Alabama, USA

May 13, 1973

My name is Jane Doe. I do not know what happened to me. I have vague memories of going to bed one night in what I think was my bedroom. I remember that it was dark in the room. The bed I was sleeping in was a California king. It's funny that I'd remember something like that but not my name. It was a four-poster bed, but I can’t be sure. There were soft silk sheets on the bed. I don't remember the colour. I know no blanket was on the bed, just a sheet and a ceiling fan above me. 

There was a painting on the wall at the foot of the bed. It was a woman climbing a mountain. The sun was high in the sky, so I think the painting had blues, greens, and greys. There was a dresser with three framed photographs and a natural wood nightstand beside the bed. It is all very vague. Anything from before I woke up in the basement is hard to recall. 

When I woke, I felt dizzy and disoriented. I rubbed my eyes with my hands and looked around me. I didn't know where I was. I don't think I had forgotten who I was at this point. Because I started to become afraid, I knew this wasn't my home. This basement was not where I belonged.

I noticed a lot of things about that cellar. There was only one light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were dark; they were stone or brick. They were not wood. The cellar was about 12 feet high, and I couldn’t reach the light hanging from the ceiling.

There was a tiny window high up on the wall, about 10 feet up. It was boarded up, but it let some sound through. I heard children playing, a bicycle bell, and cars. It was quiet for hours at a time; I suppose this was daytime, and people were at work and kids at school. Twice a day, though it was hard to know what a day was without any natural light, I'd hear the cars. It sounded like a family neighbourhood.

The room had a heavy metal door, like the kind you see in prisons on TV. I tried a thousand times to open the door. I pushed it, kicked it, slammed my whole body into the door. I dug my nails bloody, looking for a way to unhinge the door. There was a hole in the middle of the door at about eye level. That's where he put my food. 

The floor was concrete. Against one wall, there was a metal cot with a thin mattress and a green wool blanket. 

I remember the stench. At first, it was mildew. But the longer I was there, it began to stink of urine and faeces. He didn't let me out to use the toilet. He didn't let me out for anything. Ever. Eventually, I didn't smell anything anymore; I guess I got used to it.

I never saw him, only heard him. He would come to that big metal door thrice daily to bring me food and water. I saw his hands when he gave me food. They were enormous hands. They had callouses on their fingers and short, chewed fingernails. He was missing a finger on his left hand and his pinky. Usually, he gave food with his right hand. But one time, he didn't, and that's when I saw the missing finger. 

His voice. It haunts me. It was soft and gentle but profound. Almost melodic in the way he spoke. He was clearly from Alabama; I could hear it in his accent. He needed to sound better educated. He used a lot of slang, like "ain't" and "yall". He would ask me, "Geeatyet", which is southern for "Have you eaten yet." He was always polite; he would speak nicely to me, "Now Miss Lady, would you please stop all that screaming, ain't no one can hear you down here."

A couple of times when he would come down to give me dinner, instead of food, the barrel of a gun would come through that window. I don't know how he managed to shoot me, but he did. I guess it was a tranquillizer dart because when I woke up, my cell was cleaned up, and I was cleaned up. I also had needle marks on my arm. I don’t know what he was injecting me with. But I never got dehydrated, so maybe it was fluids or something. 

See, I refused to eat or drink anything. I didn’t know what he was putting in it and didn’t want to take any chances.  I think he was a good cook; the meals he brought me always looked nice. Cornbread and fried chicken, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Everything always looked fresh, and the plates were clean. The food was brought on round white plates about 6 inches in diameter. On the bottom of them was a picture of an oven and a dishwasher to let you know it was safe to put them in there. He never gave me silverware.

I don’t know how long I was there. I lost count after he brought me about 150 meals.  

One day, after he had brought me lunch, I heard a noise upstairs that I hadn’t heard before. It sounded like there were more people in the house. He never seemed to get visitors. I could hear the sound of things being shoved around and crashing. I heard the voices of men shouting. Then I listened to the word “police.” My heart dropped. 

I started screaming, “Help, help, I’m down here.” I heard someone at the door again. A man’s voice said, “Hello?” It was a different voice. I don’t think I was making any sense; I was screaming for help, help, help! I heard him speaking but couldn’t tell what he was saying. 

That’s when the door flew open, and I saw a black guy in body armour and a helmet. He walked over, picked me up, and said, “It's okay; you’re safe now.”
 
Sincerely,

Jane Doe