Dark Side of the Cloth by Brooklyn Cross
While Whitney was at work, so was Dean. He’d managed to acquire all he needed relatively easily—getting all the items hidden close enough to her backyard had been a little trickier.
He sat in the nearby brush that led down to the conservation park, binoculars in hand. He’d already had Sexy hack her calendar and knew she would be gone until this evening. It gave him ample time to set up his trap. The silver sedan backed out of the driveway, and he watched it disappear down the street. Dean waited an extra twenty minutes to make sure she wasn’t going to turn around because she forgot something before making his move.
Using the tree area as cover, he ran for the back of her house and the hidden supplies. It took more time than he would have liked, but making sure not to be seen was more important.
Same as last time, he disabled the security and made his way to the basement, and nothing had changed. That was a good sign. The first task was to get into the safe. With all of his tools and some extra instruction from Morry, he knelt and attacked the large safe. He wiped his brow as the last of the locking mechanism gave way almost thirty minutes later.
He really needed to get better at this.
With a twist and a pull, the door swung open, and the corner of his mouth curled up. Whitney did indeed have an escape plan, but she was also a collector. Upon the top shelf sat little vials with an assortment of tiny keepsakes, each with either a ring or another piece of jewelry and a small lock of hair. Leaving the vials, he grabbed the thick folders, each one labeled with a number.
He opened the first, and a wedding photo of Whitney when she was much younger smiled back at him. He flicked through the papers until he found the death certificate he expected to find—the bold letters stating that the death had been a widowmaker heart attack. The second folder was the same and the third. The fourth husband was when she moved to this town, and she happened to pick a man that wasn’t involved with the community, didn’t have any friends or family left living, and worked at a dead-end job. What did this add up to for her? A man that wouldn’t be missed. She had some random people that were not her husbands, but it was clear what she was.
Dean looked over to the tank of black widow spiders she kept—fitting.
He stuffed the files into his pack and went on the hunt for what he needed next. In the back of her house, he noticed she had large panes of glass that looked like materials to build a greenhouse. He slowly pulled the first of them out of the corner and smiled.
Yes, these would work perfectly.
* * *
Dean was like a statue in the now darkened house and watched with anticipation for his prey. Sexy had already announced she was coming around the corner, and his juices flowed, amping him up. His muscles twitched with the added adrenaline. As the lights flashed through the curtain of the living room, he quietly made his way up the stairs, and his leather gloves creaked as he twisted the handle to her room and silently re-closed the door.
Dean listened for the little beeping of her shutting off her security system and reactivating it. Well, she thought she was. Getting down, he slid easily under the bed. His pulse thumped rhythmically in his ears as he listened to Whitney moving around her kitchen.
His ears perked as she began to speak but quickly realized she was on the phone.
“Yes, I just got in. I think they will take the house. They tried to hide their excitement, but I can tell.” Her voice was getting closer, and he visualized every step she took. “I will send you the paperwork in the morning once they get back to me. Yes, that’s right. Okay, goodnight.”
The door to the bedroom opened, and the inch of space between the bed skirt and carpet was all he needed to watch her stocking feet wander around her personal space. There was something so satisfying to lay in wait like this, to be unseen in plain sight. The prey was never the wiser of his presence.
Articles of clothing dropped like rain to the carpeted floor. First a blouse, then skirt, stockings, and underwear before the bathroom door closed, and the sound of the shower could be heard. Whitney began to sing, and unlike Tim, she had a good voice. It was a shame it would be the last time she sang. It could’ve been a minute or an hour when Whitney re-emerged and crawled into bed, the weight shifting as the mattress sank slightly toward him.
There was no patience like that of a predator on the hunt. As he laid there listening to her turning pages in a book, he breathed slowly, laying perfectly still. He rolled his eyes as small moans stared, and the bed bounced a little as Whitney masturbated above him.
“Oh fuck yes, Father! Fuck me just like that.”
He bit his lip not to burst out laughing at the ironic situation. Her moans quieted, and soon she flicked off the light. The watch on his phone showed an hour had passed since she’d turned off her light. He slipped out from under the bed and stared down at the face of a serial killer. She looked innocent, angelic even with her curls splayed out around her cherub-like face.
Dean pulled the needle from his vest, leaned over his prey, and waited. His heart hammered as he waited for her body to recognize she was no longer alone. It always impressed him how the body was able to detect danger.
Her eyes snapped open, and she stared wide-eyed into his own.
“Hello, Whitney.” He stabbed the needle in her neck—the plunger pushed to the end before she flinched, and her back arched off the bed.
“Father? What are…uvv…duuin?”
Dislodging the needle, he stood and smiled down at her.
“Don’t worry, rest now. All will be well soon enough.”
Her eyes fluttered, and just like that, she was out. Picking up her naked body, he tossed her over his shoulder and made his way down the stairs to the basement and his wonderful little cage. He placed Whitney on the chair inside his cage, her body sagging like a rag doll. His trusty zip ties attached her legs to the legs of the chair and pulled her arms back behind her body to do the same with them. Once in position, he stared at the woman and smiled.
He pushed closed the door and hummed the song, “Get Your Freak On,” as he locked the glass door in place. He grabbed the caulking gun and made the final touches around the door to seal it completely.
One last touch and Dean walked over and inspected the tanks that held the miniature weapons she’d used to kill her victims. It took a special person to harvest venom and poison a supposed loved one.
Whitney really did have quite the variety, and each one was professionally labeled: The Brazilian Wandering, the Brown Recluse, and of course, the ever-famous Redback, or most commonly known as the Black Widow.
Picking up the first tank, he took a moment to flick on his choice of music and then made his way to the back of the tank. He placed the tank’s opening area against the rectangle hole he’d made to match and smirked as he pulled the screen holding the deadly little creatures inside up. It took a few minutes, but they all followed once one wandered into the much larger sanctuary. He felt like this was a miniature Jurassic Park scene as he placed the missing piece back and went for the next tank.
Whitney mumbled some nonsense, just starting to come around as the last of her pets stepped into the new glass tank with her. Placing the glass door in place, he grabbed the cocking gun and finished sealing it shut. He wouldn’t want one of these little guys to end up in a neighbor’s house because he was careless.
Dean pulled a granola bar from his bag and leaned against one of the basement pillars to wait. One of the brown recluses was in a fight with a wandering Brazilian. He watched in fascination as they wrestled and rolled around on the concrete floor. This was even more entertaining than he had hoped it would be.
“Fffaatthher,” Whitney mumbled. Shaking her head from side to side, trying to clear the fuzz that he knew she would be experiencing. She was probably going to wish she was still unconscious, but this was much more fun. Her head slowly rose, and he shivered as one of the widows dropped slowly from a thread. Its legs looked like it was swimming as it made its way toward the mass of black curls on Whiney’s head.
“Father?” Whitney lifted her head enough to look at him. Her eyes were still hooded from the cocktail he’d given her.
“Well, hello again, you’ve rejoined us.”
“Where am I?” She struggled against the restraints, finding them very secure.
“You mean you don’t recognize your own basement? And just so you know, I’ve bolted the chair to the floor.” Dean said and watched as she looked from side to side, her eyes going wide as her brain caught up to what her eyes were seeing.
“What the hell? What are you doing?”
She let out a screech and then froze as the widow that had been walking around in her hair crawled onto her forehead. Whitney’s eyes were trained on the spindly-legged black spider. Her chest rose and fell quickly as she tried to contain her panic.
Dean made his way over to her murder board and stared at all the faces that she’d made plans to kill. Pulling the pins from the image of Yasmine and the one of himself, he stuck the pins back in their place and walked over to his makeshift tank.
“You know, Whitney, I knew you were not what you seemed, but I have to tell you I was not expecting to find out you were a serial killer. I mean, it takes a lot to impress me, so you should pat yourself on the back. Actually, I wouldn’t do that even if you could. I’ve heard they— ” Dean pointed to the spiders around the tank, “—don’t like aggressive movements.”
“I’m not what you think. I’ve been set up. I’m innocent. This is all my husband’s doing. I knew he was up to something terrible. I was just afraid to come forward,” Whitney whispered.
Dean smirked and placed the image of Yasmine on the glass.
“I will hand it to you, your lies to someone else would sound believable.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Whitney, do you think I would’ve gone to this much trouble if I didn’t already know the truth? I see through you,” he said calmly.
She let out another small whimper as a wandering Brazilian crawled up her leg and started making its way toward her exposed pussy.
“Ooo, that doesn’t look like it’s going to end well.”
“Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Just get me out of here.”
Whitney closed her eyes as the widow crawled further down to sit between her eyes. Dean gave a sharp laugh. It was like the creature was purposely torturing her as it cleaned its legs. A small fuck you perhaps for how she’d been using them?
“I’m sure this is not exactly what you had planned when we were alone together. It certainly wasn’t what you were thinking about before you fell asleep.” He cocked his head, letting that piece of information sink in. “Yes, I was there.”
Dean wandered over to his bag and placed the image of Yasmine and himself inside. He didn’t want any of this being connected to them.
“Please, Father.” Tears ran down her cheeks, and her lower lip trembled as she tried to hold still.
He hefted the pack onto his shoulder.
“Oh! That’s right. This would be a good time to let you know that I’m not actually a priest.” He smiled wide. “A fitting end, I think. A Black Widow takes out the Black Widow. There is something very karmic about it. Well, I better get going. How long do you think it will take before they get hungry and decide to take a bite?”
“I hate you,” she whispered, her eyes hard as she glared at him.
Dean held his hands over his chest by his heart.
“Oh, you hurt me, Whitney, and here I thought we had something special.”
He walked to the bottom of the stairs and turned back to face the impressive tank of death. “One thing I would recommend, don’t fall asleep with your mouth open.”
He laughed as he walked up the stairs, Whitney’s begging whispers calling for him all the way.
Dean took a deep breath as he reached the top, and he reached out and flicked the light off. He waited a moment, and as soon as the first scream reached his ears, he smiled. Dean stepped back to close the door on the chapter of Whitney’s Basement of Horrors.