Kept: First Visitation

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It has been nearly six hours driving without so much as a pit-stop. I knew at the time that I should have opted for Greyhound for my maiden tour of the infamous Waverley asylum in Kentucky but it just seems fitting I should do so via road trip. On numerous occasions my eyelids have begun to droop and each time I have wound down the car window, grabbed another mouthful of Red Bull and attempted to sing away the slumber which has threatened to take hold for the last 100 miles or so. I have to find a place to lay my head for the night soon or else I’ll end up careering off the beaten track and into a nearby ditch. Thankfully I just passed a succession of signposts. Motel in sixteen miles…six…three…up ahead. It’s time to remove myself from the road before the choice is made for me. This motel will do, as long as it has clean, dry linen and a wash basin then I’m happy.

I pull into the car park and it is entirely devoid of any other vehicles. In fact, it barely even looks inhabited. The signage above my head is flickering and offers no real encouragement as to whether I’ll even find anyone here to book in but I cannot drive another yard tonight or else I’m going to end up coming a serious cropper. I park up under the dim lighting and grab my belongings from the trunk. Looking around it looks deserted and I’m sure the owners wouldn’t mind me noting that this place looks like a bit of a dive truth be known. Nevertheless, beggars can’t be choosy. Right now it is a warm bed for the night and I have every intention of being up early tomorrow to move on so any dreary decor is irrelevant.

“I do know how to pick my spot” I mumble my discord as I make my way towards what appears to be the motel office, fit to drop where I stand but currently too tired to even do that. Champagne lighting seeps out through the window from within and I catch whiff of what appears to be roast chicken wafting through to greet me. I tap lightly on the door first and then, after receiving no immediate response, make my way inside. My nasal deductions are confirmed by the freshly prepared chicken dinner sitting on the side as I walk in and I move towards the bell to alert whomever as to my attendance. As I get close I discern the proprietor hunched over in a rickety chair behind the front desk. Out for the count, this dude ain’t waking for no man and has likely been anesthetized by the re-runs of Bonanza playing out on his portable TV. He evidently needs some Sesame Street in his system and fast!

What to do, what to do? Fuck it, I can hardly keep myself vertical and have inherited Bambi’s legs it seems so I can’t be standing here all evening waiting for him to rejoin the land of the living. I could sound the bell but instead I decide it more polite to simply lean across and help myself to a room key. This isn’t exactly a picture of health before me, I could stroll away at a leisurely pace and my estimation would be that he wouldn’t be able to as much as dislodge his big ass from that seat, let alone give chase. Hell, I have no intention on diddling the poor fellow. I’ll square up with him at cock crow as I need to make an early start tomorrow anyhow, to make up for the travel time I’m losing now.


Number 9. That’ll do me. I pluck the tacky plastic key from the rack on the wall and contemplate taking a drumstick or two from his dinner plate but it looks shamefully unappealing, famished or not. It’s smothered in thick grease and I would also assume that this isn’t the kind of guy who sanitizes before prepping dinner or after taking a dump so I decide to pass and leave this 350 lb sleeping beauty where he’s slumped and exit the room post haste. 1…2…3. I make my way to my chamber, desperately weary and struggling right now to even shoulder the overnight stay bag I’m lunking about. When I shut that door behind me I’ll likely just collapse on the bed comatose so I’m not even perturbed by the shoddy look of each room I pass. If I’m honest, I haven’t paid my fee anyway so it would be pedantic of me to return to the office and voice any concerns over leaky faucets or surface mold.

After spending the best part of a minute attempting to understand the locking mechanism, the door finally springs open. Voila, the Ritz it most certainly isn’t. I ignore the dried semen on the divan and throw myself headlong onto the bed. I’m not ordinarily one for sleep but, even I have to admit, it feels so good when your body is crying out for somnolence. Every fiber aches right now, I could be carried off by dingos and I wouldn’t offer resistance. Actually, that is a distinct possibility, given the fact that I have left the door to number nine wide open to the elements.





The music here is loud. I love this place. It’s out in the middle of nowhere, and only the people that always come to this ‘club’ ever make repeat appearances. I think it used to be a barn, but was refurbished when this girl I went to school with won a hundred thousand on one of those impossible lottery tickets. She didn’t have any big plans at the time of her fortune and, when asked what her plans were for this new found wealth, she simply replied, “I’m just gonna build a big fuckin’ club in the middle of nowhere and all y’all are invited…” That’s exactly what she did.

So…here I sit, perched up in the loft of this club, legs dangling carelessly as I watch the crowd below. The music is such a bizarre mix that if you can’t stand the song the DJ spins, just wait…you’ll love the next one. At this very moment the crush of human bodies is writhing in a synchronized wave, and the bass is thumping deeply; I can feel it in my chest.

The smoke is a thick cloud, hovering inches above my head, and I’m ready now. I get up from my perch and climb down the ladder, out of the loft and into the thick of the crowd. The faces blur around me as I make my way to the bar, whistling at the guy pouring drinks. He jerks his head up, one eyebrow lifted, unsaid question posed. I shake two fingers at him, drop them, then hold up three, quickly. Double shot, Wild Turkey. He nods and gets it together.

Best to drink it straight down, so I do. Just then, two of my friends materialize, cozying up to me on either side. I already know what they want and resist, but it’s too late, they’re dragging me onto the dance floor.


After what can only be seconds, I hear a most unwelcome audio emanating from directly outside the cabin. Low guttural growls suggest my dingo theory may be all too accurate but still I don’t so much as flinch. Instead I drift involuntarily back to sleep. This time it is definitely mere seconds, my eyes open with a start as a long shadow falls over me. I summon every droplet of vim and flip myself over to inspect this shady signal but the only movement comes from the slowly oscillating ceiling fan above my head which appears to hang from a singular threaded screw. That makes my mind up…I’m not paying one green cent for my overnight stay. I’m not just being froggy, but that thing puts the death trap in contraption.

I plump on a smoke, knowing only too well that the first drag which appears to relieving me is in fact cutting off the oxygen to my brain and making me feel more lethargic. Not the time Keeper, I can get all high and mighty tomorrow but right now I need me some tar. As forecast the primary tug saps me of any remaining will and I slouch back against the rotting headboard. I don’t ever recall feeling as absolutely shit kicked as I do at this juncture, can’t fight this any longer. I stub out the half-smoked cigarette in the overspilling ash tray beside me and shut down for a second time.

This time I awaken with an ungodly jolt, face down on the mattress and with my legs as far apart as they can spread…farther even. I’m pinned, what the actual fuck? I attempt to free myself but come across like a carp in the net, just another hapless wriggler. Both hips are being pressed down and, once more, I bathe in its shadow. Still I cannot get clear sight of my aggressor as my leaden head can’t muster the strength to turn around but I can make out a vague scratching. It starts at my metatarsal and gradually climbs, scraping across my pelt just enough to leave its mark. Then I feel a small prick, on the crease of my right buttock to be precise, and I feel it delicately sliding in.

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A needle…my momma warned me against playing with anything intravenous and I wish to proclaim my bemusement but cannot. Like a rabbit awash in headlights I look on blindly and receive the full stem in my posterior but, where initially I felt startled, now I feel a lot more aligned for its intrusion. Whatever narcotic is coursing through my ventricles has its merits as my eyes both roll straight back in my skull and I begin to gurn. Involuntarily, I drool. The exact moment I feel my back paddock being invaded by something unforeseen, I cry out. My wail appears to carry enough heft, with a dash of fortune that should alert the fine athlete slumped in the office and help will be here shortly. That’s if he’s not permanently crippled by the pounds of red meat compacted in his colon.

I wait for a handful of moments, in which time I receive fair few strokes from my unseen assailant, but it seems as though my SOS has floated right past him. I’m definitely not paying that bastard now! With each subsequent thrust comes a mesh of anguish and release, totally at odds with one another and inciting lightheadedness as I begin to slip away. Just before I drift into paralysis I make out the solitary word “Keeper” delivered teasingly and rasping around me with dark enchantment. I take this word with me as I slip into deep unconsciousness.


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Click here to read Second Visitation



About to be sinned upon,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013





Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013




  1. I was just watching Bates Motel tonight…… and…… I happen to live in a house with address number 9. Oh my gosh! Chilling & thrilling!!

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