“Consequences…”

Down the narrow, twisting wooden stairs. Leaving the light behind her, as she descended into the darkness. Past the sign which read: “Those who pass this point acknowledge and accept the potential consequences”.

Past closed doors, marked ‘private’. Past a candlelit, stone-clad room ‎- empty save for a long, oak table. Pressing on, nervously. Turning the corner.

The hand grabbed her from behind, around the mouth. Pulled her backwards, almost off her feet.

More hands, not caring where or how roughly they seized her. Voices. A bag placed over her head. Darkness.

And, for a moment, silence. Until the crack of the whip, and the piercing scream of a girl nearby.

Actually, the stairs down in our local pub are wooden and winding. The ‘private’ rooms presumably store food and beer. And there’s no such sign. But there should be..

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