s nothing romantic between us, I’ll be the first to admit that Ethan is an attractive man. He has abs to die for and that V
that leads into his jeans. His hair is long and brown, giving him the bad-boy vibe girls always love.
I quickly switch back to my videos so he doesn’t see the texts, but another one pops up just then.
“Do you know if there’s coffee downstairs?” Ethan asks as he drops the towel to the floor.
“I made some pretty early this morning. I can’t guarantee there’s any left.”
He groans and fishes for a t-shirt in his drawers. Throwing it over his head, he leaves the bedroom in search of caffeine to
wake him up. I quickly glance at the text before leaving the room.
UNKNOWN: I didn’t threaten you with it, I offered to please you with it. But, if you’re not up for that, I could always use
my tongue instead.
Another text pops up as I’m still reading through that one.
UNKNOWN: Remind that boy you’re mine so I don’t have to.
I shouldn’t respond. I should throw my phone down and forget about the man in the basement and his determination to make
me fear him. Apparently, my stubbornness is winning the battle over my wit right now.
ME: You’re never going to touch me. I’m not yours, and I never will be.
I shove my phone in my back pocket and walk down the hall to join a grumpy Ethan at the table. He’s gulping his coffee and
stopping occasionally to take a bite of toast. He doesn’t look up when I sit next to him, choosing to scroll through his phone
instead.
His phone vibrates suddenly, and his brows furrow as he clicks on the notification. His body stiffens as he reads it, and his
eyes quickly shift to me. When he sees me watching him, he glances back to his phone and types something into it at lightning
speed.
Picking out my phone, I read over the last text I got.
UNKNOWN: Never say never, little one. You’ll just make it a challenge for me, and I love a challenge.
 “I need to ask you something,” I announce as Ethan drives us back to school. We had a relaxing day with his parents,
lounging around and catching up while watching movies. His mom cooked lasagna for dinner and packed some up for both of
us to take back, and we left shortly after dinner.
“What’s up?”
“Is there someone that lives in your basement?”
Ethan glances at me, looking almost afraid of my question. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I know it sounds crazy, and I thought I was crazy until now. Remember when I hid in the basement during hide and seek
when we were little?” He nods his head, remembering how afraid he was when I came back upstairs. “There was someone
down there with me, and he spoke to me. Nothing else happened until a few days ago when I started getting these creepy texts,
and then I went back into the basement last night and he was there.”
“You’ve been getting texts?” His grip tightens on the steering wheel as he stares straight ahead at the road. “What do they
say?”
“Just empty threats so far, I guess. He’s told me to be careful about making him mad, and he’s mentioned stealing me away
like Hades did with Persephone.” Nothing could ever make me tell him about his offer to fuck me with a gun or to use his
tongue instead. He’s never going to get the chance to do that, anyway.
“Block the number,” Ethan demands.
“I’ve tried. The first time, he unblocked himself. The second time, he unblocked himself and broke into my apartment. He left
a note warning me to never block him again. Do you know who it is?”
“No,” he answers quickly. He’s still refusing to look at me, making me suspicious of his answer. Ethan and I never lie or
hide things from each other, but I can’t help feeling like he’s keeping something from me.
“You’d tell me if you did, right?”
“Of course, I would, Ainsley. It’s my job to keep you safe.”
I stare out the window, dropping the topic and letting him focus on driving. As soon as he drops me off at my apartment, I
rush to my room and lock myself in. I tear apart my room, moving every piece of furniture, looking at every picture, and even
turning some things over. He’s been watching me, telling me he placed a camera in here, but I can’t find it. My room is an
absolute disaster, and tears of frustration are streaming down my face.
My phone chimes from its spot on the floor, and I cry even harder. I don’t need to look to know who it is.
UNKNOWN: I don’t know what’s gotten you so upset, but my offer of comfort is still here.
ME: Where is it? Where’s the fucking camera?
Methodically, trying to take my mind off of why I just destroyed my room, I put all of my furniture and all of my possessions
back where they belong. I check over everything one more time as I place it back, still not finding the camera. By the time I’m
done, my phone is still silent, so I send another message.
ME: You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go to my friend’s place and sleep in his bed until you agree to take the camera
out. Let me know when you’re done.
Almost immediately, the little bubble pops up, letting me know he’s typing a response.
UNKNOWN: If I find you in his bed again, you’ll be seeing me much sooner than I planned. And make no mistake, your
friend won’t make it out unscathed. If you’re willing to risk his life, be my guest.
Okay, so threats won’t work on him, and he deals with jealousy by acting violently. He was right; he is a monster. Taking a
deep breath, I try to act like I’m speaking to a rational person.
ME: Please tell me where the camera is.
He reads it but doesn’t respond. I can feel the camera watching me, feel him laughing at my frustration, but I can do nothing
about it unless I’m willing to risk Ethan. Even though he’s hiding something from me, I’m not about to put him in this monster’s
path.
All I can do now is try to push him out of my mind and focus on next weekend. I have the veil, the dress, and a cute pair of
shoes. All I have to do now is figure out what to do with my hair and makeup. On the bright side, I’ll be out of the apartment for
that night, so the monster won’t be able to watch over me.
Maybe I should even find a hookup for the night, just to show this guy that I don’t belong to him, and he can’t order me
around. Or I could just pick a vanilla romance book to show him I’d rather have that over being kidnapped and fucked with a
gun. Some things are better in books than in real life.
Deciding to do that, I look through the books I just had to reorganize and find the most vanilla love story with some added
spice. I collapse on my bed and start reading through it, skimming through the pages with mild interest. I’ve been into dark
romance for too long to actually enjoy this, but he doesn’t need to know that.
 A few hours later, just as the characters are finally taking their clothes off and my hands are traveling under the blankets, my
phone chimes from my nightstand.
UNKNOWN: That book certainly will not help you out, but just say the word, and I will. Or you can just picture me shoving
my gun into your tight little pussy and making you come all over it. Your choice, little one. The image of me, or the real me?
ME: Neither. This book will please me more than you ever could.
At some point in my life, I’ll learn when to let things sit in my head instead of actually saying them, but today is not that day. I
watch as he reads the text and chooses not to respond again. Maybe he’s realized I’m more trouble than he bargained for and
he’s given up.
Not wanting to press my luck any further tonight, I put the book on the nightstand and turn off the light.

My bed shifts as the blankets are angrily ripped from me, leaving cold air in their place. My eyes snap open to find my room
still dark, but with a figure standing above me. The figure is dressed in all black, even the skull mask covering their head is
black with silver vines running up the hollowed cheeks. It covers their entire head, like a helmet.
I take a deep breath in, ready to scream for help, but the figure’s hand slams over my mouth. The screams I release are
muffled and too quiet to alert anyone to my situation.
“What did I tell you about challenging me, little one?” he growls at me. It’s the monster from the basement, the one that won’t
leave me alone. It was clear he was in my apartment when he left that note, and obviously, another time to place the camera, but
being aware that he’s in here with me is so much worse. When I try to fight my way out of his hold, he only pushes me into the
bed further. “I love a challenge, and you just made this one the best yet. Tell me, did you get yourself off to that book?”
I stare into where I assume his eyes are and stiffly nod my head just to piss him off more. I really have a death wish at this
point. He growls in response and holds my face against the bed while his other hand goes searching.
“I know you’re lying to me. I was watching, remember? You wanted me to take care of you. You don’t enjoy that vanilla
bullshit, you want this. You want me to show you who’s really in control, even when you refuse to admit it. You want me.”
I shake my head violently, trying to tell him I don’t want this at all, but his hand slips inside my underwear. “No?” he
questions as his finger runs up my slit. “I think you’re lying. Because you’re absolutely soaked for me.”
I whimper against his hand, feeling the truth as he slips a finger into me with ease. He moves his finger in a come hither
motion inside of me, and it feels so good that I hate it. I won’t lie here and take this. I can fight back.
Grabbing his arm, I yank down with all of my strength and then bite into the meaty part of his hand. He doesn’t release my
face as I expected, he only growls from the pain and readjusts his hand to cover my mouth again.
He shoves another finger deep inside of me while his thumb finds my clit and starts rubbing slow circles around it. I hate
how good he feels against me. “I like your feisty side, little one, but you won’t fight me on this. You knew what would happen
when you sent that text. Your only choice right now is if I fuck you with my fingers or with my cock.”
I whimper against his hand again, this time from terror. I don’t want him to fuck me with anything, but I certainly don’t want
him putting his cock inside of me.
His fingers move with expert precision, and soon my body betrays me. I stopped before I got myself off earlier, leaving by
body strung up and ready for a release. I’m climbing to the edge rapidly, the familiar tightening in my core growing with each
stroke of his thumb.
“That’s it, baby, you’re doing so good,” the monster tells me. I whimper at the praise, his words doing something funny to my
insides. “If I remove my hand from your mouth, will you scream?”
I shake my head, too close to an orgasm to think of the man causing it. He removes his hand slowly, testing me, but I only
moan when my mouth is free. He curses at the sound, clearly affected by the sound of my pleasure.
I feel my muscles tightening around his fingers, preparing to wrap around him and not let go. Just as I arch my back to come,
he pulls his hand away, leaving me on the edge. My eyes snap open, glaring into his mask-covered face in anger.
“Did you think I was going to let you come after the way you spoke to me? This isn’t a reward, Ainsley.” I hate the way he
says my name. I despise the way my pussy throbs in response to the deep sound, and the way my heart beats just a little faster.
“Then I guess I was right. That book definitely would’ve satisfied me more than you can,” I challenge him, knowing exactly
what I’m doing this time. It’s wrong, and I should be screaming for help or taking this opportunity to make him leave, but all I
want is for him to finish what he started.
“I know what you’re doing, and while I enjoy your attempt, it won’t work,” he tells me.
“That’s fine. I don’t need your help, anyway.” I watch as the eyes in his mask leave my face and travel down my body,
watching the movement of my hand until I reach the top of my underwear. Just before I slide my hand inside, he reaches out,
roughly grabbing my wrist and pulling my hand from my body.
“Here’s the thing. Your orgasms belong to me now. If you feel the need to get yourself off, you call for me. Because if I catch
you doing it yourself, I will sneak in and make you come until you’re begging me for mercy. Understand?”
I only nod my head, not able to form words against the anger in his voice. Not one part of me thinks he’s bluffing, and I’m not
about to find out, either. I can feel my orgasm slowly slipping away, leaving me unsatisfied and wide awake.
“Good. Now go to sleep before you piss me off again,” he commands.
“How do you expect me to go to sleep when you’ve wound me up and denied me a release?”
Shut up, Ainsley. Shut up and let him leave. As soon as he leaves, he’ll be driving back to whatever circle of hell he escaped
from and you’ll have a few minutes without him watching the cameras. He’ll never know.
Despite the mantra in my head, my back arches as he slips his hand back into my underwear and dips a finger back inside of
me.
“Do you think you deserve to come, Ainsley?”
I nod and whimper as the orgasm quickly builds again. His fingers stop their movement, but he doesn’t pull them away this
time.
“Do you, now? Because only good girls get to come, and you haven’t been a good girl,” he reprimands me.
“Please,” I beg him. The word slips out of my mouth before I can stop it, and as soon as it registers in my ears, I slap a hand
over my mouth to keep it from happening again. Did I seriously just beg the monster from my nightmares to let me come?
“Well, since you’re asking so nicely…” His fingers pick up their pace, and right when I near the edge again, he whispers,
“Say you’re mine.”
I don’t remove my hand from my mouth, refusing to say what isn’t true. I’ll never be his, no matter how much he forces
himself on me.
“Say it, Ainsley,” he commands. My pussy clenches around his fingers, trapping them in there as the orgasm rips through my
body. I muffle my screams against my hand, and my eyes roll back in my head, but I still don’t say it.
He keeps pumping his fingers in and out of me, drawing the orgasm out as much as he can. When he’s done, he stands to his
full height, reminding me just how tall he is, and shoves his fingers under his mask. I hear the sounds of him sucking and licking
his fingers, tasting my orgasm.
“Best dessert I’ve ever had,” he tells me with a groan. “You are mine, Ainsley, and one of these days you’re going to admit
it. And when you finally do, I can make you feel better than that.”
With that, he turns and quietly walks out of my bedroom, closing the door behind himself.
 Chapter 5

Ainsley

A fter the monster left my room that night, I fell asleep pretty quickly. I tried to tell myself it was the fear of the situation that
had me crashing without the rush of adrenaline, but really it was just the intense orgasm that wore me out. When I woke up
in the morning, I had missed all of my morning classes and decided to just skip the entire day. Receiving a text from the monster
was the catalyst that finally made me jump out of bed.
If you’re going to spend an entire day in bed every time I make you come, I’ll have to do it more often, he had said.
That was the last thing he said to me. It’s Thursday, and I haven’t received a single text or an unwelcome visitor. I’ve tried to
forget that there’s a camera in my room, but when I wake up in a cold sweat after having a nightmare about the monster in the
basement, the first thing my conscious mind registers is the feeling of his eyes watching me.
“Ainsley, you’re not listening!” Cassie shouts at me. I drag my attention away from my third glass of wine to find Cassie and
Violet both staring at me with concerned looks.
“Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts,” I excuse myself. They don’t need to know that I was thinking about the psychopath that
snuck into our apartment the other night.
“I said, I think Zach is cheating on me,” Cassie repeats.
“I told her she’s crazy,” Violet throws in. “Cass, Zach is crazy about you. He spends all of his free time with you, he’s
constantly getting you gifts and taking you on dates. Why do you think he’s cheating?”
Violet’s right. Zach is Cassie’s boyfriend, and they’ve been together for almost as long as I’ve known Cassie. If everyone
thinks Ethan and I are perfect for each other, then they’ve clearly never seen Zach and Cassie together. Zach is constantly
spoiling Cassie, treating her like a princess, and has never had eyes for another woman.
My eyes travel from Violet back to Cassie as we both wait for her explanation. She exhales dramatically, always one for
theatrics. “He’s been weird lately. He’s getting more aggressive in bed, but not in a bad way. Just something he’s never done
before, but suddenly it’s all he wants. And when I pointed it out, he got really distant. Now, he’s acting like he’s not excited for
the Halloween fair and I don’t even know if I want him to come.”
The monster that snuck into my room and forced his hand into my mouth so I couldn’t scream while simultaneously shoving
his hand into my pants comes to mind, and I wonder just how aggressive Zach would seem next to him.
“No, make him come,” I tell her. “Let us see what you mean. If he’s hiding something, he won’t be able to hide it from all
three of us.”
“She’s right,” Violet agrees. “You focus on having fun while Ainsley and I keep an eye out for any weird behaviors.”
“You guys are the best,” Cassie sobs as tears form in her eyes. She stands up and tries to wrap all of us into a group hug, but
all she accomplishes is spilling her glass of wine all over the floor. “Shit!”
“Paper towels!” I call out, not wanting to leave my dry spot on the couch. Cassie rushes into the kitchen in search of
something to clean up her mess.
“And no more wine for you!” Violet yells out, knowing our friend too well.
Cassie returns with a roll of paper towels and a pouty face from Violet’s command. She does her best to clean up her mess,
but when we wake up in the morning, the floor is going to be sticky.
“Can we watch a movie now?” Cassie pouts out as she collects all the soaked paper towels and takes them back to the
kitchen.
“I get to pick!” Violet shouts out before any of us get the chance to claim the task. She spends the next thirty minutes scrolling
through every streaming service we have. During that time, I finished my glass of wine and went for glass number four, feeling
a comfortable buzz settling over my body.
She finally settles on a comedy that we all love, and we spend the next two hours laughing and drinking as much wine as we
can.
Every Thursday, we have a girls’ night where we drink too much wine, laugh at each other, and finish the night off with a
movie. Cassie always falls asleep by the end of the movie, and as the credits roll, I hear her soft snore filling the room. Violet
looks at me and rolls her eyes with a soft smile on her lips.
“Cassie, wake up,” she whispers as she turns back to Cassie and rocks her body to wake her up. Cassie swats at her hand,
not wanting to be disturbed, and I watch the evil plan form in Violet’s eyes. Before I can stop her, she raises her hand and
brings it down with all the force she has, landing it with a smack! against Cassie’s butt.
Cassie jumps up on the couch with a yelp, looking around for the culprit. Since Violet is rubbing her sore hand, it doesn’t
take Cassie long to find the target of her murderous glare.
“What the hell!” Cassie yells. Violet laughs while Cassie tries to pull her off the couch to land an equally bruising smack, but
Violet pushes against her and remains on the couch.
I take the last sip of wine in my glass and jump up from the couch, not wanting to be dragged into the middle of this fight.
When I come back from the kitchen after dropping my wineglass in the sink, I yell out, “Goodnight, ladies!” but neither of them
are listening right now.
Escaping into my bedroom, I shut the door behind me and collapse into bed. I’ve been looking over my shoulder all week
and freaking myself out, and frankly, I’m exhausted. My makeup is off and I’m already in my pajamas, so I could just turn off
the light and fall asleep right now if I wanted to.
Instead, I decide to pick up my book and read until the fight in the living room subsides.
I’m about two chapters in when I hear both of their doors close, and the apartment goes silent for the night. I should really put
the book down and get some sleep, but the love interest in the book just pinned the main character against a wall. There’s no
way I can put it down right now.
As clothes start flying, my hand slips under the sheets and into my pants to feel my slickness. I should be worried about the
monster watching, or the threat he made the other night, but I can’t bring myself to care right now.
I moan as my eyes fly across the pages, and my fingers pick up a steady rhythm.
The scene ends, but I continue my movements as I set the book off to the side for later. As my head falls back and my eyes
close, my phone buzzes against the nightstand, making my heart stop in my chest. My eyes fly open and my hand stops its
movement.
Reaching over with my now free hand, I grab my phone off of the nightstand and read the text message.
UNKNOWN: I don’t make empty threats, Ainsley. Remove your hand, or I’ll make you mine. You won’t be able to stop
yourself from falling in love with me.
Love? Love doesn’t exist in this sick, twisted version of a relationship he’s trying to execute. The only thing that exists here
is fear and obsession, but not love.
I don’t know if it’s my anger at his use of the word or the alcohol still working through me that gives me the courage, but I
slam my phone down next to me and close my eyes again. Putting him out of my mind, my fingers get back to work.
Knowing he’s watching me and unable to stop me turns me on more, and I know I’ll have to evaluate that later, but right now
I let it push me to the edge of an orgasm. I play with my clit in the way I know I like it, picking up speed the closer I get.
When I tip over the edge, I let out soft moans as my back arches off of the bed. My hand stills and I pull it from my pants as
my back collapses against the bed again.
The orgasm is already receding, leaving me feeling empty and unsatisfied. Fuck him for making me come so hard the other
night that I’m not good enough for myself anymore.
Maybe he’ll follow through on his threat and show up again tonight. Maybe he’ll remove his mask and use his tongue until I
come against his mouth and then slip away into the night like nothing happened.
No, Ainsley. That’s the wine talking. I don’t actually want him to show up tonight. Accepting that I’m just going to be
unsatisfied, I flip off my light and roll over in bed. It doesn’t take long for sleep to take me, and that night, nothing wakes me
up.
 We’ve got quite the group gathered right now. Cassie is dressed as a slutty vampire, and her boyfriend, Zach, is also a
vampire. Showing up in matching costumes is already a sign that their relationship is just fine. Violet dressed as Lilo and her
boyfriend, Levi, dressed as Stitch. They’ve always used Halloween as an opportunity to dress in cute outfits instead of scary
ones.
Next to me, Ethan is dressed in all black with his clown mask that must have come straight from someone's nightmares. The
frizzy red hair around the mask hides his brown hair. Since we’re not a couple, we don’t dress similarly, and this year I’m
grateful for that.
My gothic bride outfit is the best one I’ve ever had, and I know I’ll have to store it away and use it again. The cold air bites
at my exposed shoulder and through the slit in the skirt, making me shiver as we enter the fair. I won’t be nearly as cold as the
other girls, though. They’re dressed like we live in the Caribbean.
“Where to first?” Cassie calls over her shoulder to the rest of us.
“Haunted houses!” I vote. Everyone groans, but they don’t object. They’ve learned that haunted houses are my favorite part
of the Halloween fair, and if we go through them first, they’re out of the way for the rest of the night.
First up, we stand in line for a haunted coal mine. The line is short, but with the sun dipping below the horizon, it’s getting
even colder. Zach wraps his arms around Cassie, who stiffens in return. Violet and I exchange glances, both observing the
strange behavior. So far, Zach has done nothing to make us think he’s cheating on Cassie, but Cassie is acting off.
After a few minutes, we’re led into the house with a few people in front of us. The actors set the scene of an abandoned coal
mine that became home to different creatures and spirits of the coal miners that used to work there.
As we walk through the haunted house, actors jump out, doing their best to scare us. Fog covers the ground up to my waist,
making me paranoid that someone is going to grab my ankle.
Ethan laughs every time I scream, knowing how much I enjoy this part of walking through the houses.
When we make it out, we’re all laughing at how scared we actually were. We move on to the next house, designed to look
like an old circus. There are unrecognizable creatures in cages, banging against the bars to be freed from the confinement. The
wicked trainers stay close, making sure they don’t break free and harm the guests.
That one didn’t scare any of us, making it a break between the two scarier houses.
Last, we end up in a nightmare house. This one isn’t guided, giving us the ability to go off on our own. I split off from the
others, wanting to get the full scare effect instead of just finding my way out. I start on the second floor, walking through a
haunted doll room that sends shivers down my back. As I go to back out of the creepy room, my back thumps into something
large behind me.
Turning around, I find the devilishly handsome man from the Halloween shop. The sides of his head are shaved short now,
while the rest of his hair still flops into his stormy eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I squeak out as I start to back away. He reaches a hand out, steadying me as I trip on something else behind
me, and gives me a bright smile.
“The veil really pulls the costume together, though I don’t think it would look half as good on anyone other than you,” he tells
me, not acknowledging my clumsiness.
“You didn’t dress up?”
“I don’t need to dress up to be scary,” he informs me. He winks as if I’m in on his little joke, then releases my arm and steps
back. “I’ll see you around.”
He leaves the room as I stand there watching until he disappears. I could almost smack myself for not acting so scared that I
needed him to walk with me, just so I could strike up a conversation with him. He’s exactly the type of guy I need to get my
mind off of the monster.
Leaving the childhood nightmare, I walk into a room full of fake decapitated heads with blood splattered all over the room
and axes soaking in the puddles. The other rooms on this floor are equally creepy, from a psych ward theme with a murderous
child actor to a room with a fake exorcism. I don’t run into the mystery man again.
The first floor confuses those walking through it. It’s set up like a maze, and around every corner is an actor waiting to jump
out and scare you. They get me each time, even when I’m expecting them, making me like this floor better than the last one.
When I make my way through the maze, I end up at another door. The door opens up to reveal a set of stairs leading into the
basement. A red glow through the basement greets me as I cautiously descend the steps, flashing back to the monster that pulled
me down when I was a child.
No. Tonight is about nothing but a cheap scare for laughs, not the monsters that are actually haunting me. After his threat the
other night, I haven’t seen or heard from the man that wouldn’t leave me alone. I’ve been on edge since his text, but it looks like
he actually makes empty threats.
I reach the bottom of the steps, and the surrounding room is completely silent. I hear the sounds of people running around the
floor above me, their screams echoing down the steps as the actors jump out at them.
This room looks like it was designed to look like a torture chamber. There are actors in masks stationed throughout the room,
looking like they’re torturing someone, cutting up body parts, and disposing of the body. There are some that look like they’re
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 CHAPTER IX.

OUR BUTTER FIENDS.

In former days while narrating the events of this voyage, which I have
done some thousands of times, I used to say “we whaled.” But I never
whaled, never went in the boats, never pulled an oar. I had other fish to fry
in the galley, and now that I commence to realize what a conscience is, I
mention this for truth’s sake as well as to give variety to the story. We were
boarded occasionally by a few Mexicans. There was one melancholy-
looking Don Somebody who seemed always in a chronic state of corn-husk
cigarette. When not smoking he was rolling them; when not rolling or
smoking he was lighting them. He and his companions were persons of
some importance, for which reason Captain Reynolds tendered them the
hospitalities of the Henry and would ask them to whatever meal was nearest
ready. These two Mexicans had enormous stowage for grub. They
resembled the gulls. They also seemed unfathomable. There was no filling
them. What they did at table they did with all their might, and when they
finished, especially when eating by themselves, as they frequently did, there
was literally nothing left. “Nothing” in this case meant something. It meant
in addition to bread, meat, and potatoes, every scrap of butter on the butter-
plate and every grain of sugar in the sugar-bowl. I didn’t take the hint the
first time they ate with us, deeming the entire absence of butter and sugar at
the end of the repast to be owing to my placing a small amount on the table.
The second time they came on board I remedied this. But on inspection
after they had finished I found left only an empty butter-plate and sugar-
bowl. It was so at the third trial. Butter and sugar seem to be regarded as
delicacies by the natives of Lower California. Nor do they seem to
comprehend the real mission and import of butter and sugar on the table.
They regarded both these articles as regular dishes and scooped them in. On
discovering this, after a consultation with the Captain, I put them on
allowance. These two men would have eaten up all our butter and sugar in
four weeks.
 However it was comparatively a slight toll they levied on us for carrying
off their whale-oil, seal and abalone. We were miles within their legal
boundaries taking away the wealth of their waters. Twelve other American
whalers lay in Marguerita Bay that season. It was practically an invasion;
only the Mexicans didn’t seem to know they were invaded or didn’t care if
they did know. So long as they had plenty of butter and sugar on coming on
board and the blubber-stripped carcasses which came on shore they seemed
satisfied. These carcasses they cut open when stranded and extracted the fat
about the heart, which on being tried out would yield from one to four
barrels of oil and about three miles of solid stench. They borrowed from us
the vessels wherewith to boil this fat. I was ordered to loan them all the
pots, pans, and kettles which could be spared from my culinary laboratory.
They never returned them, and I was very glad they did not. No amount of
scouring would ever have rid them of the odor of decomposed leviathan.
We left them a dozen or so iron vessels the richer. A Mexican, at least on
that coast, with a kettle is looked up to as a man of wealth. Beyond serapes,
cigarette-lighters, saddles and bridles, the gang of natives on shore had few
other possessions. They seemed brilliant examples of contented poverty.
The individual Mexican is a more independent being than the citizen of our
own boasted “independent” nation. His wants are ten times less.
Consequently, he is ten times as independent. Parties who use horses’ skulls
for parlor chairs, whose wooden bowl wherein they mix flour for tortillas,
flint, steel, and a small bonfire constitute their entire kitchen range, won’t
keep many furniture or stove manufacturers alive.
Some mercantile hopes may hang on the señoras and señoritas. The few
we saw wanted calicoes of gay and diverse patterns. The men will eat butter
and sugar, but whether they will buy these articles remains to be proved.
Perhaps furniture sets of polished and painted horses’ skulls might tempt
some of the more æsthetic in the matter of household adornment to
purchase, if put at a reasonable rate. Such are the conclusions drawn
regarding the probabilities of trade with Mexico, at least the fragment of
Mexico I saw from my galley. If we wanted any service of them they talked
dollars at a very high figure. But they never abated. They showed no
anxiety to tempt a bargain or an engagement. They went on just as ever, full
to the brim of genuine sang-froid, eternally rolling, lighting, and smoking
their cigarettes, and looking as if they felt themselves a superior race, and
knew it all, and didn’t want to know any more, until we asked them to eat.
Then they seemed in no hurry, but clambered lazily down the cabin stairs
and lazily set to work to find the bottom of every dish on the table,
including the sugar-dish and butter-plate. I learned on that voyage the true
signification of the term “greaser,” as I fearfully noted the rapidly
diminishing butter keg.
 CHAPTER X.

GUADALUPE.

Two hundred miles from the Lower California coast lies the lone island
of Guadalupe. Guadalupe is one of the twelve or twenty names which for
centuries the Spaniards have been applying to the various geographical
divisions of the earth’s surface. Each Spanish navigator, explorer, and
discoverer, armed with these twelve or twenty “San Joses,” “Santa Marias,”
“Sacramentos,” etc., has gone on naming, taking each one in regular order,
and as the list was exhausted and more islands, capes, etc., were found,
starting again at the beginning of the list and using it all over again.
Whitney talked of the plentifulness of sea-elephant on the Guadelupe
beaches; I presume the sea-elephant is identical with the sea-lion. They
resemble a lion about as much as an elephant. So the prow of the Henry was
turned toward Guadalupe. While on this trip one morning before daylight I
heard at intervals a strange noise, something between a bellow and a creak.
I thought it at first the creaking of something aloft, but as it grew lighter I
saw a strange-looking head emerge momentarily from the water. It gave
forth the same cry, dove, and came up on the other side of the vessel. It was
a seal pup, which the sailors said had lost its mother and followed the
vessel, mistaking the hull for its maternal parent. I presume that seals have
no recognized fathers to look after them. The poor thing, uttering its
plaintive but discordant cry, must have followed us to sea forty or fifty
miles. I know not whether the sailors’ explanation of its conduct be correct.
Anyway, it makes the occurrence more pathetic, and were I utterly
unprincipled I should make an entire chapter describing how this pup seal
followed the Henry during the voyage like a dog, being regularly fed, and
as it grew up came on board and was taught a number of accomplishments,
among the rest that of supplying us with fish. ’Tis thus that a rigid
adherence to veracity spoils many an interesting and thrilling tale, and
brings to him who practises it more poverty than pence.
Guadalupe on the third day came in sight; a lone, wave-washed, wind-
swept isle about forty miles in length. It seemed the very embodiment of
loneliness. Some would also say of desolation, as man is ever disposed to
call any place he does not inhabit. But though Guadalupe contained not a
single representative of the most intelligent animal on the planet, it
sustained great herds of goats, sea birds, and a little black and white land-
bird, so tame and trustful as to perch and eat from Miller’s and Whitney’s
tin plates during their former visit to the island. All these got along very
well without the presence of the talented biped who deems every place
“desolate” unless he is there to carry on a monopoly of all the killing of bird
and animal deemed necessary to his comfort and existence.
It was our business to murder all the mother sea-lions who had
established their nurseries at Guadalupe. A boat full of murderers was
quickly sent on shore. We did not see boat or crew again for three days.
Most of that period was spent by us in looking for the boat, and by the
boat’s crew in looking at us. They landed on the first day, found no seal, put
off at dusk, lost us in a fog, went ashore, swore at the Henry’s people for not
sighting them, hauled their boat well up on the beach at the mouth of a deep
canyon, supped on hard bread and water, and, turning their craft bottom-up,
crawled under it for a bed-quilt and went to sleep on the sands. During the
night a semi-hurricane, called in those latitudes a “willa wah,” came tearing
and howling down the canyon. Striking the boat, it rolled it over and over
among the rocks, smashed the frail sides, and rendered it unseaworthy. For
two days the crew roamed up and down the island, living on shellfish and
the fresh water left standing in pools, and trying to signal us by fires built
on the mountains. The Captain was in a state of great perplexity at this
disappearance. But, having left a portion of the crew at St. Bartholomew’s
Bay, he had not hands enough to send another boat ashore, and work the
vessel. Then he dare not come nearer the island than three miles, fearing
sunken rocks and currents setting in-shore. On the third night one of their
fires was seen from the Henry. Standing in for it, by daylight the missing
men were seen making for us in an old yawl. Behind, full of water, was
towed the shattered whaleboat. The yawl had been found on the beach,
probably left there by former sealers. By stuffing all the clothes they could
spare in its sun-warped cracks and constant bailing they managed to keep
afloat long enough to reach us. They crawled on board—a pale, haggard,
famished lot—and I was kept very busy for a time ministering to their
wants. They ate steadily for an hour. Even with this rescue a greater
catastrophe than all came near happening. Becalmed and by means of a
treacherous current we were being rapidly carried toward an enormous
rock, which towered sentinel-like alone a mile or more from the north end
of the island. It reached full five hundred feet toward the clouds. Its
perpendicular sides seemed built up in artificial layers. Toward this the
Henry seemed helplessly drifting, and the “Old Man,” under the influence
of combined anger and despair, jumped up and down in his tracks and
howled on the quarter-deck as he saw the voyage approaching such an
unfortunate termination. Fortunately a providential or accidental breeze
came off the land just in time to give us steerage-way. We trifled no more
with Guadelupe, but sailed straight away for our old harbor. As we passed
the last of these towering sentinel rocks at dusk, we heard from them the
howling and barking of what, judged by the sound, might have been ten
thousand seals. It was as the roaring of a dozen combined menageries. Had
Virgil of old ever sailed by such a sound, he would have pulled out his
stylus forthwith, and written of the Æneid an extra chapter about some
classical hell afloat. These seals were howling at our discomfiture. The rock
was half veiled in a mist in which we could indistinctly see their countless
forms seemingly writhing and tumbling about.
 CHAPTER XI.

AT THE GOLD MINES.

After a ten months’ cruise we went back to San Francisco with 500
barrels of oil and ten tons of abalones. My share of the proceeds amounted
to $250, having shipped on a “lay.” Mine was the fifteenth lay, which gave
me one barrel of oil out of every fifty and a similar proportion in abalones.
Then I looked around for something to do, didn’t find it, spent a great deal
of my money unnecessarily in so looking for a job, shipped at last as cook
on a coasting schooner, was discharged before she left the wharf, my grade
of culinary work not reaching to the level of the captain’s refined taste.
I resolved to go to the mines. I went. By boat and stage, I got over the
two hundred miles intervening ’twixt San Francisco and the “diggings.” I
had friends on Hawkins’ Bar on the Tuolumne River in Tuolumne County.
Thither I went. When I “struck” Hawkins’ in 1858, it was on its last legs.
Still it boasted a store and a dozen houses. Golden hopes were still
anchored in the bed of the river. Expensive river claims were then being
worked from Red Mountain down to French Bar. But a premature rain and
consequent freshet swept the river that season from end to end with the
bosom of destruction, and sent for the winter the miners back to their two
dollar per day bank diggings. And from that time henceforward the Bar
steadily declined. The store was kept open for two seasons with great loss
to its proprietor. He was a new man. When he came to the Bar the “boys”
held a consultation on a big drift log. They concluded they could go through
him in one season, provided he gave credit. But he was a discriminating
man as regarded giving credit. So it required two seasons to get through
him. Then he moved away forever, and with tears in his eyes at his losses.
The Bar lingered on for several years. Steadily it lessened in houses and
population. The store was torn down and the lumber carted away. In 1864 I
made a pilgrimage thither and found remaining one house and one man.
That man was Smith. Alex. Smith, a ’49er, a Baltimorean and a soldier
during the Mexican war. Smith’s house was high up on the hillside and his
back yard brought up against the camp graveyard. A score of Smith’s old
companions there lay buried. And here this man lived alone with the dead
and the memories of the last eighteen years. I said to him: “Smith, how do
you stand it here? Do you never get lonesome?”
“Well, yes; once in a while I do,” replied Smith; “but when I feel that
way I go up the hill and bring down a log for firewood.”
Smith was a philosopher, and thought that the best remedy for
melancholy is physical exertion.
Smith was one of the first settlers at Hawkins’ Bar; Smith could
remember when it contained a voting population of nearly eight hundred
souls; Smith knew every point on the river which had yielded richly; Smith
could show you Gawley’s Point, where Gawley pitched his tent in ’49 and
buried under it his pickle jars full of gold dust. The tradition of Hawkins
was that Gawley used to keep a barrel of whiskey on free tap in his tent.
And that in the fall of 1850 Gawley, warned by the experience of the
previous rainy season, determined to lay in a winter’s stock of provisions.
But Gawley’s ideas as to the proper quantities of food were vague. He had
never before been a purveyor or provider on a larger scale than that of
buying a week’s “grub” at the Bar store. He went to the trader and told him
what he wanted. “Make out your order,” said the merchant. Gawley gave it
to him verbally. “I guess,” said he, “I’ll have a sack of flour, ten pounds of
bacon, ten of sugar, five of coffee, three of tea, a peck of beans, a bag of salt
and—and—a barrel of whiskey!”
In 1870 I made another pilgrimage to Hawkins’ Bar. Smith was gone.
Nobody lived there. The fence of the camp graveyard was broken down.
The wooden headboards were lying prone to the earth. Some were split in
two and most of the inscriptions were being rapidly erased through the
action of the sun and rain. But one house was standing. It was the cabin
wherein had lived one Morgan Davis, the former custodian of the Hawkins’
Bar library. For as early as 1854 or ’55 the Hawkins’ Bar “boys” had
clubbed their funds, sent down to San Francisco and there purchased a very
respectable library. It was a good solid library, too, based on a full set of
American Encyclopedias and Humboldt and Lyell, and from such and the
like dispensers of heavy and nutritious mental food, rising into the lighter
desserts of poetry and novels. As late as 1858 the “boys” were in the habit
of replenishing their library with the latest published scientific works,
novels, and magazines.
 But in ’70, on my last visit, the library was gone. Morgan was dead. His
cabin door had fallen from its hinges: a young oak tree had sprung up and
blocked the entrance. The flooring had been torn up. The window sashes
had been taken out. A dinner-pot and broken stove were all that remained of
Morgan’s cooking utensils. Some of the roofing had disappeared. It was a
ghostly place. The trails leading to and from the Bar were fading out. Here,
they were overgrown with brush. There, the river in some higher rise had
swept away the lower bank and left nought but a confusion of rough rock
over which was no semblance of a track. It was at Hawkins that I had first
“buckled to the mines.” My first “buckling,” however, was in the capacity
of a meat peddler. I became the agent of a firm of butchers up on the
mountain for distributing their tough steaks to the Hawkins’ Bar miners.
Through the instrumentality of a horse, over whose back was slung a couple
of huge panniers, I continued the agency for a week. Then one morning the
horse kicked up his heels and ran away. As he ran, at every kick a raw and
bloody steak would fly out of the boxes, flash in the brilliant morning
sunshine, and then fall in the fine red dust of the mountain trail. I followed
hard after, gathering up these steaks as they fell, and when the burden
became too heavy I piled them up by the roadside in little heaps of dusty,
very dusty meat. At last, dusty, perspiring and distressed beyond measure, I
managed to catch that villainous horse. For he, after having ejected nearly
the whole load of meat, concluded to stop and be caught. I loaded the
panniers again with the dusty, carnivorous deposits, led the horse down the
steep trail to the river, then muddy and of a rich coffee-color from up
country mining sediment. Herein I washed my steaks, rinsed them as well
as I could of dust, and, as was then the custom, hung up piece after piece in
the gauze-curtained meat-safes at the miner’s cabins. I think Hawkins’ got
its share of grit that day in its beef. Shortly afterward I went out of the
beefsteak-distributing bureau.
Then I went into the service of the man who kept the Bar store, saloon,
and boarding-house. I was errand boy, barkeeper, bookkeeper,
woodchopper, assistant cook and general maid of all work, and possibly
worthlessness. One day the storekeeper’s horse, packed with miners’
supplies, was given into my charge to lead three miles up the river to the
camp of the Split-Rock River claim. The load was strapped to a “cross-
jack” saddle. It consisted mostly of flour, potatoes, bacon and a demijohn of
whiskey. I was advised by the merchant, on setting out, not to let that horse
get ahead of me. If he did it was prophesised that he would run away, “sure
pop.” But I had not gone forty rods from the store when the beast made a
rush, got ahead of me, tore the leading halter out of my grasp and set off
along the narrow mountain trail at the rate of twenty knots per hour. I
followed on a run of about ten knots per hour. Hence the distance between
us soon increased. As he ran the motion burst the bag of flour, ditto the
potatoes, and then the whiskey demijohn broke. It was a fine sight. The
flour rose in the air like a white cloud above the horse, out of and above
which flew potatoes, and the whole was interspersed with jets of whiskey. It
looked like a snow squall travelling on horseback. When the animal had
spilt all the flour, all the potatoes and all the whiskey, he slowed up and
allowed himself to be caught. His mission was accomplished. I found
remaining the saddle and the empty potato sack. The trail was white with
flour for a mile, and so it remained for months afterward. I led the animal
back to the store. My heart was heavy and his load was light. The store-
keeper gave me his blessing. I did not thereafter long remain in the service
of that transportation bureau.
After this I borrowed a rocker and started to washing some river-bank
gravel. It took me several days to become in any degree skilled in the use of
the rocker. I had no teacher, and was obliged to become acquainted with all
its peculiarities by myself. First I set it on a dead level. As it had no “fall”
the sand would not run out. But the hardest work of all was to dip and pour
water from the dipper on the gravel in the sieve with one hand and rock the
cradle with the other. There was a constant tendency on the part of the hand
and arm employed in pouring to go through the motion of rocking, and vice
versa. The hand and arm that rocked were more inclined to go through the
motion of pouring. I seemed cut up in two individuals, between whom
existed a troublesome and perplexing difference of opinion as to their
respective duties and functions. Such a conflict, to all intents and purposes,
of two different minds inside of and acting on one body, shook it up
fearfully and tore it all to pieces. I was as a house divided against itself and
could not stand. However, at last the physical and mental elements thus
warring with each other inside of me made up their differences, and the left
hand rocked the cradle peacefully while the right hand poured
harmoniously, and the result was about $1.50 per day. Soon after I found
my first mining partner. He wandered to the Bar, a melancholy-looking
man, with three dogs accompanying, and was always in a chronic state of
red bandana and nose-wiping. He and I joined forces and went up the river
to “crevice” among the rocks near the Split Rock claim. He had all the skill,
all the experience, and all the dogs, and I all the general ignorance and
incapacity. I deemed it a great advantage to have thus secured a real “old
miner” for a partner, and felt that such a man must turn up gold.
We built ourselves a rude brush house on a shelf of the rocky ledge in a
canyon whose sides sloped at an angle of forty-five degrees. Even this shelf
was not level. It pitched toward the river, and there was so little of it that
during the night’s repose our legs stuck out of the house-entrance. We were
obliged to “chock” all our supply of provisions in their respective packages
to prevent them from rolling out of our wigwams over the brink and into the
Tuolumne. If a potato got loose it ran like a “thing possessed” over the
rocks and down into the muddy, raging current. We were obliged to peg
ourselves at night while sleeping to prevent a like catastrophe. It was a
permanent and laborious existence at an angle of forty-five. To stand erect
for any length of time was very tiresome. More frequently, like
Nebuchadnezzar, we lived on all fours. “Crevicing” did not prove very
profitable. By day the bare rocks become heated by the sun to a blistering
capacity. With pick and sledge and crowbar and bent bits of hoop-iron we
pried and pounded and scraped, and scraped and pounded and pried all the
hot day long, or else were doubled up in all sorts of back-aching, back-
breaking, body-tiring positions, drawing up at arm’s-length from some
deeper “pothole” or crevice spoonful after spoonful of yellow mould. It did
hold considerable gold, and heavy gold too. But it took so long to get the
mould. This was in the latter part of September. The termination of the dry
season was reached. The first rain came. It came at night. It drizzled
through our brush house. It sent tiny streams down the rocky mountain-
sides, and some of these streams found their way under us. We had lain and
endured the rain from above dripping on our faces and wetting our clothes.
In those times one’s day suit served for a nightgown. But when the aqueous
enemy undermined our position we had to turn out.
It blew a gale. How the wind howled and tore up the canyon! We tried to
kindle a fire. Match after match was blown out. Finally a blaze was
attained. Then the rains descended heavier than ever and put it out. The
chief misery was, we could not at night find our way out of the canyon to
any place of shelter. Nor could we walk at all to keep warm. There was
“standing room only.” All about us were the steeply inclined rocks, molded
into every irregularity of shape. We were obliged all through the night to
“stand and take it” as it came, shivering in our thin summer clothing. With
daylight we made our way to the camp of the Split Rockers. They gave us
some gin. It was common gin—very common gin—but the comfortable and
soothing remembrance of that gin after such a night exists for me even unto
this day. I wore a black cloth cap. The rain had washed out the dye, and this
dye had coursed over my brow and cheeks in tiny rivulets of jet. I noticed
that I seemed to be more than a usual object of interest to those about me,
and wondered, until a friend advised me to consult a mirror. I did so, and
found my face marked like a railroad route map. Such was my inauguration
in mining at Hawkins’ Bar. What glorious old times they were! What
independence! What freedom from the trammels and conventionalities of
fashion! Who cared or commented if we did turn up the bottoms of our
pantaloons, or wear, for coolness’ sake, our flannel shirts outside the
trousers? Who then was so much better than anybody else, when any man
might strike it rich to-morrow? Who would beg for work or truckle and
fawn and curry favor of an employer for the mere sake of retaining a
situation and help that same man to make money, when he could shoulder
pick, shovel, and rocker, go down to the river’s edge and make his two or
three dollars per day? Though even at that time this reputed three dollars
was oftener one dollar and a half.
Even then reports of the paying capacities of claims were as apt to be
watered as are stocks nowadays.
 CHAPTER XII.

SWETT’S BAR.

I think and hope that these attempts of mine to portray the history of the
camps on one California gold-bearing river will touch a responsive chord in
the hearts of some old Californian, for the life and incident of the bars I
describe reflect, in certain respects, the life, history, and incident of
hundreds and thousands of places settled in “ ’49,” and perhaps abandoned
by “ ’60,” which have now no name or place on the later maps of the State.
Your genuine old miner likes to revisit the camp where first he dug for gold,
in thought if not in person. It was no common affection they entertained for
these places. If the “boys” moved away to other diggings, they had always
to make a yearly pilgrimage back, so long as the camp lasted. So, yearly
from Vallecito, thirty miles distant, used Jake Yager to revisit Swett’s, and
he tramped the whole distance, too. What was it that so drew them back?
Perhaps the memory of the new and exciting life they experienced from
“ ’49” say till “ ’58” or “ ’60,” with its “ups and downs,” its glittering
surprises in the shape of “strikes,” its comradeship so soon developed
among men who, meeting as strangers, so soon found out each other’s
better qualities, its freedom from the restraints of older communities, its
honesty and plainness in the expression of opinion, engendered by such
freedom; all these thought over and over again during absence brought
about that strong desire to see the old Bar again, the scene of so much
experience and private history. Then the visitor always met a hearty
welcome. He was an old “residenter.” Cabin-owners contended for the
pleasure of entertaining him. No wives or families were in the way.
Conviviality was uninterrupted.
If a black bottle could be produced it could be worshipped undisturbed
until long past midnight. And such was always produced on the return of
the old acquaintance. When the “boys” at last tumbled into their bunks and
smoked a night-cap pipe abed, there was no wife in special charge of
husband to molest or make them afraid or disturb their internal peace by
reason of her near presence. Those were the golden seasons of masculine
domestic tranquillity on the banks of the Tuolumne. Woman never disturbed
the Bar proper with her presence. It was always a masculine Bar, at least on
the right bank of the river. On the left, at a later date, on a flat, where I
enjoyed the privilege of digging for next to nothing for two years, there did
live for a time three foreign households glorified by woman’s presence. But
this was after the palmy days of Swett’s Bar proper right bank. I have heard
that Swett’s Bar was named after John Swett, once Superintendent of Public
Instruction in California. If so, he never there left any relics or reminders of
himself—not even a grammar. Swett’s lies equidistant from Hawkins’ and
Indian Bars. When last I passed through it the floods had washed out every
trace of man’s presence on one side of the river, leaving there an enormous
heap of logs and brush-wood. The Bar proper had been smoothed down by
the flood, every hole or boulder heap, or heap of “headings” or “tailings,”
or the deep pits dug and laboriouly kept free of water by machinery, or
heavily rock-freighted crib of logs, the work of miners in the river’s bed,
had been planed away. The pebbles and boulders had all been rearranged,
the sands were smooth, white, and glistening as though “fresh from the
Creator’s hands;” and none save those conversant with the river’s history
could have guessed that every foot of the bank adjoining the river had been
turned over and over again in the search for gold.
We elected one member of the Legislature from Swett’s. When he left
the Bar he distributed his cabin, blankets, and household effects among the
remaining miners. He confidently thought never to need these articles
again. That was as great a miscalculation as when a Swett’s Bar or any
other bar miner would resolve and swear violently that never again would
he “strike a pick” in the river. We came to regard such an oath with a
superstitious credulity that he certainly would strike such pick again, for
never did such a case occur in my recollection but that the mad resolver was
back next season, ignoring his vow and striking his pick on some claim
generally poorer than the one he worked the season previous. So at the end
of four months, after cumbering the law books of the State of California
with statutes, whose very existence was forgotten eight months after their
passage, our Swett’s Bar legislator was seen one evening coming down the
hill, bearing in one hand two whiskey bottles tied together by one string—
one being empty and the other full. “Silver and gold have I none,” said he,
as he came to my cabin door, “but what I have give I unto thee,” which he
did. Next day came his trunk. The principal accession to the legislative
wardrobe were three new shirts and a blue coat with brass buttons. That, the
session I think of 1859, was known as the “Legislature of ten thousand
drinks.” Our law-maker said it had been the “Star Winter” of his existence,
and he never expected to see such another. Three days after his arrival at the
Bar he borrowed a pair of blankets, “cabined” with a chum and contentedly
resumed his pick and shovel. Did Cincinattus do more when he buckled
once more to the plough? But our Swett’s Bar Cincinattus was never hunted
for to save his country. There were too many other country savers on hand,
even in our immediate locality.
Generally speaking, Swett’s was divided in two portions. There was the
old bar on the right bank of the river, settled in “ ’49,” and there was the flat
on the other side, whose golden store was not discovered until 1859.
Attempts were made to give this flat a distinct name. Various settlers and
miners craved the immortality which they supposed might thus be
conferred. For a time it was called “Frazier’s Flat,” from a diabolical
Scotchman of that name who lived there. Only one of these names would
stick, and finally everybody settled down on the old appellation, “Swett’s.”
I do not believe that John Swett, if he did confer his name on this Bar, ever
realized the local fame and reputation of his name. When first we struck the
diggings at Swett’s left bank, we had great expectations. It was a later
discovery, a “back river channel.” Consequent on the discovery of pay
ground 1,000 feet back of the river, and the definite fixing of the boundary
lines between the various claimants, there ensued the usual series of
disputes, rows, bad blood, assaults, and threatened shootings. Nobody was
shot. Not even a mining law-suit came of it. A local capitalist threw a flume
across the river and brought to bear on the flat the upland muddy water,
which came down from Columbia diggings, twenty-five miles away,
through Wood’s Creek. That flume was being talked of, being planned,
being hoped for and very gradually being erected, during the years of “ ’59”
and “ ’60,” while the rest of the nation was agitated by “Bleeding Kansas,”
“John Brown,” “Squatter Sovereignty,” “The Douglas Party,” “The Little
Giant” and all that foreboding series of watchword and motto which
preceded “The War.” But the Swett’s Bar mind, the Swett’s Bar hope, the
Swett’s Bar expedition, was concentrated principally on a wire cable, two
uprights on either side of the river, and some 400 feet of rough wooden
flume thereby supported, all of which was to bring us water to wash out the
expected gold. At last the suspension flume was finished. We had water. We
commenced washing. The dirt did not pay as we expected. We averaged
week in and week out about three dollars per day, and one dollar of this
went for water money.
After the suspension flume was finished and water was on the Flat our
claim cleaned up for the first week’s work about fifty dollars a piece. We
used quicksilver plentifully in the sluices; and the amalgam was taken to
my cabin in a gold-pan and put on the hot coals to drive off the mercury,
which it did, and salivated the four of us besides. The sublimated mineral
covered walls, tables and chairs with a fine, frost-like coating, and on
rubbing one’s finger over any surface a little globule of quicksilver would
roll up before it. Then we went to Chinese Camp and gave the doctor about
half our individual week’s dividends to get the mercury out of us. Three
weeks of sore mouths and loosened teeth followed this intelligent exposure.
It was through such experiences as these that we became in California
practical mineralogists. However, it’s an easy way of taking “blue mass.”
The claim from which great gains had been expected eventually settled
down to an average of two dollars and a half to three dollars per day. Break-
downs of the flume, failure of water from up country, very stormy weather,
building and repairing reservoirs, cutting tail races through rock—all
caused numerous delays, and every such delay lessened the average per
diem. It was necessary to build reservoirs, to store the water for washing,
and these reservoirs broke with the ease and facility of a Bowery savings
bank.
 CHAPTER XIII.

ONE DAY’S DIGGING.

We got out of our blankets heavily. Legs and back were apt to be a little
stiff in the morning. Or if not stiff, they lacked action. Working all the day
previous, possibly in the water, or with it splashing all about, tugging at
heavy boulders, shouldering wet sluices, to say nothing of the regular pick-
and-shovel exercise, would make itself felt even when the limbs and blood
were younger than now. Dressing was a short job. A pair of damp overalls,
a pair of socks, a pair of shoes, or possibly the heavy rubber mining boots.
Flannel shirts we slept in. A face-swabbing with cold water in the tin basin
outside and a “lick and a promise” for the hair with the comb. That was
about all for week days. Vanity of apparel there was little for the working
miner. Who was there to dress for? Woman? The nearest was half a mile,
fifty years of age, and married. Then breakfast. The fire kindled in the
contrary little stove. Possibly it was necessary to attack with a axe that dried
old stump near by and hack off a few chips to cook with. The miner’s
wood-pile was generally small. He got in fuel on rainy days, or at the odd
intervals to be spared from work. You put on the worn tin teapot, lowered
the gauze-covered meat safe from the tree, cut a steak from the chunk of
bull mahogany within called beef, slung a dab of lard in the frying-pan, put
therein the meat and let it sizzle. Two or three boiled potatoes might be
sliced, fried more or less brown in the gravy, and this, with bread and tea,
formed the breakfast. The bread was the bread of your own laborious
baking, the loaf of an irregular shape, the crust very hard and thick, the
color often “pied,” being black where it had burned, brown where it had
baked, and of a pallid whiteness where it had not baked at all. Within the
loaf might be close, heavy, and in color either a creamy or a canary yellow,
in proportion to the improper amount of yeast powder used.
The table is a broad shelf against the wall. There is no table-cloth. You
did not always wash up after breakfast, for the dishes, as they stood, were
all in place for dinner. Some fastidious miners washed their dishes after
each meal; most of us did not. It was too much to expect of hard-worked
humanity. The cabin door is open while you eat and from it you look forth
on the claim. There lies the bank of red earth as you left it yesterday after
the “cave.” There is the reservoir full of coffee-colored ditch water which
had run in during the night after being used for washing in a dozen claims
“up country.” Then you draw on those damp, clammy rubber boots, either
to the knee or hip high, the outside splashed with the dried reddish mud,
and smelling disagreeably of rubber as you pulled them on and smelling
worse as you became heated and perspiring. In these you waddle to the
claim. I forgot. Breakfast over, one of the most important acts of the day
was next on the programme. That was the filling, lighting, and smoking of
your pipe. Nothing could hurry you through this performance. The filling
was cut in slivers with a careful and solemn consideration; the weed was
carefully bestowed in the bowl; the match was applied with a deliberation
savoring of a religious act; the first puff rose in the air as incense to the
early morn, and smoking thus you waddled in your big boots to the claim.
There you met your three partners, all likewise smoking. There they stand
on the bank, looking into the ground-sluice. There is no “good morning” or
other greeting: if anything, grunts. There lay the tools—shovels, picks,
crowbar, and sluice-fork—helplessly about, as left last evening. A little
muddy water trickles through the line of sluices. One of us goes to the
reservoir, a few hundred yards off, and turns on the water. Another goes to
the tail of the sluices with the sluice-fork. Then is heard the clicking of the
pick and the grating of the shovel against the red dirt; down comes the
muddy water over the bank and the day’s work has fairly commenced.
We stand in a row, allowing sufficient room between each for swinging
the pick. We are undermining the bank, the water running at our feet and
between us and the bottom of the bank. Each chunk of red dirt dislodged by
the pick falls into the running water, and if it be hard and will not readily
dissolve it must be broken up by pick or shovel to keep the stream clear and
unimpeded. The large boulders are picked out by hand and thrown behind
us—not in disordered fashion, either. Room in the cut is scarce and must be
economized, so the ever-accumulating bowlder pile is “faced up” with a
neat wall, laid without mortar, but with some care and skill. The bed-rock is
under our feet. We are undermining the bank and keeping the stream turned
in as much as possible to the part undermined. The gravel for a foot or six
inches is pretty hard and the stones here are harder and closer packed than
those nearer the surface. There the gravel is lighter. Many of the stones are
light and rotten; a blow with the pick dashes them to pieces. This streak just
above the ledge and for a few inches in the crevices of the ledge is our “pay
streak” where ages on ages ago some stream ran, depositing, as all streams
do, the heavier gravel on the bottom and the lighter above. Occasionally the
pick strikes a firmly embedded boulder hard and square on its point, in such
a way as to send the vibration like a shock along the iron, up the handle and
into one’s arm and “crazy-bone.” Our bank of dirt is about eight feet in
height. A few inches of the top is a dark mould, below that is three or four
feet of “hard-pan,” below the “hard-pan” light sandy gravel and rotten
boulders, and near the ledge is the pay streak. This order of formation has
varied as we have worked up and into the bank. At first, near the river’s
edge, there was only mould on a very light alluvial sand. This was readily
washed off and paid four dollars or five dollars per day. A little farther back
we struck the edge of the red gravel streak. This for a time paid better.
Farther still came the deposit of light sandy gravel, and lastly came in the
accursed “hard-pan.”
Our claim, on being first prospected, was reported to pay three cents to
the pan from the top down. We believed it at first, not having learned that
“three cents to the pan from the top down” means the biggest kind of luck.
If you get an average of half a cent a pan from the top down, and the dirt
would wash easily, we should make money. It was hard even for an “honest
miner” to give as the result of a prospect anything less than “three cents to
the pan.” But “hard-pan” is our foe. “Hard-pan” is the essence of brickbats.
Its consistency is about that of chalk. It seems the finest kind of sand
cemented and pressed together. It can be carved into any form with a knife.
It takes as much time to work off a square foot of hard-pan as ten square
feet of soft gravel. When, after half a day’s labor, we succeed in getting
down a cave, it goes into the ground-sluice in a few great lumps, which
must be battered to pieces with our picks before the water will slowly
dissolve them into mud. And it doesn’t hold a “color” of gold. The work in
the ground-sluice goes on hour after hour. Pick and shovel and scrape,
scrape and shovel and pick, the water meantime tumbling and roaring over
the bank and making it difficult for us to hear each others’ voices. The sun
climbs higher and gets hotter. The water pail is frequently visited. The
backs of the gray shirts are wet with perspiration. In an easy,
companionable claim, where the partners are all good fellows and on good
terms and not too insane in the matter of getting an enormous quantity of
dirt through the sluices each day, there may be more or less brief
suspensions from the work, when all hands lean on their shovels and talk
politics, or horses, or last night’s poker game, or have a short service of
tobacco smoke, with the usual solemn preliminaries of cutting the plug and
filling pipes. But if the majority of the “company” are a mean, crabbed,
close-fisted lot, the misery goes on without cessation.
A queerly assorted group are we thus laboring together. Jack Gwin’s
impelling hope and life’s idea is to earn enough to pay his passage home to
Philadelphia and buy him a suit of clothes. A decent suit he has not owned
these five years. He would be the terror and distress of his relatives if ever
he got back, for with him five dollars in his pocket over expenses and
sobriety are an impossibility. McFadden dreams of a cabin, a cow, some
geese and goats, a horse and a wife, and is in a fair way of realizing them
all. He saves most of his earnings, gets drunk wisely only on holidays, pays
his debts regularly, hates the English, lives in that little black, brownish
cabin up yonder, does all his cooking in two tin pots, sleeps in one pair of
ancient blankets and a most disreputable bed quilt, and three dollars will
cover the cost of all his domestic fittings and utensils. Bill Furnea, a French
Canadian, has drifted here into this hole in the foothills very much as he
drifted into the world—without aim or object in life save present
enjoyment. He is a good worker and works because he was brought up to it
and can’t help it. He is a good boatman, a good logger, a skilled woodcutter,
a devotee of poker and generally a successful one, an entertaining scamp,
full of wit and originality, quick to take in the peculiarities and
eccentricities of others, something of a dandy, as far as dandyism can be
indulged in this out-of-the-way place, and a born scamp, glib of tongue,
unreliable, and socially the best man of the crowd.
It is near eleven o’clock. There stands in a cool corner of the claim and
carefully shielded from any stray flying pebble, a black bottle. It is nearly
full of whiskey—very common corn whiskey. It is most welcome at this
hour. Poison it may be, but a draught from the tin cup brightens up and
makes all things new. The sunshine is more cheerful. All Nature smiles. The
picks descend with increased force and a host of new day-dreams start into
being. It revives hope. It quenches despair. It gilds the monotony of our
lives. It was ever thus, and possibly ever shall be, world without end. It is
high noon. The sun is over our heads and the shadows are at their shortest
length. One of our number trudges wearily up to the reservoir to shut off the