Stolen Souls

44

GALYA REACHED THE stairs, the torch still in her right hand, the force of the blow still ringing in her elbow and wrist, lightbulb fragments embedded in her feet. She mounted them, took two at a time, the open door above her, the light falling through.

Keys.

She stopped, one foot above the other, the door in touching distance. He would have the keys on him. Had she heard them jangle when he hit the floor? Yes, she believed so.

If she tried the front door, she would likely find it locked, and she would only have given him time to recover. Better to go back, find the keys, while he was still reeling.

Galya offered a short and silent prayer to Mama and turned around. She descended slowly, her left hand on the rail, her right holding the torch. It didn’t cross her mind to switch it on until she reached the cellar floor and felt more tiny pieces of glass pierce her already torn skin.

She turned the torch in her hand until she found the switch. A circle of pale light opened on the linoleum, found nothing but white sparkling glass and a single drop of red.

A sour milk smell, warm air on the back of her neck.

Galya spun, the torch arcing up and out, but a hard hand grabbed her wrist.

His moon face came close, his bared teeth visible in the dim light from above.

“Please don’t,” he said.

Galya tried to pull her arm away, but it might as well have been nailed to a wall. Anger flared in her heart, anger at herself for allowing him to reclaim her so easily. She jerked her arm again, throwing the weight of her body behind it.

His grip hardened. A red line crept from his temple to his cheek, slipping between the thick hairs of his beard.

“Let me help you,” he said.

Galya turned her rage on him and growled as she slashed at his pale skin with her free hand, leaving a red welt beneath his right eye, mirroring the scar that ran above it. Small beads of blood broke on its surface.

He pushed her back and down. She landed hard, sending a spike of pain up her spine. The torch clattered on the concrete. Before she could cry out, he bent down and grabbed a handful of her hair with one hand, the torch with the other. “I only want to help you,” he said. “To save you.”

“Let me go,” she said.

“Shut up,” he said, yanking her head back. “Don’t fight me. Don’t make me do something … bad.”

“I want to go home,” Galya said, more to herself than to him. “Please let me go home, I won’t tell anyone about you, about this place, please, I—”

“Shut up,” he said, his face close to hers, his sour milk breath hot on her cheeks. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

She realized she’d been speaking in Russian. Her mind raced to find the words in English, but they would not come. He let go of her hair, let her fall back on the floor. The torch flicked on, and she shielded her eyes from its burning glare.

“You can stay down here,” he said, backing away. “In the dark.”

He reached the steps. “Think things over. Calm down. Try to understand, I don’t want to hurt you.”

He climbed, keeping the torch trained on her, watching her over his shoulder. When he reached the top step, he turned and stared down at her.

Galya crawled away from the weak pool of light on the floor, found the darkness.

“Go on,” he said. “Hide. It won’t be long now. You’ll see. I have a few things to do, some things to get ready, and then we’ll begin. I promised I’d save you, and I will. Just you wait. It’ll be beautiful. You’ll thank God I found you. They all thanked God I found them. All of them. In the end.”

The door closed, and the air grew thick with darkness. Galya found a corner and wept.