What My Mother Hides in the Basement?

There's a heavy iron door at the end of the hall. Anyone who steps inside returns with eyes full of hatred. That’s all it took for the basement to turn my gentle fiancé into a predator and my loyal best friend into an enemy. Now, I'm trapped with a mother who claims the violence is all in my head. I have to open that door. 

——

"Let go of me!"

"Have you lost your mind, Thorne?!"

I screamed hysterically, thrashing wildly to break free from the leather sofa.

But the man pinning me down was acting like a mindless beast. He drove his heavy knees hard into my thighs, trapping me completely.

"Shut up, you shameless bitch!"

Thorne's eyes were entirely bloodshot, his face contorted into something sickening.

He raised an oversized hand and slapped me across the cheek with brutal force.

The sharp crack echoed through the living room. The thick, metallic taste of blood instantly flooded my mouth, and my head rang violently.

Just ten minutes ago, this same man was pressing gentle kisses to my forehead, promising my mother that he would take care of me for the rest of his life.

"Thorne... please, it's me. It's Isolde..."

I sobbed and begged, tears blurring my vision.

But it fell on deaf ears.

He violently grabbed the neckline of my silk dress and yanked.

With a harsh rip, the fabric was mercilessly torn away, exposing swathes of bare skin to the freezing air.

His calloused fingers, radiating an aggressively predatory malice, clamped tightly around my throat, while his other hand tore frantically at his own belt.

"Drop the innocent act."

"Deep down, you're just a whore begging for it, aren't you?"

"Well, today I'll give you exactly what you want!"

Thorne snarled through clenched teeth, his heavy pants hitting my face—scorching and foul.

A cold sweat broke out across my body. My heart felt as though it were being crushed in an icy iron vise.

The sheer horror and absurdity of it all was suffocating.

Thorne was a highly educated architect. We had been deeply in love for a year, and he had never so much as raised his voice at me.

Until ten minutes ago, when my mother, Rowena, strolled out of the kitchen carrying two glasses of red wine.

Wearing a gentle, maternal smile, she had said to him, "Thorne, dear, there's a lovely vintage Bordeaux down in the cellar. Could you be a darling and fetch it for me?"

"The door sticks a bit. I can't quite get it open."

Thorne had happily obliged.

I watched him walk down the hallway to that heavy iron door—the one that was always kept locked—and step inside.

Barely five minutes passed.

When he emerged from the basement, his hands were entirely empty.

His head was bowed, his shoulders trembling slightly. When he finally looked up at me, his normally gentle blue eyes had morphed into a muddy, dull gray, glinting with naked cruelty and raw lust.

He lunged at me like a starving wolf spotting its prey, violently slamming me onto the couch. And then, this nightmare began.

"Let go!"

"Help!"

"Mom, help me!"

I clawed frantically at Thorne's arms with my nails, screaming at the top of my lungs toward the kitchen.

Rowena heard my cries.

She stepped out from the shadows of the hallway slowly, deliberately, still holding her half-empty glass of wine.

There was no panic in her demeanor. No anger. She didn't even furrow her brow.

She simply stood a few feet away, watching from above with cool detachment as Thorne straddled and assaulted me.

Peering desperately past Thorne's broad shoulders, I saw a profoundly eerie, macabre smile creep at the corners of Rowena's mouth.

"Mom... what are you doing?"

"Call the police!"

I sobbed in absolute despair, my voice tearing into a raspy shriek.

Swirling the crimson liquid in her goblet, Rowena spoke with a chillingly casual tone, as if discussing the weather. "Isolde, I warned you a long time ago. There isn't a single decent man out there."

"They don't love you. They only want your body."

"Look for yourself. This is the man you insisted on marrying."

"No... this isn't real..."

A dizzying wave of sheer hopelessness washed over me.

Thorne's movements grew far more vicious, his hand now ripping at my underwear.

Raw survival instinct exploded within me. I violently yanked my knee upward, driving it ruthlessly into his groin.

"Argh—!"

Thorne shrieked in sudden agony, clutching himself as he rolled off me and onto the rug.

Ignoring my exposed flesh, I frantically scrambled off the sofa. I snatched a heavy crystal ashtray off the coffee table, holding it against my chest like a shield, my entire body quaking with involuntary chills.

"Get out!"

"Get the hell out of here!"

I shrieked at Thorne, screaming like a cornered lunatic.

Drenched in cold sweat, Thorne pushed himself up from the floor. He shot me an intensely venomous glare, before shifting his gaze to the impassive Rowena standing nearby.

He spat a wad of bloody saliva and sneered. "You crazy bitch. You deserve to rot in this house."

And with that, he stormed out, slamming the front door without ever looking back.

The living room fell dead silent, save for my ragged, breathless panting, and the sharp click-clack of Rowena's high heels against the hardwood floor.

"Go take a shower, Isolde."

"You look absolutely pathetic right now."

Dropping those words without an ounce of weight, Rowena turned around and glided toward her bedroom.

I slumped onto the floor, clinging desperately to my ruined dress, my eyes locked on the heavy iron door at the end of the hall.

It loomed there like a gaping black maw, its jaws wide open to consume everything.

What exactly had Thorne experienced down there?

What on earth had Rowena done to him?!