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Across the room a man sat in the familiar chair, naked and bound by zip ties. His eyes were covered by a black bandana, and a BDSM ball gag kept his mouth blocked. Ashley’s screams died down and became manic murmurs of disbelief and horror. She knew this man, that much was obvious, but who was he? And why did he terrify her?
"Come on," I said, tugging on her hand to lead her close.
Bong. "Ashley, as you know, this is Ernest Wincott, age forty. Your father."
"Oh fuck," I muttered, remembering how I’d ruined and butchered my own father in this house.
"He is to be scourged with pain until he understands his crimes," Sam said. "Dahlia will assist you, but you are to do the majority of the work yourself. It is the only way you can be fully initiated into the dollhouse. Proceed at your leisure."
"Ashley? Ashley, calm down," I said. The girl was on the verge of hysterics. "We have to do this. I’ll be right here with you, okay?"
The man in the chair thrashed and grunted as soon as Sam said Ashley’s name. He knew she was here. No way to hide that. From all I’d learned, it would be better to rip the bandaid off quickly rather than draw it out. I pulled Ashley toward the man, until he was within arm’s reach, and with my free hand, I tore his blindfold free. His wild and panicked eyes fell on Ashley, and he stopped struggling and stared. Ashley froze as well, beneath his gaze. The two stayed like that, locked in a staring contest for several seconds before the man, Ernist, stayed stoic then burst into more tears. Big racking sobs that, to me, sounded relieved or happy.
The door of the torture room swung shut and locked. Now that Ashley wasn’t in danger of running away, I released her hand and walked behind the man to undo the gag. The rubber ball was attached to what looked a bit like a leather belt. I undid the buckle and pulled the gag out; a string of saliva stretched from his mouth to the bright red ball as it fell to the floor.
"Ashley? Baby girl?"
Ashley slammed her hands to her ears, covering them. "Shut up," she screamed. "Shut up."
"We thought you were dead," Ernest said, ignoring her. "You’ve been gone so long, we thought someone took you and you were dead. Oh god," he devolved into tears of relief.
I stared at the two, confused by the juxtaposition of their reactions. Ashley looked like she wanted to vomit upon seeing him, while the prisoner looked like his greatest prayer had been answered.
"What the fuck is going on here?" I asked, looking between them both.
Ashley pointing a wavering finger at Ernest. "He’s my dad."
Ernest nodded eagerly, straining against the ties. "Yeah, baby, it’s me. It’s Daddy. I missed you, baby. Now, you and this nice lady get me outta here. Once I’m out we can figure out how to break out of this place."
"Yeah, I got the dad part," I said, my anger rising. There was probably only one reason this man would be here. The look on her face told me I’d hit the nail on the head. "What did he do to you, Ashley?"
The girl, looking even younger than she already did, swung her eyes to me. The anger, betrayal, and sadness in them told me all I needed to know even before she spoke.
"He, umm," she cleared her throat nervously, "he did things to me. From the time I was five or six. He’d come into my room, and…" Her voice trailed off as the tears started again. "He told me that it was what daddy’s did when they loved their little girls." She gritted her teeth, the emotions turning to rage. "He fucked me. At least twice a month until I ran away at fifteen—"
"No. That’s not true, baby," Ernest said, shaking his head furiously.
Spurred by his denial, Ashley stomped toward him, pushing her face forward until her face was only a foot from his. "Liar," she screamed. "Fucking liar. You fucked me. Raped your own child. Right after my twelfth birthday, I tried telling momma about all of it. Tried to tell her that her husband was a god damned pedophile." She looked at me, lips quivering. "Do you know what she said? Do you know what my own mother said to me after I spent years working up the courage to tell her what was going on?"
I shook my head, a sad little frown on my face. "What did she say?"
Ashley took a shuddering breath. "She looked me dead in the eyes, and said"—Ashely laughed bitterly before going on—"that I was a lying little sinner. That her Ernie would never do something like that. My own mother told me that liars went to hell. She said that his congregation would leave if I ever said something like that to anyone else. Without them we wouldn’t have any money or anywhere to live."
"Fucking christ," I said. "He’s a god damned preacher?"
"Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain," Ernest shouted, swiveling his piggy eyes back to me.
That was apparently too much for Ashley. Her hand snapped out, slapping her father across the face. She hit him hard as hell, splitting his lip, and sending a thin spray of blood across the room.
"Fuck Jesus, fuck God, fuck your fucking church, fuck heaven, and all the other things you talk about, you god damned bastard," Ashley screamed, spittle flying from her lips onto his face. Snot and tears hung from her nose and cheeks.
Ernest looked beyond shocked, like he’d been struck dumb by her outburst. And for the first time since taking off his blindfold, he looked truly afraid. The sight of his daughter, for a moment, had given him a sense of relief. Now? All he saw was the hatred and murder in her eyes.
"Are you ready for me to teach you?" I said.
Ashley bared her teeth at her father, wild eyes piercing into him. "Yes," she hissed.
Ernest shouted at us, trying to explain or beg, but we ignored him as I led Ashley to the table of tools Sam had prepared for us. On it, there was a hammer, a jagged serrated steak knife, a pair of surgical scissors, and a glass bottle with a stopper with a white label. Using a permanent marker, someone had written on the label: Acid.
