Five Barrels In A Cellar

An image with stairs leading down on the left and five stacked barrels on the right.
Photo by Javier Balseiro on Unsplash

Tamsin had just turned fifteen when she discovered the cellar in the woods, purely by accident. It was on a day she had veered off the beaten path, and the strange elevation caught her attention.

Her sharp eyes easily found the concealed door. She struggled to open it, and while climbing down the steep steps on the inside of the steel door, she fully expected to find it to be a war bunker. Using the light on her mobile phone, she gasped when she saw rows and rows of bottles.

Bottles and barrels.

Wine.

Who in the world had built a wine cellar in the middle of the woods? And why did the dates run only up to 1944? Did the cellar belong to someone who fought in the second big war?

Tamsin had never found answers to those questions, not even now, twenty years later, and after extensive research.

No one ever went into the cellar.

She knew, because after all these years, the bodies were still there.

It was an accident.

The first one was.

Tamsin had killed for the first time when she was just fifteen. She hadn’t meant to, but after all the torment she had endured, it was a natural consequence. That was what she had told herself all those years. Was still telling herself. All she did was to rid the world of bullies.

That day when she found the cellar, he suddenly appeared behind her, not long after she had climbed down the stairs. Just like he did in school, he called her names, but then he pulled her closer and tried to kiss her. She had panicked, grabbed a bottle of wine and hit him over the head with it. He fell to the floor, and it took minutes for her to understand that the growing pool of red around his head wasn’t wine.

She was so afraid. Cried. Screamed. Then stormed out of the cellar, fully expecting to find his friends outside, hollering with laughter like they always did when he bullied her.

But no one was there.

She had doubled over and empty the contents of her stomach onto the forest floor, then climbed up the slight hill and sat there for hours. No one came for her. Or for him.

Her long, manicured nails drummed on the barrel containing his body.

Four more barrels stood next to the first.

Those men had it coming. They were vile, mean predators. That was what Tamsin had told herself all those years. Truth was, she had lured them to this place.

That day, after she had killed for the first time, she had gone back into the cellar. It did something to her — seeing him lifeless on the floor and not being a threat anymore.

It excited her.

Even more so once she finally had his body into a barrel filled with wine.

Sitting on top of the barrel, she masturbated.

It took years to overcome the shame of what she had done. But as time passed, another feeling mixed with the shame. A longing.

That was when she went and found the others. Lonely men. Truckers.

She had killed them with the same bottle she had broken on the head of her highschool bully. Cut their throats while they shot their loads inside her.

The last one had gotten her pregnant.

Tamsin snapped out of her reverie.

She selected three bottles of wine — from 1943 this time — and exited the cellar again. She was having friends over that evening, but before they arrived, Tamsin had a million things to do, one of them taking her daughter over to her mother, where she will stay for the night.

Her last kill was six years ago, and Tamsin was confident the pregnancy had cured the strange recurring urge. She filled her days with taking care of her daughter, running her own beauty salon, hosting small house parties and frequently visiting her mother. Tamsin was content with her life.

For now.

© Rebel’s Notes


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