• 1-Deliverance
• 2-Decending Into Hell
• 3-Present And Past
• 4-Baby's Choice
• 5-We're Going To Play A Game
• 6-Risky Business
• 7-Busted
• 8-Chapter 8: The Black Box
• 9-On The Edge Of Survival
• 10-I'm The One That You Wanted
• 11-Rebirth In Blood
• 12-The downward Spiral Begins
• 13-Party Time
• 14-One Sharp Pain, Then Nothing.
• 15-Seeds of Memory (Epilogue)

LEGAL DISCLAIMER: I do not in any way own any part of the movies House of 1000 Corpses or The Devil's Rejects. I do not own most of these characters. They are the property of Rob Zombie, Liongate films, and whoever else holds a commercial or property license over them. This is fan fiction, intended for the sole purpose of entertainment. No one has been paid to write or host this story. No one is paid or will have to pay to read it.

THE STORY ITSELF DISCLAIMER: This story is rated NC-17, for disturbing images and excessive violence as much if not more than sexual contents. If stories involving murder, rape, extreme violence, cannibalism, humiliation, and so on, are not your cup of tea, DO NOT READ IT. If you are under the age of 18 don't read it either.

Specific Chapter Warning: Violence, language, nothing too gruesome. (Saving that for the next chapter.)

I know I lost a lot of blood labeling myself to Otis's satisfaction and top of that, infection set in as well. I probably should have died after that, so I guess it's a weird sort-of miracle I lived. I don't know how long it took me to recover, because I wasn't grounded in reality at that time. I remember being weak, I remember feeling like I was on fire, or else I was freezing cold. I remember strange things that I know now didn't happen, they were most likely hallucinations Since no one would ever bother to explain anything to me, I was left to figure it out myself, what was real and what were fever dreams.

I think Otis was really annoyed by my failure to instantly recover from carving upon my flesh and I'd also bet he toyed at times with just killing me, but he didn't. I believe that I had become part of a game he was playing, a game he wasn't tired of yet, which meant he was willing to make a minimal effort to assist in my survival.

I have vague memories of being shoved in a bathtub full of cold water, probably when I was running a fever. I remember being fed water and soup too. Not always by him though, in fact I don't think he ever helped me with that. I remember Mama and even Baby helping me instead. Clearer memories are painful ones of having whiskey poured on my wounds. I remember begging and crying a few times when I saw Otis coming near me with the bottle. He was never affected by my tears, he just did what he had to. He'd pour the booze on my injury, wipe it off, and sometimes bandage it. “Oh, shut up, whore, it ain't that bad.”

Despite all this home nursing being done to me, I never made the mistake of thinking Otis cared about me. Otis was still Otis, even if he was making some simple attempts to keep me alive. He didn't beat me up while I was sick, but I know he had sex with me at least once. I might have even instigated it, but I don't think so. I know I didn't fight him, but I doubt I was very responsive. Maybe he liked that way, maybe I reminded him of someone who had only recently died and was still warm. His own, personal, living-dead girl.

I remember being kept either his bed, or in my box, or lying on the floor. When I was in my box, I think Otis was beating, raping, and killing other girls. I know there were times where he had me lie on the floor, because he needed the bed for those activities, so I figured he did the same while I was in my box. I was too sick to care.

Eventually though, I recovered, but I wasn't the same. I hadn't been in wonderful shape to start with, the cutting, the bleeding, the infection drained most of what was left out of me. Getting downstairs became a hugely difficult task, one that required me to rest several times. This made it harder to get food, which I needed more than ever. I was reduced to begging Otis, which was a carried about a 40% success rate. Failure sometimes led to being yelled at, whacked, or cut. Even though no one could even think of me as “fat” anymore, he still felt I (along with the rest of the human race) spent way too much time eating. I think the man was able to draw energy from the air around him, or from other people, like some type of mental vampire. Yeah, it certainly wouldn't have hurt him to put on 10-20 pounds, but I really believe the way he ate, he should have starved to death. I remember during one of his lectures to me about how great he was and how wrong the rest of the world was, he had said that he was different, he was more human than human. The more time I spent with him, the more I believed that. Maybe that gave him the right to be the murderous person he was? Maybe he really was superior to the rest of us humans and therefore, under no obligation to treat us any better than someone might treat an animal. Yes, you might argue that most animals were treated better than I or others who walked into this trap were treated, but not all animals had a much better life than we had.

Much to my surprise, I did gain an ally in part, and it was Tiny. Once when he came into Otis's room to pick up a couple bodies that Otis had “enjoyed and destroyed,” he saw me begging for food. Even though he couldn't hear, he must have figure out from my gestures what I was asking for.

“For fuck's sake, is that all you fucking do is eat?” Otis snapped. He was writing in one of his notebooks. Normally, I tried my hardest not to ask him for anything if he was busy, but he'd been writing in his notebook for over an hour, showing no sign of stopping and I hadn't eaten in about two days, my guts were starting to feel like they were twisting upon themselves. “Leave me alone, bitch!” I'd been sitting on the floor to the side and behind him when I asked. Without even looking he reached behind him, smacking me in the jaw. For Otis, it was really a light tap, but lately, even the mildest of hits felt bone jarring lately.

Tiny grabbed one of the bodies, hefted it over his shoulder, and left the room. I didn't even think twice about it, although there was no reason why he couldn't have grabbed both of the bodies. I thought about sneaking down to the bathroom and getting water, but I'd already done that trick last night and it wasn't going to work. I crawled over to the pile of dirty clothing Otis had started acquiring lately and curled up on that.

A few minutes later, Tiny came in for the second body. Otis was still writing. I noticed Tiny wasn't taking a direct path to the body, but going around the room, so he'd have to pass me. When he did, he dropped something into the pile of dirty clothing, where Otis wouldn't be able to hear it land. He never even looked at me, just continued over to the second body. I watched as he scooped up the second body and carried it out of the room, not even looking at me. I was almost ready to believe what he'd dropped had been a figment of my imagination, until I reached to where the item had fallen and felt something there. I pulled it over to take a look, it was a brown paper bag. I didn't know why Tiny had brought me a paper bag and I wasn't sure what I'd find inside, but I slowly opened it.

Inside was a scooter pie, a box of raisins, a package of strawberry pop tarts, and can of soda called “Big Red.” Okay, it wasn't going to win any awards for being a balanced meal, but I jumped on it. After that, whenever he took bodies from the room, Tiny would usually bring me something to eat. Had he not done that, taken pity on me like that, I would surely have starved.

There were times when I wondered why fate, God, or whoever is in charge of destiny was keeping me alive. I served no real purpose; I certainly wasn't able to change Otis or anyone else in the family and make them better people. All I was living for was for just another day. I have to wonder now, why those days were so important to me. I seriously believed I was going to end up dead, why did I keep trying to hang on? What was this new life offering me that was worth staying alive for? The occasional mind blowing, multi orgasmic sex?

Being too thin and too weak wasn't the only things different about me. There were a couple times when I'd catch my reflection in the mirror in the bathroom, and I couldn't believe who I had become, that I'd been born out of a normal person who had lived a normal, relatively happy life. My eyes were sunk in my head, my lips were a bluish color all the time. Bruises took so long to heal that I ended up with new bruises on top of the old ones, so parts of me were always a blackish color. My knee never healed right and was always a yellowish-green color. Wrapping it up and tying it off was the only way to keep it from swelling up like a balloon. My nose had been broken so many times, that I had perpetual black eyes. I'd lost a few teeth and had a cheekbone fractured more than once. I had regular bloody noses too.

My “label” though, healed up pretty good. Considering it was the only injury I had that had been taken care of at all, that wasn't too surprising.

The fantastic sex didn't change anything really, it just added another element to our relationship and maybe made me a little easier to control. I still spent a lot of time in my box, once I was healed. Otis still yelled or lectured me at times. He still beat me, he still would rape me. Sometimes though, instead of raping me, he'd start with the kissing the caressing, and it would become mutual sex instead. I never instigated it, because I was terrified of what would happen to me if he wasn't in the “right mood.” But if he started it, I enthusiastically joined in. I suppose there are people out there who would lose all respect for me, if they knew how often I craved the sex instead of the rape. Surely someone of decent moral fiber should never find anything pleasant in the touch of a sadistic, murderous madman like Otis but that no longer mattered to me at all. When things were good, and he was trying to make me tremble with desire rather than fear, I didn't care who I was with. For awhile, I wasn't just the poor, pathetic, future murder victim, I wasn't someone who only knew she was alive by the pain and fear, I was someone who was feeling good, both physically and mentally. We did things to each other I never would have dreamed of doing with Danny, but this was entirely different.

After the carving, when I started recovering, at least enough so I was coherent, Otis stopped hiding me as much when he played his sick little murder games. Before then, most of the time he was with his victims, I was hidden in the box. I don't think any of these girls even knew I was right underneath them, sleeping or trying to pretend I didn't hear their struggles. After I was labeled as Otis's Whore, Otis didn't worry as much about if I saw or not. In fact, I think he deliberately wanted me to see.

He'd bring up his victims, mostly females. He'd beat them, rape them, carve them up, and kill them. Sometimes it was pretty quick, other times he made a game out of it. He'd bring two women up and make them perform every sexual act he could think of, both with each other and him, making them think their “reward” for a good job would be their lives. They never did a good enough job to win their lives, of course. Sometimes he'd yell at them, claiming he didn't want to bring them here, but he had to, because he had to try to show them the truth. Or, that he had brought them here for a great purpose, instead of just to kill them. That he was going to teach them the “way and the truth.” There were times that turned into a horrible game too, as he would give them the impression that if they just could understand him, they'd be saved. The difference though, was in the cases of trying to make them “understand the truth,” Otis wasn't playing this game deliberately. I really believe that he was always looking for someone who would truly understand him, beside his family. The problem being, of course, that no one could understand him. And, being tied up, attacked, and raped didn't exactly make for a receptive audience.

When his victims could see me, they would always cry out to me for help. “Please, help me! please, go get help!”

Otis would laugh. “She ain't gonna help you, bitch! She's mine all the way, and she knows better! Hey, Whore, show 'em who you are!”

I'd turn so they could read my name on my thigh. Sometimes this would shut them up as it would dawn on them that I wasn't likely to be any type of help to them. Other times, they'd still beg. “Please, get help! You're not tied up, stop him! How can you let him do this to me?” That was the worst, because I always felt in some ways they were right. What type of person was I to witness this and do nothing? Why didn't I at least try to help? Sure, I would have likely died, but again, what purpose was I serving by being alive? Wouldn't it redeem me somewhat, to at least try to save someone?

I'd try to get out of there when this was happening. If I could leave the room I would. If I couldn't make it downstairs, I'd hide in the bathroom or even just sit in the hall. If I couldn't escape from the room, I'd try to slip behind the curtain into the studio, or crawl into my box.

Otis didn't mess with guys as much, at least not in the same way. If he brought a guy to his room it was most likely because he was hoping this guy would provide him with inspiration for his art. Unfortunately, these guys weren't able to provide any inspiration, which didn't make Otis happy, so he'd end up beating on them, and then messing with them. He might try to see if he could force some inspiration to come to him, by hanging this poor soul in his studio and just playing around. Like throwing knives at them, scalping them, or maybe even drilling a hole or two in their heads with the same drill used to make the air hole in my coffin-box. But, mostly, Otis left the boys to Mama and Baby.

A restlessness began to take Otis over. It was hard to see with him, what with him being the person he was, but I guess I'd been his whore and in a sense, his companion long enough that I could tell he was more edgy than usual. His temper flared up easier with me. Even when he was trying to have sex with me, not just rape me, he would get impatient at times, his attitude would shift, and it would turn into something brutal. Times when he'd beat me took on an interesting twist as he started cutting me. Never bad, never like my thigh had been, but he would drag one of his razors or knives down my skin, watching as the little red beads of blood would ooze up. “Yeah, that's it,” he'd murmur. “Blood is forever.”

He started going out at night too. At first I just thought he was leaving the room and going elsewhere in the house, but I noticed when he returned he would stink of cigarette smoke. Mama smoked, and Baby had the occasional cigarette, but those were not enough to explain the strong scent that clung to him upon returning late at night. He was going someplace where smokers gathered, I guessed it was most likely a bar.

Sometimes he'd lock me in my box before he left, sometimes he didn't. If he didn't, and I got tired, I'd usually crawl into my box, which wasn't as bad as you might think when the door was open. I didn't want to risk falling asleep on the bed, because it might annoy Otis. Sometimes he'd come in, fall on the bed and go to sleep. Other times, he'd drag me out and use me one way or another.

One night after he'd gone out, I was surprised when I was woken up by Baby. “C'mon, get up, get up,” she said, kicking the end of the box.

I crawled out and looked up at her. “What's up?”

“Otis is bringin' someone up,” she explained. “He don't want you naked and all such.” As I was slowly trying to rise to my feet, she went over to Otis' closet and rummaged through until she found an almost threadbare brown and tan flannel shirt. “Put this on,” she ordered me, tossing it over.

I stared at it for a bit, almost not recognizing what it was and what I should do with it. I hadn't worn clothing since Otis had ripped off the t-shirt and jeans I'd been wearing when Rufus brought me here. The only coverings I wore on a regular basis, was the denim brace Otis had made for my knee and another makeshift bandage on my ankle from another injury inflicted on me. I'd worn a bandage when I'd labeled myself, but since that had healed up enough, Otis didn't want me to keep it covered.

“What, are you stupid?” Baby snapped, rolling her eyes in disgust. “Put on the shirt. It'll cover enough of you. Hurry.”

I slipped the shirt on, fumbling with the buttons. Since that one day Baby and I had played dress up in her room, I'd run into her a few times and I learned she could switch moods just as fast as Otis could, so I was cautious around her. Maybe even more so than I was with Otis. Baby was so used to acting and being the spoiled baby, I knew if I pissed her off too much, she'd kill me. Maybe I was serving some purpose to Otis, but if Baby got pissed off at me and wanted me dead, she'd do it and worry about the consequences later.

Once she had attacked me because I'd been in the bathroom when she wanted to use it. I always tried my best to be quick in the bathroom so I wouldn't interfere with anyone, but sometimes it couldn't be avoided. When she yelled in for me to hurry up, I rushed to finished up what I was doing as fast as possible and hurried out. I couldn't have kept her waiting even a full minute.

“Who the fuck you think you are, bitch?” she snapped, kicking me as I tried to pass. “What fucking dumb little bitch hogs up the bathroom all fucking day when real fucking people need to use it? Huh? What the fuck is your fucking problem?”

“I'm sorry,” I said, gasping, because her foot had managed to connect onto my bad knee, of course.

“Oh, fat fucking good that does.” She kicked me again, and started smacking me as well. She even pulled out a knife and cut my arm. I tried to get away, but that only pissed her off more and she jumped on me, kicking and punching me, and we both fell to the floor.

After a bit of this, the door to Mama's room opened and Mama came out. “Baby girl, what are you doing?” she asked.

“Showing this bitch who's boss,” Baby said. “She was in the fucking bathroom when I needed it. Who the fuck she think she is?”

“Well, that wasn't very polite of her and I'm sure she's very sorry,” Mama said, her voice gentle but with a hint of admonishment in it, “but Baby, you know Otis doesn't like it when you kill his playthings. And she's not really much of a challenge to you right now, is she? Is this really quite fair?”

Baby rolled off me, stood up and looked down at me. I was curled up, blood pouring out of my nose, mouth, and from the cuts on my arms. My knee was throbbing and the rest of me felt as if I'd been put through a meat grinder. “Hm... you're right Mama, she's not really a challenge.” She gave me one last kick. “That'll teach you to hog up the bathroom, fucking bitch!” Without missing a beat, she stepped over my body and hugged her mother. “I love you Mama!”

“I love you too, my Angel Baby.” Mama had hugged her back, as if this was some special “women of the family” bonding moments. They walked off together, leaving me to crawl back to Otis's room.

The very next day, Baby bounced into Otis' room while Otis was out. She tossed me an orange and a can of Big Red soda, then sat down next to me. She pulled one of those Hollywood Scandal sheets out of her back pocket and opened it up so both of us could read from it. She read articles to me and made comments about the various stars the articles talked about. Meanwhile, I could barely see out of my swollen, black, eyes, and cuts in my arms were still oozing blood, all because of her. Yet she acted as if we were old pals.

If Baby did want to kill me, even if Otis was unhappy about it, he'd forgive her. While there were times when Baby's immature attitude got on Otis's nerves and the nerves of most of the rest of the family, they also loved her, adored her, and couldn't stay mad at her. Baby was the baby and allowed to do whatever she wanted.

I got a couple of the buttons on the shirt fastened, trying my best to hurry, but of course, having trouble. It's never easy to go fast when someone is watching you. Making it worse lately was my fine motor skills were starting to lack. As I struggled, I started hearing noise from downstairs. A man was singing, drunk and off key. I heard what sounded like another guy snickering occasionally Then, I heard what sounded like Grandpa yelling, “Otis, you'd better be teaching these boys how to play the shut the fuck up game, or I'm gonna come out and kick their asses!”

“Oh yeah? How 'bout you go fucking first, you old fuck!” The voice sounded like Otis.

Baby looked me over, none too pleased with my efforts. “Gesh, okay, you'll do. Too bad your hair sucks.” She bounced from the room as if heading off to a party, leaving me to wonder what exactly was up.

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who's reading this and taking the time to comment. I really appreciate it.