The Torture Room

Chapter 1

As she eased open the kitchen door, a plume of fragrant steam enveloped her, thick with the scent of simmering stock and expensive braised herbs. The bustle of clanging pans and chopping knives drowned any footfalls. None of the maids turned.

They didn’t need to. It was only her—a nondescript maid in the ubiquitous livery: black wool brushing her knees, an immaculate white apron, and dull chestnut hair tied simply. As commonplace as the chandeliers throughout the Westin mansion.

She retrieved a tray, a porcelain bowl, and a tarnished spoon. From a shelf lined with vibrant tins, she selected a small loaf and two hard-boiled eggs. Her rhythm was disrupted by a familiar voice. “Are the annex guests still there?” asked Mrs. Applewood, the rotund cook, tutting as she retrieved a golden meat pie from the oven.

Rosie gave a practiced pout. “Still lingering. But I suspect they’ll leave today.”

“You poor thing.” Applewood clucked her tongue, depositing the pie onto the table and stretching out her hand. “Give me that.”

She ladled a meager portion of soup into the bowl. Flotsam of vegetables and shreds of mollusk floated in the thin broth—scarcely nourishing.

“I can’t fathom you’re still doing that grim task without Epher.”

Epher—once her counterpart in the wing’s infamous basement—had absconded, chasing fortune with a gambling husband aboard a ship bound for another continent.

Though Mrs. Applewood seemed to pity her; she never offered any assistance. That suited Rosie just fine.

“Petition Mrs. Belgrave,” the cook advised. “Either for another maid or for better wages.”

“I’ll consider it,” Rosie replied, already knowing such favors were illusions. The head maid dispensed neither help nor mercy.

Balancing the tray, Rosie slipped out the side door onto a gravel path, flanked by manicured lawns. The annex loomed ahead; the barbed wire atop its walls glinted menacingly.

Though spring had cloaked the grounds in cherry blossoms, the annex seemed immune to the season’s charm. It exhaled the chill of winter, a place of rot and echoes. Of muffled screams.

Rosie moistened her lips and offered a composed smile to the soldier at the gate.

“Good morning, Marty.”

“Morning, Rosie.”

Without question, he opened the iron door.

She advanced slowly, eyes darting across the courtyard. Captain Westin’s automobile was absent—a fortuitous detail.

She entered the building and descended. Her footsteps were steady, rehearsed. Down the left corridor, past the first checkpoint—another silent guard who granted her entry with a nod. Security here was manifold. One more gauntlet awaited. She turned the final corner. Two soldiers sat idly near a heavy, rusted iron gate. The air here was heavier, as though the walls themselves remembered.

“Morning.”

“Morning, Rosie.”

She approached with poise. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet…”

The Private—Theodore Smith, per his nameplate—received a subtle glare from the Corporal beside him.

“I’ll fetch food from the main house,” Theo added hastily, but the rich aroma of soup made resistance difficult.

“What’s on the menu today?” the Corporal asked, already salivating.

“Meat pie,” Rosie replied, eyes glinting. “The scent from the kitchen hit me before the door even opened.”

The Corporal’s expression flickered. “If I’m late again, there’ll be nothing left.” The Private cast him a hopeful glance, then looked at Rosie with thinly veiled admiration.

She ignored him, fixing her gaze on the Corporal.

“Consommé again,” the man muttered bitterly. “I’m sick of it.” High-end rations for common soldiers—a consequence of Mrs. Westin’s vanity, not benevolence. Rosie didn’t blame them for their ingratitude. Not really.

“I doubt much was made today. You’d better hurry. I’ll lock up.”

She shifted the tray, revealing a black iron key in her apron. The Corporal hesitated. “The Captain said you weren’t to go in alone…” His voice trailed off, ambiguity hanging in the air.

Rosie smiled sweetly. “It’s fine. He’s not violent. I’ll drop the tray, collect the laundry, and leave. Bill’s still on the other post.”

Only then did the Corporal stand with a reluctant groan. “Smith, come on.”

Once they disappeared, Rosie stepped toward the heavy door. The key turned with a reluctant groan. As the door opened, a wave of coppery, blood-tainted air washed over her.

She entered.

The lights clicked on, one by one, but barely illuminated the room—black paint suffocated the walls, floor, and ceiling.

A man huddled on a narrow cot. At the sound of her voice—“It’s me”—he exhaled a breath he didn’t know he held. Recognition flickered before sight.

He looked grotesque, the remnants of humanity stripped from his frame. Rosie had seen many reduced to husks here. But this one hurt more. A familiar face on an unfamiliar figure from the old township she grew up in.

“I brought food,” she murmured, setting the tray on a table.

The man tried to sit, a pained groan escaping him. Rosie helped him gently into the chair, saying nothing.

She handed him the spoon and peeled the eggs as his mangled hands, stripped of nails, would make the task impossible.

“What happened last night?” Rosie started. “There was a party—I was summoned upstairs…”

“Nothing… cough, cough…” He convulsed. She poured water and held it to his lips. He drank with difficulty. He was fortunate in some ways. One meal a day. Water. Many received neither.

Before he could pick up the spoon again, Rosie drew a vial from her pocket. “Take this.”

Morphine.

He opened his mouth. She dropped in a measure, then stashed the vial away. As he began to eat, she spoke quietly, quickly. “You didn’t say anything, right?”

The man froze. His gaze rose. Fury simmered in his eyes. This part never got easier. She hated asking. It felt like betrayal. Surveillance. Even interrogation. But necessity trumped sentiment. If he had leaked anything, they needed to know. Lives hung in the balance.

“You must be honest with me.”

“… Nothing.” He stared for a moment, then turned back to the soup.

“I think they’ll move you today,” she murmured. “I’ll try to find out where and get word to the others. But until then—silence. You understand? The rescue team doesn’t want to hear about failure…” She had only a few seconds left. Her voice trembled, but she had to say it. It was her final warning delivered in a whisper as the footsteps above began again.