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For All The Wrong Reasons	By : darqstar Category: G through L > House of 1000 Corpses Views: 4942 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own House of 1000 Corpses, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
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, implied necrophilia, implied rape.

Chapter Nine

On The Edge Of Survival

I never would have believed it the first time, but I discovered there were advantages to the box. Not when I had to be inside it � that was a terror I never got used to, I just learned to accept it. The advantages came once I was removed from the box, because Otis would often not even bother to tie me up. This was good for my arms and legs, of course - but it also allowed me a certain bit of freedom.

Life fell into a strange pattern for a while. He would let me out of the box, often just throwing open the lid and pulling me out like I was a rag doll. Sometimes his force was immediate and he would rape me, beat me, or yell at me. Sometimes he'd let me out and then just walk away. Sometimes he even took me to the bathroom right after letting me out. I was always told I� d get five minutes in the bathroom; I suspect he cut that time short. A couple of times, I took some aspirin - but someone must have realized I was doing that, because the bottle of aspirin disappeared.

When I was lucky enough to get a trip to the bathroom, I would drink water, use the toilet, and wash my wounds as best I could. I never tried to take a shower or a bath - not enough time. When Otis decided I was finished, he would walk right in and grab me in the middle of whatever I happened to be doing, and then take me back to his room. Sometimes he'd make me get back into the box, but frequently he would disappear into his studio, or leave the room completely, to do whatever he did when he wasn't in his room.

In the beginning, I never left the room; I was afraid if he caught me it would be the end of me. I would lie on the bed, wondering if I'd be lucky enough to get some food that day. The second time he removed me from the box, I was so hungry that I begged him for food. He ranted, raved, and went ballistic, telling me how fat I was, before punching me in the stomach. Then he left the room quickly and returned a few minutes later, with half an apple, and a few pieces of what looked like dried leather. He dumped them on the bed, sneered at me and then disappeared into his studio. I didn't see him for hours.

I pounced on the apple and ate it first; seeds, core, and all. I stared at the leathery-looking things, eventually picking one up and sniffing it. It smelled like dried meat. Since I had seen cows outside when Rufus brought me here, I was optimistic it was beef jerky, and ate two pieces. The third piece, I slipped into my box for later. If it wasn't beef jerky, I don't want to know or guess what it was.

I was always hopeful that he'd remember to feed me after that. I shouldn't have been. I was hopeful he would respond positively when I asked him for food. I shouldn't have been. Otis was a time bomb; I never knew how he'd react to anything. He might bring me food. or he might slap me around instead. Otis never worried much about eating himself, so it never occurred to him that others might need to eat.

Sometimes, when he took me out of the box, he'd talk to me. Maybe I should say, he talked at me. He would rant and rave, telling me all sorts of strange things - most of which made no sense - but always sounded as if I was a little less stupid, I'd understand what he was saying. It was frustrating, and there were times when I thought there really was something wrong with me, or I'd be able to understand.

He brought other people up to the room. I was usually in my box when this happened, and I would lie there in the dark, trying to pretend I wasn't hearing screams for mercy, or muffled cries of fear from someone gagged and tortured. When I was let out of the box, I would avoid looking at the corpses on the bed. If I could, I'd sit on the floor so I wouldn't have to touch them. I tried to ignore it when he used them for sex. If one made it through the night, I tried to ignore it when they stared at me, as if they thought I could help them. I was just as much a victim as they were - what could I do?

Sometimes I felt as though Otis would forget about me, or believe that I was more of an inconvenience than something to entertain. I often believed his thoughts were, �girl in a coffin-box, under the bed. Let her out once in awhile, but don't worry about her.� Sometimes days would go by when he would forget to let me out. I could always hear him moving around. On those long days, I feared he had forgotten me completely, and that I'd die in the box. Then, other times, he'd drag me out so he could rape me, abuse me, and lecture me; as if I were a burden he was forced to deal with - a tiresome, disobedient pet that he had to discipline.

What bothered me most was not knowing, which was worse - being abused, or being neglected. Part of me believes it was being neglected. There were times when he'd let me out of the box after having left me there for over a day, and I almost felt happy to see him. I'd need to remind myself that he was insane and could kill me at any moment - for no other reason than: I existed. But, there were still moments when being yelled at, was much more tolerable than being ignored.

It was during one of his stages of ignoring me when I started leaving the room. At first, it was only to use the bathroom, and I was careful to do it only when he had left the room. I'd hurry down the hall with my bad knee, do what I had to do, drink a lot of water, and scurry clumsily back to the room.

One time when I returned he was already back in the room, banging the girl he'd killed the night before. He didn't even stop when I entered the room. When he finally finished, he didn�t even look my way; got up, got dressed, and left the room. He returned two hours later, raped me, and then disappeared back into his studio.

After that, I was bolder. I'd slip out of his room when he was working in his studio. Then, I began slipping out when he was just sitting at the desk writing furiously, or even going-to-town on his latest dead-girlfriend. At first, I only went to the bathroom and came right back. Then one day, Baby caught me in the hallway.

�Oh, it's you! C'mon to my room.� She grabbed me by the arm and started pulling me.

�Otis,� I said, beginning to panic. �I can't-�

�Don't be silly! He won't mind. C'mon!�

She acted like I was Otis's girlfriend, and she was the baby sister who wanted to play. I was afraid if I refused her, she'd get mean. So I went along, hoping she was right about Otis not minding.

She took me into her room and sat me down on the bed. For the next hour or so, she treated me like a life-sized doll, or sometimes a new playmate. She put gobs of makeup on my face and then had me do the same to hers. My hair, she wouldn't touch. �It's so nasty! You should take a shower!� I thought about telling her that Otis wasn't really giving me much time to shower, but thought better of it. I did brush her hair and put it in a French braid - about the only hair style I knew how to do. She giggled over it and said I did a good job, but that it really didn�t suit her. I agreed, it really wasn't her style. She tried on various outfits strewn about the place and asked for my opinion on them. She never suggested I try on anything, and I knew why; letting me get dressed might make me think I was human again. As long as I was naked, I wasn't one of �them.�

If it wasn't for the stench of a rotting corpse lying in the corner of the room, or that I was naked, bruised, and covered with blood, sweat, and grime; we might have looked like ordinary girlfriends spending an afternoon together.

I made sure to stay on Baby's good side. I agreed with everything she said, and greeted every new suggestion and idea she had for entertainment with as much enthusiasm as possible.

When my stomach growled, she left the room and returned a few minutes later, with a couple of cans of root-beer, and a bowl of pretzels. It took my entire resolve not to start grabbing handfuls of the pretzels and shoving them in my face.

She told me she wanted to be an actress, and I told her that she was pretty enough to be one. That�s no lie either; Baby was beautiful. I think she knew she was beautiful too, but she liked to hear it as well. �Do you really think so?�

�Yes,� I said, as I took a couple of pretzels from the bowl and put them in my mouth. �You're prettier than most of the movie stars I've seen. You're prettier than that Farrah Fawcett woman, on Charlie's Angels.�

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree when I said that. �Mama says I've always looked like an angel! I should have gotten that part, not her. I'll bet she only got it because her husband is worth six-million bucks!�

I didn't point out to her that before she could become an actress, she might have to leave Texas, possibly take acting-lessons, and maybe cut back on all this random kidnapping-and-killing that she and her family did. I just nodded and said, �I'll bet you'd be just as good in the part as she is, if not better.�

This really pleased her and she pushed the half-eaten bowl of pretzels over to me. �You can finish them if you want.�

That made me realize, Baby was more aware than she let on. She knew that I was half-starved, she knew what her family was doing, and she knew what Otis, in particular, was doing to me. I wondered, at times, if Baby was maybe mentally retarded, but I was starting to see that she wasn't. She came across like, �I'm such an innocent�, but it was all a game; she liked being the pampered baby of the family, so she acted as if she was still a child.

I stayed in her room with her until her Mama called for her. She showed me out of the room, and suggested that we get together again. The whole scenario was tinged with a feeling of unreality. I was kidnapped and being held prisoner in this house, and yet Baby was treating me like I was a guest - or at the least, someone here of my own free will.

I returned to Otis's room. He was writing in one of his notebooks, and didn't seem to even notice I'd left or returned.

After that, I got bolder when I was out of the box. I started sneaking downstairs and, when I could, pilfered food. I never found enough to feel full, but I could sneak bits here and there. And, if I wasn't too proud, and I never was, I could usually sneak food from one of the dogs' dishes. Dry dog-food doesn't taste nearly as bad as you might think, and often the family threw table-scraps in with the food.

I was very careful when I looked for food, because I was terrified of what might happen if I was caught; fortunately, I never was. I was often seen downstairs by family members, and, most of the time, they acted as if I wasn�t really there, or as if I were a stray dog Otis might have taken in. Like having a bruised-up, dirty, naked woman sneaking about the house was perfectly normal. On occasion, someone would acknowledge me, and when they did, it was usually rather weird.

Mama would sometimes talk to me, telling me about the �old days� when she was quite-the-thing in these parts. When she did talk to me, she'd offer me cigarettes (which I always declined), or a cup of tea (which I'd accept.) Once, she even gave me a freshly-baked blueberry-muffin. It took everything I had to eat it slowly. She gave me a glass of milk to go with it. That was the best day I'd had since I'd been brought there. It was the first time, in a long time, that I'd felt something close to human.

Grandpa was another family member who would sometimes talk to me when he saw me slinking around the house. He'd tell me jokes, and, if I was close enough, feel me up. I learned to laugh at his jokes, even though I didn't find them funny, and I would just blank out the groping until he tired of it. I'd been raped by Otis so many times that Grandpa's fumbling was almost comical. He never did it for long, and usually ended by griping about being old and unable to �get the rooster to crow.� I wasn't sure if that meant he couldn't get it up, or he couldn't get it off, and I didn't want to ask.

One time, Tiny found me rummaging under the sofa, looking for dropped popcorn or other snack-foods. When I heard him come in, I quickly moved and tried to look as if I were just sitting on the floor, next to the sofa. No-one else was in the room. Tiny sat down on the sofa and turned on the TV. He flicked through the stations until he found one on UHF that was playing �Casper the Friendly Ghost�. I sat there, wondering if I should scurry back to Otis's room. Then, Tiny reached down, and started stroking my hair. I was terrified at first, wondering what he'd do next but I realized that he wasn't trying to hurt me, he was just petting me, like he might pet a cat or a dog. I didn't want to stop him, and strangely enough, it was sort of comforting; so I just sat there, letting him pet my greasy, filthy hair, and scratching around my ears.

When the show ended, he gave my head one last pat, then rose from the sofa and wandered off. I sat by the couch for a few more minutes, before I made my way back to Otis's room.

I never tried to escape, because I knew it was useless. The house was miles from nowhere, and my knee never did heal enough so that I could walk on it without pain. Also - with Otis's regular beatings, there was always something aching on my body. I knew that if I tried to escape, I would be caught, no question about it. And, I knew that, once caught, I would die.

I never tried to arm myself, even though I always saw an available weapon. I didn't know how to use a gun, or a knife like all of these people did. I was one lone person against six: even if I managed to kill one person, I'd have five others ready to gut me.

Sometimes, rather than just rape me, or lecture me, Otis would tell me how useless I was. More than that, he'd make me agree with him and repeat what he had to say.

�You're the dumbest fucking slut that ever lived,� he'd say.

�Yes.�

�Yes what?� He'd look at me, his head tipped ever so slightly, no trace of a smile, just a faint gleam in his eyes.

�Yes, I am the dumbest fucking slut that ever lived.�

He'd nod and start on something else about me. �You're the ugliest bitch I've ever seen.�

�I'm the ugliest bitch you've ever seen.�

�Louder, bitch, say it like you mean it.�

�I'M THE UGLIEST BITCH YOU'VE EVER SEEN!�

�You're lucky I haven't killed you.�

�I'm so lucky you haven't killed me.�

At first, it was like having an annoying sibling. I grew up as an only child, but I did have older cousins who would play these types of games, trying to get me to say terrible things about myself. I wondered if Otis may never have outgrown that immature stage, but then I realized what he was doing was deeper than any kid�s game. He was tearing me down. If he got me to say all these negative things about myself enough, chances were fair I would start to believe it. I did start to believe that I was useless. I was too stupid to understand what he was saying to me; I was too ugly for him to look at for any length of time; that's why he had to lock me in the box. Clearly, I was a slut too; otherwise, why would he rape me so often? Surely, even if I didn't realize it, I was sending out signals that I needed to be sexually abused, right? I didn't even realize it, but I was trying to adapt to my strange, new life, I was seeking reasons to justify it, blaming myself for everything. If it was my fault, then I had some control, right?

One day, after letting me out of the box to use the bathroom, when I returned he locked me back in it right away, which was a bit unusual. I heard him moving around; then, I knew he left, because I heard the opening and closing of the door. The night before, he'd been pretty rough on me; raping me, hitting me, and yelling at me. I must have been more tired by this than I thought, because I fell asleep almost right away, into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next thing I knew, Otis was opening the box and hauling me out by the arm. He pulled me to my feet and looked me over. �You fuckin' stink,� he said. �I could smell you when I walked in the room, even in your box, you still stink to high-fuckin'-hell!�

I was mortified. If he could smell me over the smell of death that lingered in this room, then I must be pretty putrid. Tiny had been up earlier and had removed the corpses that had been in the room; but still, with all the death this room had seen and held, the smell was always there. �I'm sorry,� I said, keeping my eyes downcast.

�Sorry? What-the-fuck-good is sorry gonna do?� He grabbed me by the arm and started dragging me out of the room. I started noticing I wasn't the only one who was a bit fragrant this evening. He reeked of alcohol, more than he usually did. Otis always did a fair bit of drinking, but until tonight, I'd never really seen him drunk. He almost staggered as he pulled me down the hall and into the bathroom.

�Do you know what that is?� He pointed to the tub.

�A bathtub and, um, a shower,� I answered.

He nodded. �Do you know how to use one, you smelly, stupid, ugly, stinky-assed fucking Bitch?� When I nodded, he nodded as well. �Good. Use it. When you're done, get your ass back into my room.� He didn't wait for me to answer, but walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

This was my first chance to take a shower since I'd gotten here. I really wish I could have enjoyed it, but I was terrified that I�d take too long and Otis would come looking for me; so I tried to rush through it, while getting as clean as possible. There was a bottle of shampoo on the floor near the tub so I used that on my hair. I didn't have a washcloth, so I used soap and my hands to scrub off the dirt, blood, and semen from my skin.

I got as clean as possible in the shortest amount of time, and got out of the shower. Otis hadn't left me a towel, and I wasn't going to use any of the ones hanging up in there, and risk pissing someone off. So, I wiped myself off with my hands, and ran my fingers through my hair. I couldn't really do much with the hair; it was so tangled from weeks without a comb that nothing would untangle it. When I was as presentable as I knew I was going to get, I hurried back to Otis's room, terrified, and curious about what he had in store for me now.
End of Chapter Nine

Chapter ten teaser What could Otis be planning for this girl now? And are we ever going to find out what's carved into her thigh? One of those questions will be answered in the next chapter. No, they won't be playing chess.

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Author's Notes: Thanks again to everyone who has taken the time to read this and especially those who have taken the time to leave comments. Eggy, I know I forgot to mention you by name before, so I'll correct that oversight now. Thank you!
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For All The Wrong Reasons

On The Edge Of Survival