Note to Self: Always Check Under the Bed

I hammered on the door, my voice growing hoarse as I screamed for help. “Let me out of here! Just leave me alone!” I had to get away. The man was a psychopath! But no one came. In a fit of frustrated rage, I threw myself onto the bed. The heavy frame scraped and slid a few inches across the stone. Frowning, I got up to shove it back into place when I noticed a faint outline in the floorboards it had just vacated. My heart leaped. With renewed energy, I heaved the bulky bed away from the wall, revealing a square, wooden trapdoor. A slow smile spread across my face. Here was a way out, a path that didn't involve crossing his again.

Returning to the wardrobe, I searched for the most unassuming dress I could find. A nagging feeling told me there was a reason the closet held no modern clothing, but the implications felt too fantastic to be real. Time travel and cross-dimensional journeys were the stuff of fiction. My love of literature might have been the only thing making me even consider changing, but I was still in America. Perhaps I’d been taken by some remote cult in Canada or Mexico, one obsessed with historical reenactment. For now, it seemed wisest to play along. I selected a simple gray dress and, before pulling it on, tried my best to make it look worn by scuffing it against the dusty floor. After securing my hair with the tie from my wrist, I lifted the heavy trapdoor. It swung open to reveal a set of steep stone stairs descending into blackness. A genuine smile touched my lips. “Here goes nothing,” I whispered, and began my descent into the unknown.

Once I had descended so far that the light from the room above vanished completely, I knew I desperately needed a torch. But the thought of going back up there, of waiting for that mad king to return, was unbearable. Pressing one hand against the damp, grimy wall, I began to feel my way through the oppressive darkness. My thoughts drifted. Had our friends finally made it to the cottage? Did they know Morgan and I were gone? Had they called the police? Our parents? I pictured my own parents receiving the news that their daughter was missing, the devastation it would cause. What about Morgan’s family? And what had happened to Morgan herself? Was she even here? I doubted the King truly had her; surely he would have lorded it over me if he did. Though perhaps, I considered grimly, he just wasn't the talkative type. How would I ever get home? I’d been taken a long, long way, even if I hadn't left the continent. For all I knew, I was on the West Coast.

“Ow!” My foot connected with something hard, and I stumbled, crying out in pain. That really hurt! Kneeling, I reached my hands out to feel what I had kicked. My skin crawled, and I snatched them back instantly. It felt unmistakably like a human skull. Okay, this is more than a little creepy. Scrambling back to my feet, I continued onward, my steps now infinitely more cautious. Soon, my foot hit another object, but this time I recognized it as the first step of a staircase. I ascended slowly, one hand held out above me, not wanting to slam my head into another trapdoor. As I pushed the door open, I found I was, indeed, underneath another bed. The people who built this passage must have been secret lovers, I thought absently. After a few minutes of clumsy shuffling, I managed to move the bed enough to open the door fully. Once I was out, I pushed the bed back into position and was immensely relieved to find the door to this new room was unlocked.

I crept from the chamber and began to navigate long, cold corridors. The castle was built of formidable gray stone, its walls hung with massive tapestries depicting brutal hunts and sprawling battles. Suits of armor stood at regular intervals like silent, metallic sentinels. The air was frigid, and I rubbed my arms to generate some warmth. It helped, but not much. It took a surprisingly long time before I finally reached a room with any signs of life. I pulled open a thick wooden door and was met with the sight of at least fifty girls bustling about, cleaning and carrying stacks of linens.

“Hey, you!” a sharp voice called out. I turned, confused, and pointed to myself. Surely she couldn't mean me? “Yes, you! You're late!” she barked, her voice loud and angry. “Get over here and I'll give you your duties for the day.” I nodded meekly and walked toward her. The woman who had summoned me looked to be in her thirties, but her face was already etched with deep lines and her hair was streaked with gray. When she took my hand to lead me from the room, I was shocked by the thick layer of calluses covering her palm. We descended five or six stories before she stopped at a well-used oak door with an equally worn brass handle. She opened it and shoved me inside first, following close behind. I realized immediately that this must be the kitchen.

The kitchen felt much brighter than the rest of the castle I'd seen, lit by enormous, open hearths, with only a few small windows set high in the walls—a design that struck me as a serious fire hazard. A rich aroma of roasting meat, fresh-baked bread, and savory spices filled the air. People were at work everywhere. A woman struggled with the lid of a large barrel, a small man carried a bundle of herbs to a chopping block, and at least a dozen others were a blur of constant, focused motion.

The woman, whom I now presumed to be the head maid, gestured me toward a stone channel built into the side of the kitchen, where a small stream of water flowed. “New girls wash the dishes,” she informed me bluntly. The ingenuity of the setup struck me for a moment. The castle had a steady supply of clean, running water for its needs. But wait…

“Don't you have a dishwasher?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

The woman gave me a strange look. “It's your job to wash the dishes,” she snapped. “You are the dishwasher! Are you simple in the head?”

The head maid seemed like a straightforward person; I doubted she was part of any elaborate scheme Mr. Psycho had cooked up. Did that mean… was I actually trapped in some kind of medieval reality? She tossed me a rough cloth and pointed to a mountain of soiled plates and pots. My mind reeling, I began to work. I must have gone into some kind of shock, because I spent what felt like the rest of the day scrubbing, hardly aware of the world around me. My fingertips soon became raw, but I barely registered the pain. All I could think, over and over, was that this couldn't be happening.

I never heard the kitchen doors slam open. I never heard his heavy, deliberate footfalls as he strode toward me like a lion closing in on its prey. I was barely conscious of the loud smash as the dish I was holding slipped from my numb fingers and shattered on the stone floor, or of the hard, iron grip that seized my arm. It wasn't until a terrible, jagged crack shot through my bone that I was violently jolted back to full awareness.

“You broke my arm!” I cried out, the pain slicing through the fog in my mind. I wanted to scream a thousand curses at him, but the fury on his face silenced me. I stumbled back and fell onto a bed behind me; I was in another place now, a different room—this one gloomy, windowless. Clutching my shattered arm to my chest, I tried to scramble as far away from him as possible.

“You!” he roared, grabbing my broken arm again and yanking me toward him. “You were not to leave your room without my permission!”

It was the worst possible thing to do, but I couldn't help it. Fear has a way of curdling into fury. “As if I'd ever listen to you, you monster!” I shrieked. “I despise you!”

With a roar of his own, he whirled and punched the nearest breakable object. A ceramic vase exploded into fragments. Without another word, he wiped the blood from his knuckles on his dark tunic and stormed out. I saw another man swing the door shut behind him, and I heard the final, metallic click of a lock.

This room had no windows, no candles, no torches. Through a haze of tears born of agony and rage, I watched the sliver of light from beneath the door vanish as the guard outside shifted his position, plunging me into a complete, oppressive blackness. My body wracked with sobs, I pulled the comforter from the bed and curled into a corner of the room. I was desperate for light. I needed light.