The Villain’s Captive by Bella J.

2

I glancedaround before slipping the key into the lock. It was just after midnight, and staff had already left, leaving the Alto Theatre empty and silent. This was wrong, maybe even borderline trespassing. But since this was technically my workplace, sneaking in here after hours wasn’t that bad. I promised myself I’d stop as soon as I got caught—which would probably be a given, anyway. But I hadn’t gotten caught yet, so I’d taken that as a sign to continue my midnight rendezvous’ here at the empty theatre.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Jesus.” I yelped and slapped my hand against my chest, taking a deep breath when I recognized the familiar voice. “Chase, you fucking asshole.”

He smirked and placed his hands in his pants pockets. “You shouldn’t be lurking around here alone at night.”

“First of all,” I tucked a stray curl behind my ear, “I’m not lurking. And secondly,” I let out a breath, “I bet being alone here is much safer than at my apartment.”

“You’re probably right. Your place is kind of a dump.”

I slapped his arm. “My place is not a dump. The neighborhood, however, that’s a different story.”

Chase slipped on his jacket and pulled a beanie over his light blond hair. “I’m serious, though. You should be careful. You know there are all kinds of monsters in this city.”

“Oh, yeah?” I narrowed my eyes. “Like who?”

“You’ve heard of The Musician, right?”

I balanced the cello case in both hands. “Oh, please. The man’s a phantom, if he even exists. More like a folktale, a scary story parents tell their kids to keep them off the streets at night.”

“Well, I’ve heard some of the orchestra girls say he roams the halls of this theatre some nights.”

I grimaced. “And they would know, how?”

“I dunno. But my dad always says, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Chase shrugged. “Let me give you a ride home.”

“I’m fine, really.”

He glanced at the cello case in my hands. “Ever thought about joining the orchestra?”

“What?” I shifted from one leg to the other. “No way. My stage fright is debilitating.”

“Bullshit. I’ve heard you play, Char. You’re good. You should totally audition.”

“No.” My cheeks burned. “I can’t. Maybe someday.”

He shot me a lopsided grin. “Okay. Well, are you sure you don’t need a lift home?”

“Positive.”

“Cool. Just don’t stay too long.” He walked down the corridor but turned back around. “Oh, and if you get caught, I know nothing about this.”

“Of course, you don’t.” I shot him a half-smile.

As Chase disappeared around the corner, I took a final look down the halls before carrying the case through the door and closing it behind me. This goddamn case was hanging on its last thread, and I expected it to disintegrate or fall into tatters on the floor any day now. It used to be my mother’s before she passed two years ago. Cancer stole her from me, and her death and my father’s continued absence throughout my life had left me an orphan at eighteen. It had always just been my mom and me.

Now it was just me.

I turned on my small pocket flashlight and slowly walked down the stairs toward the stage. Excitement popped inside my veins. There was no pain tonight, which meant the next hour had the potential to be excellent. Just me and my cello, without the worry of failure and the judgment of the crowd.

By now, I knew there were precisely twenty-four stairs before I reached the front of the theatre, my pumps silently moving across the floor. Gently, I placed my cello case on the stage, hoisted myself up to sit on my ass, and straightened. It smelled like freshly polished wooden floors, and my shoes made that squeaky sound as I lightly stepped across the stage to switch on the light. The bright stage light blinded me for a second, and it took my eyes some time to adjust. Only then did I notice the single chair placed in the middle of the stage, a white cello case resting against it.

I froze. My shoulders tightened, and the blood in my veins ran cold. I’d be lying if I said that white cello, which seemed to have come out of nowhere, didn’t spook the shit out of me.

I remained still, fisting my hands at my sides, my body as stiff as a fucking log. I didn’t know what rattled me more—the fact that I might be on the verge of getting caught or the fact that I might not be alone in here as I thought.

“Hello?”

Silence.

I narrowed my eyes, glancing from the chair to the darkness and back to the chair. The apprehension that coated my clammy skin made it hard for me to decide whether I wanted to look at the object in front of me or if it would be safer to look away. To run.

The corner of a white card caught my attention, neatly placed on the seat of the chair. I leaned a little to the right and saw my name written in elegant calligraphy. As I read it, the hair at the back of my neck stood up, my skin instantly cold and palms sweaty. But curiosity was far stronger than caution, and with every step toward the chair, my mind kept trying to convince me how utterly stupid this was, reminding me that it was always the curious and naïve girl who got killed first in scary movies. Yet I continued and picked up the card, the texture smooth between my fingers.

Charlotte.

I sucked my bottom lip and scanned the theatre as far as the shadows allowed me to see. My hands trembled, my fingers nervously toying with the sharp corners of the card. As someone who wasn’t supposed to be here, seeing an envelope with my name on it as if whoever wrote it expected me was a whole different level of creepy. But the mind’s first line of defense against fear caused by uncertainty was to find a logical explanation.

“Chase, is that you? This isn’t funny.”

Chase and I worked together at the theatre for the last few years, cleaning other people’s messes after every show. He was known for his annoying skill at pranking everyone when they least expected it.

“Chase?”

My gaze swept around one more time before drifting to the white cello case. I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I didn’t feel the tiniest amount of excitement at the thought of what was inside it. Of course, simply because it was a cello case didn’t mean there was a cello inside. It could have been empty. Or maybe there was a bomb inside. A severed limb, or the head of a slaughtered pig.

“Jesus, Charlotte. Ease up on the horror movies,” I muttered to myself, straightening my shoulders and taking a breath as I stared at the card, which had nothing but my name written on it.

I licked my lips, my throat dry and fingers itching to open the case even though there was this loud warning knocking against my skull. I couldn’t deny it. A part of me was curious, but I tried to push that part way down—curiosity killed the cat and all that.

“Okay, pull on your big girl panties and just open it.” I leaned down and reached out, the sound of popping locks echoing through the empty theatre. As I lifted the top lid, keeping one eye closed, a soft gasp slipped past my lips. “Oh, my God.”

An antique spirited varnish cello was proudly displayed and placed on black velvet. It was the most beautiful instrument I had ever seen. A hint of pine rosin wafted around me, the scent stirring a deeply rooted excitement.

Countless hours I had spent browsing the internet staring at images of new cellos, my heart bleeding to be able to afford one. But my job here at the Alto Theatre was barely enough for me to survive on.

I leaned back on my legs, my eyes glued to the flawless, brand new cello—a piece of art, in my opinion. Why would someone leave this here for me and not say who it was from?

A chill trickled down my spine. No one besides Chase knew I was here, and he sure as hell couldn’t afford a cello like this.

Who else knew?

“Shit.” I shot up to my feet, the ice-cold chill sinking to the soles of my feet as I rapidly glanced around the theatre. Someone knew I would be here. How?

Adrenaline blasted through my veins, and I grabbed my cello bag before rushing across the stage. My feet couldn’t carry me fast enough, and paranoia clung to my skin as if a thousand eyes stared at me.

Every breath became deeper, more labored as I took two steps at a time and ran out of there. I reached for the door, but the second I touched the brass knob, a low, husky whisper echoed from the darkness. “Charlotte.”

A scream tore my throat as my heart turned fucking inside out, and I jerked around. “Who said that? Who’s there?”

Silence.

“Who is out there?” Fear tightened around my throat, and I was sure my heart would tear out of my chest. “Chase, this isn’t funny.”

I yanked the door open and rushed out. But the door slammed against my cello case, lodging it against the doorframe. I kicked at the door and pulled the case free, but as it dislodged, I stumbled and fell, my cello case skidding across the floor.

Without a second’s hesitation, I righted myself, grabbed the case, and ran out of that damn theatre hall as quickly as humanly possible. There were no words to describe the cold fear that possessed me, the thousand thoughts of horror that swept through my mind all at once.

I rushed to the exit door, the one I could always sneak in and out of, and stormed down the stairs to the underground parking lot. Every few steps, I’d turn to see if I was being followed, gasping for air. But no one followed—at least not that I could see. The second my feet hit the pavement, a crowd passed by, singing, laughing, most of them drunk off their asses.

Immediately, I fell into step behind them and didn’t dare glance behind me. My heart raced even though the New York nightlife gave me a slight sense of protection. If judging by the traffic, one would never think it was past midnight in this city.

It was only when I managed to get on a bus and safely took a seat that I allowed myself to take a breath. Sweat trickled down my spine, perspiration clinging all along my hairline, and the farther the bus took me away from the Alto Theatre, the more my pulse started to settle.

“Jesus,” I whispered, leaning my head back, my body literally feeling like it became one with the goddamn seat. I had only ever felt this kind of crippling fear once before—the kind that wrapped around your chest with its icy tentacles, slowly suffocating you, your lungs fighting for air as you drowned in reality. It was the night my mother died. The night I sat next to her bed listening to her breathe, praying that each breath she took wouldn’t be her last. I knew she was suffering. I knew she was done fighting. But the selfish daughter that I was prayed so damn hard that she wouldn’t be taken from me. Not yet. Because even though she was ready to leave this world, I wasn’t prepared to let her go.

Every single second that I remained by her side, the fear of losing her crippled me to a point where I was sure I’d die alongside her. God, there was a time I wanted to die with her because thinking about a life without her just didn’t make sense. It was a thought I couldn’t wrap my head around, the idea of living in a world where she no longer existed.

Tears stung my eyes, and I wasn’t sure whether it was because of the adrenaline leaving my system, or if it was the memory of my mother reminding me yet again how much I fucking missed her.

I glanced at the cello case, too afraid to open it because I knew there was no way a forty-year-old cello could have survived being slammed in a door and falling on a tiled floor. It was probably nothing more than broken pieces of wood.

For the entire ride home, I had my jaw clenched as I held my tears, refusing to let my torn heart acknowledge the grief that always lingered.

I got to my apartment, still miraculously keeping my shit together. It was creepy as fuck knowing someone was there, at the theatre, watching me. I tried to convince myself it was Chase, or one of the other guys playing this twisted prank on me. But that voice. I didn’t recognize it. Whoever was there wasn’t someone I knew.

I locked the door and stared at the tiny living space I called home. Well, it wasn’t home. Nowhere was home ever since my mom passed. This was just a shithole I cleaned up with my perfectionism and OCD tendencies. But there wasn’t a magic wand in this entire goddamn world that could turn this dump into something worth living in—for others, at least. Me? I didn’t have a choice. Thirty-year-old furniture that smelled like mothballs and soap greeted me every day, and my bedroom and kitchen were separated by a few inches of space.

If pathetic had a look, this would be it.

I placed the case on my bed, still not brave enough to open it and assess the damage. Deep down, I already knew what I would find. An old cello which had finally taken its last bow, never to be played again.

This time there was no keeping the tears from falling.

I hated this.

I hated my life. I hated the constant struggle to scrape by, to work two jobs so I could eat, pay for this crummy apartment, and afford the pain medication I needed merely to get through a single day’s work. I hated that there would never be more to my life than this old and broken instrument—an instrument I could play with my eyes closed, yet I’d never be able to perform with.

All those nights sneaking into the theatre was the closest I’d ever get to even touching the dream of an eight-year-old girl who wanted nothing more than to perform on stage while a hundred people could witness her talent and love for the cello. But little did that girl know her dream would be crippled by a fear of failure as eyes were on her.

This was my life.

Mundane.

Unfulfilled

And completely alone.