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It had only meant to be a joke.
Locking his little sister in the cellar had seemed such a great idea at the time.

Until he'd lost the key.

He'd tried to break down the door, but the stout oak was unrelenting.
The remote farmhouse had no phone line and mobile reception was non-existent.
So Chartwell had sat there at the kitchen table, dosing himself with whiskey to drown out the screams and banging.
It didn't work, of course. He'd hear those screams forever more.

Sunday. Just after midnight. The banging stopped. But the torment for Chartwell remained strong.

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