Rewind, Press Play

Richelle woke up at her usual time for a Wednesday morning - 6:00 a.m. - and got into the shower, thoroughly enjoying the hot water running down her shivering body. Fifteen minutes later, she was dressed in shorts, flips-flops, and a plain navy blue v-neck. She left her long, curly hair down, which fell to the middle of her back. Before she forgot, she slipped on her silver bracelet with a heart-shaped locket on it. Inside, there wasn't a picture, but a small scrap of notebook paper with the last words her mother had written to her.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Richelle poured herself a bowl of cereal while listening for the sounds of her father waking up upstairs. She never heard him, at least not before she left for school at 6:50.

The weather that morning was really pretty dismal. The sky was so cloudy it looked like just a vast expanse of white, but it was still hot and sticky. The slight warm breeze did nothing to help the humidity.

It was halfway from her house to the school that two hands shot out of nowhere, one grabbing around Richelle's waist and the other covering her mouth. She felt herself get pulled up against a tall, muscled man's body, and he growled low into her ear, "Speak, scream, or try to get away, and I will kill you on the spot."

Richelle felt something cold and metallic press against her skin, and gasped into the rough hand, helpless. She didn't see any choice but to allow the man to lead her along. She was forced in to the back seat of a car, and she breathed deeply, trying to keep her head clear as he took her backpack. He dug through its contents, finding her cell phone and turning it off before putting it into his jeans' pocket. He threw the bag onto the passenger seat and sat in the driver's, starting up the car and pulling out of the empty parking lot.

The whole ride, Richelle stayed silent and tried to keep calm. From the backseat, she couldn't try to crash the car, but glancing at the door, she saw it was unlocked. Slowly, she inched her hand towards the handle. She saw the man's eyes flicker in the rearview mirror, and he said with no emotion, "Child-lock on both doors. You can't open them from the inside, unlocked or locked."

She quickly drew her shaking hands back to her lap, thinking. What was he going to do to her? Where was he taking her? Wasn’t it completely unrealistic for both her and her mother to be kidnapped and killed within two years of each other?

Within ten minutes, at 7:06 according to the dashboard clock, they pulled up the long driveway to a large house, half-hidden by trees. She had to wait for the man to come and open the door for her, and he dragged her roughly by her arm around to the back of the house. She was definitely going to have bruises from his grip, and worse if she didn't get away. He yanked open the cellar door and shoved her down the steps. She tripped on the last one, landing hard on the concrete floor. He slammed the doors shut and suddenly she could hardly see.

Richelle picked herself up and stood there for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The basement looked like more than one room, as far as she could tell. All of a sudden, she could feel breathing on her neck. She stepped forward quickly, saying, "Who is that?"

There was a short, low laugh from behind her, and when he spoke, she could tell by his voice he was a boy her own age, or at least close. "Me? I'm just Joseph. At least that's what he named me. But I'll tell you a secret," he said, his voice lowering to a whisper. "My real name is Colby. Now quick, what's your real name?"

"My name is Richelle," she said, turning around to face Colby-Joseph. He had dirty-blonde hair in desperate need of a trim, brown eyes, and looked as though he could use a good shower. His jeans and grey t-shirt looked really old and worn.

"Richelle? That's beautiful. Don't ever forget it," he told her sternly, like a teacher to a child. She'd never had a guy tell her that her name was beautiful - maybe cool, or different, but never beautiful right to her face.

"Thanks," she said quietly. "How long have you been here?" she asked, taking a look around.

"I don't even know," he admitted, taking a step closer to her. "Years. I was seven when I was brought here. I think I'm close to fifteen or sixteen now. What's today?" He was staring at her, and she looked to the ground, set off by the intensity of his eyes.

"June seventh."

He blinked in surprise. "The last one who was here, it was March seventeenth."

"There's been other people here? Where are they?" she asked quickly. His hand rose from his side and he ran his fingers along her face gently.

"You're beautiful, you know. More beautiful than the rest."

"What? Never mind - where are the other people?" she asked again, ignoring his startling touch.

"They… they're all dead." Then his eyes were trained on the ground and hers were on his clenched fists. Then he walked over to the far wall and sat down on a mattress on the floor. There were several old, dirty blankets on it. He patted the spot next to him. "Sit?"

Richelle took the offer, laying her head in her hands. He put his arm over her shoulders like he was comforting a childhood friend. "Colby?" she asked. He looked at her. "Am I going to die here?"

"I don't know. That's what's happened to every one else but me," he repeated. "But I certainly hope not. You're too beautiful."

"Will you stop saying that!" Richelle burst out angrily. "It isn't true, and it's really not going to matter here, is it?"

"It is true. And it does matter," he argued. "If he likes you enough, he might not kill you."

Exasperated, she leaned up against the hard wall and Colby drew his hands back to himself. Richelle was still determined not to let any tears escape. She took a deep, shaky breath and then let it out. Then she closed her eyes to think. She heard Colby move, and then he spoke.

"You know, you look like someone I've seen before. From here." She didn't say anything, honestly uninterested in whatever he wanted to tell her now. "She told me her name. Most don't. But hers, it started with an M. She had different hair than you, but your face looks the same. I remember faces."

"Was she my age?" she asked.

"No. She was older. She told me she had a daughter," he continued. "Her daughter was thirteen. I think it was two years ago, about. I can't keep track of time well.

A woman who looked like her, with a daughter her own age? Here the same time her mother first went missing? It was too much of a coincidence for Richelle, and she didn't want it to be true, not when she remembered how her mother had been found. She remained silent instead of pursuing the subject.

After a minute, steps could be heard coming from the floor above. Then the footsteps came down the stairs, and to the door. The man walked in. "I see you've made a new friend, Joseph," he said. Then he leaned over and whispered something inaudible in Colby's ear. Richelle looked up at them. Then the man walked out, locking the door. Colby stood up and offered his hand to her. She took it and got to her feet, too.

She followed him over to a door in the far corner of the room, which he opened to reveal a bathroom. He gestured for her to enter, and she obeyed. He turned on the lights, showing the bathroom was oddly clean compared to the rest of the basement. "You can sit there," Colby said, pointing to a chair.

Richelle pulled it out of the corner and sat down, watching as he pulled a pair of scissors from a drawer beneath the sink. "What are you doing?" she asked. His face was different now, not as excited as before.

"He told me to. Now, hold still or it'll come out bad." His hand holding the scissors went towards her head, and she almost grabbed his wrist before she realized that he was going to cut her hair. For some reason, she didn't object. Normally, Richelle would never have let anyone touch her hair, but she supposed that she was too afraid of not doing anything that the man said to do. When Colby said he was done, he asked her to sweep up the hair off the floor and throw it out. He came back with some clothes and asked her to change into them, left again.

She changed into the clothes. They were a pair of jeans and plain black t-shirt. He was sitting back on the mattress with a bored expression when she left the bathroom, hair and clothes different. "Why are you doing what he says, now?" she asked him, sitting down next to him. He didn't speak, only shrugged. "What's the matter? Haven't you ever tried to get out of here? Hasn't anyone?"

"Yeah. There really isn't any point, though." He looked over at Richelle's pleading eyes. "It's never worked, and it never will. I honestly don't know why he doesn't kill me, too. Really, you're just another scene from a movie that I've seen a hundred times. I know what'll happen, and nothing's going to change it."

"Something has to work; you just haven't found it yet!" Richelle shouted at him, her ends beginning to fray. In an instant, Colby jumped on top of her and tackled her, clamping a hand over her mouth.

"Shhh," he ordered fiercely in a whisper. "Don't yell. We'll both get in huge trouble." Slowly, he got up, the pressure of his body dissipating from hers. He kept his hand pressed to her mouth as he listened intently for something. Finally, he lifted his hand. "Please be quiet."

She sat up, fuming. "What the hell?" she asked in a harsh whisper. "Seriously? Do you want to get out of here? You sure seem like you don't."

"Seriously, do you want to get killed? Yelling isn't going to help. But either way, nothing is going to get you out of here - well, except for your death," he said, rolling his eyes at her. "I've been here eight or nine years. I think I've seen everything that's going to happen here. Like I said, a movie I've seen a hundred times."

"But this isn't a movie! This is real! You should know that," she told him.

"No, you are. Today, you'll try and think of how to get out, and he'll take you upstairs - I don't know what for. Tomorrow, he'll change your hair color, and when you try to get out, he'll kill you. If you don't try to get out tomorrow, the day after, he'll take you upstairs again, and he'll kill you up there. At least, the second time they go up, they never come back. It's just what happens, every time. I don’t know why, but he doesn't kill me."

Richelle shook her head, but didn't speak to him after that. She didn't know how long it was, but after awhile, she began to wander around the room, just looking at things. Then she went over to the doors that led directly outside. She ran her curious fingers over the rusted metal. Since when did these kinds of doors lock from the outside and not the inside? Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? She gently pushed on the doors, not wanting to make a lot of noise, but they didn’t budge. Eventually she got bored of even wandering around, and dropped down on the mattress again, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Suddenly, the door opened again. The man stepped in, and took hold of her shoulder, yanking her to her feet. She caught her balance quickly before she fell. "Come with me." She followed obediently out the door - hearing the words "a movie" faintly before it closed - and up the staircase to the rest of the house. All of it was unnaturally clean, but they didn't stop there in the kitchen. Instead, he led her to the living room. Richelle's hands began shaking again, terrified of what he was going to do to her. Unexpectedly, he ordered her to sit on the huge leather couch. She did. He sat next to her and put his feet up on the glass-topped coffee table.

"What's your name?" he asked her simply.

"My name?" she said, her voice wavering, remembering how he'd renamed Colby. What would he do if she said Richelle? "I don't know. It's whatever you want it to be."

"I like Annaleise," he said, apparently satisfied. "Do you like my house?"

She nodded. "It's beautiful. Does anyone else live here with you?" Richelle decided that she would attempt to talk to him without doing anything that might make him mad. Weren't people who kidnapped like this sometimes insane?

"No. Well, Joseph - and you, maybe," he said, closing his eyes for a moment. "Do you like movies?"

"I do. What's your name?" she asked. He looked at her.

"You can call me Dad, if you'd like," he said. She hid her immediate surprise. Maybe he did have some kind of psychological reason for kidnapping and killing all these people. If Colby was anyone to go by, there were others. Richelle didn't say anything.

"I was talking to Joseph," she said instead. He looked at her.

"About what? Do you like him? Do you think you'd get along with him?"

"Oh, I definitely would. I was talking to him and I was wondering… why didn't you kill him? You killed some others."

"Why would I kill my son? I love him. Wouldn't you love having him as a brother?" he asked. She nodded quickly, finally getting some kind of grasp of why he wanted her.

"Do we have a mom?" she asked.

"No. I'm looking for her, too. I'm so glad I finally found you and Joseph, you know." She nodded again. Maybe the woman Colby was talking about had been her mother. Maybe she just hadn't fit the requirements of what he was looking for.

"Um, could I go back downstairs and talk to Joseph? About being his sister?" she asked, not really wanting to lengthen the conversation and unsure she could come up with much more to say.

"Sure, go ahead. I'll just come and lock the door behind you," he told her. She stood up and he followed as she walked back down to the basement. Colby was lying on the mattress, silent and breathing slowly, almost like he was asleep. His eyes were open, though. She heard the door lock behind her.

"Colby, he thinks you're his son. That's why he hasn't killed you. He's still looking for his, well, daughter - and I think he thinks I'm her - and his wife," Richelle said. Colby sat up and looked at her.

"Really?" She nodded, explaining what had taken place upstairs. He shook his head. "So if he doesn't think whoever he takes is his son, daughter, or wife, he kills them?"

"Yeah. And we have to get out of here and get the police, he'll keep killing until he finds his wife, and that could be never. He already got my mom, I think. The woman you were talking about from two years ago."

He reply to that, but he said, "I still don't think we should do anything. Girls have tried that before. I've seen them murdered. I think the last one's blood is still on the steps over there, if you don't believe me."

"We still have to try, Colby. I told you, you don't know for sure what’s going to happen," Richelle said, still trying to get that point across - that he could do something. He didn't respond, so she just walked over to the door and told him, "I'm not just a scene from a goddamn movie."

She looked at the door with extreme scrutiny. Finally she found that if she lifted the door slightly, she only needed to get something through the narrow space to lift the latch. She searched the room and found a small metal rod that the man must've overlooked in the corner. Richelle went back to the door and pushed slightly, then wedged the metal between the two doors, lifting the latch outside up and unlocking to doors. She eased one side open, looking back at Colby. His eyes pleaded with her, but when she tried to get him to follow her, he refused. He would be fine once she contacted the police, right?

When Richelle turned around again to leave, it had only been, at most, six hours since she had been brought to the house. It was only six hours after she'd been taken that the man caught her escaping from the basement and stabbed and killed her. Six hours after Colby had met her that he was repeating the same phrase he told every girl he met when they talked about getting out. This time, though, he almost regretted having to say it, despite its truth. He whispered it to himself as he watched the beautiful girl die.

"You're just another scene from a movie that I've seen one hundred times."