Westly opened his eyes. His neck was sore, and his shoulders were numb. He coughed and spit a large wad of saliva which landed hard on the wooden floor, noticing it fell further than he expected. Attempting to turn his head, he felt a sharp pain in his neck. He looked down feeling his blood running cold. Attached to his neck was a long black chain that had been woven in and out of itself to create a braid that set firmly on his shoulders while pressing against his earlobes without choking him but leaving no room for him to turn his head. He attempted to lift his arms, finding that was also impossible. His shoulders were pinned back as if a metal plate was flush with his back. It felt as if he was laying on the edge of a roof with his feet dangling down.

He looked down at his hands. Both were tied tightly with black chains running down and bolted to the floor. His feet were bound and bolted as well. The cold press of the chain on his feet made him guess that his shoes were removed but he couldn’t fully lower his head to see. He stared forward as a last recourse to understand his surroundings. The room was dark, yet he could tell it was daytime given the heavy curtains stapled to the front of the windows did not black the light out completely. This also showed the style of the building was an A-frame as the light that climbed the hard edges of the frame shown through. He tried to focus his eyes on the far end of the room. The light did not reach all the way down the corridor, leaving Westly guessing how long it was.

His current predicament was not lost on him. He lifted his eyes up to the best of his ability to attempt to spot the hatch in the roof. As the light crawled up, painting the wall with yellow and red streaks, it showed no sign that the ceiling had a hatch in it. He held his breath, wondering if the others had this same empty feeling before they were impaled. He turned his hips, attempting to see if he could climb up the chain or possibly put enough pressure to break the chain from the bolt. Lifting his right hand, he attempted to reach the chain around his neck. The chain reached the end of its length before his wrist cleared his waistline, making it impossible to reach the chain around his neck. He felt he could break the chain if he pulled hard enough. Wrapping the chain in his hand, he pulled hard, straining the metal against itself.

The metal plate against his back started to hurt as he slowly felt the metal stab his shoulders like two long crochet hooks. He stopped, feeling the metal around his neck slowly start to tighten. Slowly he released the chain and the pain and tightness began to lessen.

“I would prefer if you didn’t do that,” came a voice from the darkness.

The voice was cold and hollow, highly pitched, almost feminine in nature, yet still bearing a very noticeably masculine rasp. As if someone with a smoker’s cough spoke after inhaling a large amount of helium. The voice was also muffled, making Westly believe they were not in the building. He looked out into the dark corridor, trying his best to make out shapes.

“Why is that?” He responded attempting speak over the heavy “cotton mouth” he had developed.

“Your shoulder blades are fixed to a gambrel hook. A triangular hook that holds flush with the body in a very pleasant way. If you move too much the hooks will pierce deep into your skin. You will likely bleed to death before your airway is crushed by the chain around your neck. I apologize for long details, but I was hoping to keep you around longer.”

The voice spoke straight with every word, not giving threat or intimidation to its tone, leaving the words sounding sincere and factual. Westly fought every urge to pull on the chain and break free, knowing there was someone else in room with him. He bit his lip, attempting to calm his heart and remain still. After a minute his heart calmed, and he spoke back out to the darkness.

“Thank you for that. I am not usually…inclined to talk with faceless people in the dark. Perhaps you could come over here.”

“All in good time,” the voice called back.

Westly peered deeper into the darkness, trying to make out the shape of the person speaking to him. The body moved oddly, almost mechanically. The slow movement landed on the wooden floors hard. Each step sounded like someone driving their heel into the floor before lifting it again and dropping it. Each drop of the foot clopped further away from Westly who, even though he was holding as tightly as humanly possible, could not fight his body’s need to pull against his bonds, slowly feeling the sharp points of the gambrel hook.

The clopping stopped almost twenty yards away from him. A soft clanging could be heard, like someone taking a tool out of a toolbox. Westly feared the worst, slowly letting out short breaths to not let the fear overtake him. Another soft click, like the pluck of a guitar echoed out. Westly began to sweat. The cold salty discharge made the metal affixed to his skin much more noticeable. Silence engulfed the room save for the soft creak of the wind against the wooden frame of the cabin. Westly stared forward, attempting to see anything in the darkness.

“Sir-”

His word were cut short as the snap of string rang out, followed by a flash of metal as an arrow shot just past Westly’s ear, embedding into the wall behind him. His natural flight instincts kicked in and he pulled heavily on the chain. Starting to feel the gambrel tips break through the skin of his shoulders, he stopped, holding his body still against every fearful instinct. Clenching his jaw as the sweat poured down his forehead. Just as he was catching his breath, another arrow flew by. This time on the left side, just missing his eye. The loud crack of the wood as the arrow impaled through the panels caused him to hold tighter. The tips layered under his skin, drenching the back of his shirt with blood and sweat. Another arrow was fired, sailing quickly between his legs close to his groin. His eye swelled up with tears as a barrage of two more arrows quickly whizzed by his neck and his stomach. He could not hold on for much longer; the natural fear of projectiles was starting to exhaust him, and he knew if it kept up, he would flinch too far and be impaled. He held his breath, slowly watching the sweat drip off his nose. The slow pluck of the string filled the room and he held his breath for more. The crack of the string rang out again and the arrow soared just above his head, striking the very top of his cranium. The motion flowed like a razor blade being quickly dragged across his head, barely breaking the skin, yet just enough to cause a line of blood to drain down his face. As the blood dripped, he clenched his teeth almost to point of cracking them, doing all he could to not scream.

The clopping returned with rhythmic beats of a person as they ambled out of the darkness. As they came in to the little light Westly had, he wished they had stayed in the darkness. The man was tall and very slim with long legs and long arms. He was dressed in a dark brown suede jacket that was quite weathered. Under the jacket he wore a polyester turtleneck that extended to his jawline. His hand were adorned with form fitting black nylon gloves that emphasized his long fingers. His boot were tan, rising up to his calf before being laced several times over. In his left hand he clutched a matte black compound bow. But what Westly feared was on his head. He wore a metal mask with a jutted chin to create the look of a reverse teardrop. Two large eye holes had been carved into the mask, layered over with reflective blue green glass that gave off a putrid green in the weak light. Atop the mask were two large deer antlers. Four prongs on each, drilled into metal nobs that had been welded to the mask. He bent his wiry elbow up to Westly’s head and slowly dabbed a wet cloth on the cut that had formed.

“You are in better control of your faculties than the other,” he said softly.

Westly closed his eyes, waiting for the man stop touching him. The man walked back into the darkness, lifting his feet in the same odd mechanical manner as previously. Just shy of the darkness Westly could see him grab something next to one of the walls. He could still feel the small bit of blood draining down the back of his shirt. The man returned to the light carrying a large white cedar rocking chair. He set the chair in front of Westly, sitting down in it, setting his bow at the base of the chair. Folding his legs, he leaned back and began to rock the chair. Slowly forward and slowly backward not saying a word. He extended his hand and pointed to Westly.

“Relax. The first hill is complete. Take a breath. I am sure you have some questions.”

Westly gritted his teeth, sending all of the anger and pain into one short phrase that he blurted out.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!”

The man quickly uncrossed his legs and slammed his heels into the floor, shaking the chains slightly as the tips again dug into Westly’s shoulder blades. The man clasped his hands around sides of the mask where his ears were.

“Please!... Please, no swearing I cannot function when people swear. I lose all civility and hospitality. So please, please don’t swear.”

Westly expected him to snatch his bow and begin shooting again. Instead he held his hands up, crossed his legs, and returned to the slow rocking of before, extending his hands again in a hospitable wave.

“I apologize, you had a question. There is nothing wrong with me. I feel this introduction is more honest as to the person than anything else. You are a survivalist and very good one at that. So many cannot seem to control themselves. The last four of my guests are prime examples, hmm…Do you have any other questions? Feel free to ask anything you would like, just please don’t swear as you do.”

His soft frail voice made everything he said sound mechanical in nature. Westly exhaled slowly and nodded.

“You killed those people in the cabin?” He said weakly.

The man nodded the mask up and down.

“Yes. Which one did you find before I brought you here?”

“Daniel Hornbrook,” Westly said reluctantly.

“Hornbrook…that is odd. I would have thought you would have been up to see Alexander Piercy.”

“Does it matter?”

“No, it is just peculiar…Hornbrook. I must say you are full surprises. Keep going, I am sure you have more.”

“You seem like smart guy. You should know I called the state police and they are investigating your handiwork as we speak. You do know they will find you?”

The man rocked a little slower, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

“You seem to have put a lot of faith in your friend Robert Estevez. Or is it your partner Holly Yan that you trust? I am sure they are quite capable, and I have no desire to besmirch their good name, but I doubt you could have found me if I hadn’t brought you here. Next question.”

Westly was growing tired of the quid pro quo but had a feeling this was part of the man’s twisted process before killing someone. He pondered over his next question.

“Why am I not dead?”

The man folded his hands and placed his elbows on the arm rest, lifting his hand to the chin of his mask.

“Quite a good question. I believe it is up to us all to survive. The reason you are not dead is that you have a will to live, do you not?”

Westly sighed and knew he had to rephrase the question.

“Why have you not killed me?”

The man clapped his hands quickly in a brief moment of delight.

“Now you are starting to understand. I have not killed you because I currently have no desire to kill you. You are not a threat to me. But there is no guarantee that won’t change in the future.”

Westly slowly exhaled, attempting to softly move his shoulders off the tips of the gambrel hook, or a least move the tips from under his skin.

“Why did you kill the others?”

“I am going to need you to be more specific. The others is too vague for me to answer honestly.”

“How many others are there?”

The man rocked forward, wagging his finger at Westly.

“Let’s not do that. One question at a time.”

Westly sighed.

“Alright, why did you kill Daniel Hornbrook and Alexander Piercy?”

“I didn’t really. Both Daniel and Alexander couldn’t withstand the first hill and as such fell prey to the gambrel, I just ended their suffering much faster. I am as disappointed as you, I really wanted to talk to them.”

Westly grimaced.

“Who hoisted them onto the gambrel and chained their hands and feet?”

The man tilted the mask to the side.

“I did. I am confused, I thought that was quite obvious.”

Westly nodded, doing his best to force a smile.

“Since you chained them up, hoisted them to a gambrel hook, and shot arrows at them, which in turn led to their death, I would say you did kill them, and not out of mercy.”

The man again uncrossed his legs, setting his feet to the floor, gripping both arms of the chair tightly in his palms. He let out small pipped laughs so quick and dainty they almost sounded like hiccups.

“Logical. But that wasn’t a question. That was a verbal attack and I don’t appreciate those. It does not build good communication. So, like with swearing. let’s stay on track with questions, okay? Unless you don’t have any more?”

Westly bit his lip, wanting more than ever to let out a barrage of profanity. He felt the sweat starting to slip slowly into the corners of his eyes.

“What do you want from me?”

The man leaned back into his chair and resumed rocking, rubbing his nylon gloves back and forth.

“Good question. You stole from me and I would like to make all debts equal.”

Westly began to regain focus, wracking his brain as to who he could have stolen from that would have done this to him.

“What did I steal from you?”

“It’s not a what.”

“Then exactly what was the…noun I took from you?”

“A woman.”

Westly sighed again, his frustration with the point by point questions while he fought the pain of the prongs in his back was become more difficult to mask.

“What is the woman’s name?”

“Erin.”

Westly’s blood boiled. He fought the reaction to pull on the chain, breathing slowly through his nose. Even though the man in the chair showed no outward signs of emotion, Westly knew he had shown his hand. The man leaned forward.

“Do you have any more questions?”

“I’m done,” Westly said bitterly through his teeth.

The man nodded, standing up, and clutching the compound bow in his hand.

“As you wish. I guess we will resume your journey up the hill of self-control.”

“Wait! I have more,” Westly said, trying to mask his fear.

The man shook his head.

“Once you end the question portion of our time, there is no going back. We must continue forward.”

He began his clopping back to the far end of the cabin before turning back to Westly.

“I am surprised you didn’t ask my name.”

“It wasn’t important,” Westly said coldly.

The man gripped the bow tightly.

“In any case, polite company should have something to call each other. I know your name is Westly. You may call me the Elk King.”