Camden, Alabama. May 13 1973

My name is Jane Doe.

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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. 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 am trying to remember the colour. What I did know was that there was no blanket on the bed, just a sheet, and there was a ceiling fan above me.

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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 the image had blues, greens, and grays. There was a dresser with 3 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.

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When I woke, I felt dizzy and disoriented. I rubbed my eyes with my hands and looked around me. I was still determining where I was. I am still deciding who I am at this point. Because you see, I started to become afraid. I knew this wasn't my home. This basement was not where I belonged.

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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 foot high, and I couldn't reach the light hanging from the ceiling.

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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. Cars. It was quiet for hours at a time; this was daytime, and people were at work, and kids were 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.

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There was a heavy metal door in the room, like the kind you see in prisons on tv. I tried a thousand times to open the door. I pushed it, kicked it, and 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.

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The floor was concrete; there was a metal cot against one wall. It had a thin mattress and a green wool blanket.

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I remember the stench. At first, it was mildew. But the longer I was there, it began to stink of urine and feces. The guy 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 got used to it.

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I never saw him, only heard him. He would come to that big metal door three times a day to bring me food and water. I did see his hands when he would give me food. They were enormous hands. They had callouses on the 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.

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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 didn't sound well-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 screamin'? Ain't no one can hear you down here."
A couple times when he would come down to give me dinner, the barrel of a gun would come through that window instead of food. 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.

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See, I refused to eat or drink anything. I didn't know what the guy was putting in it, and I didn't want to take any chances. He was a good cook, and 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 were 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.

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How long have I been there? I lost count after he brought me about 150 meals.

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One day, after he had brought me lunch. I heard a noise upstairs that I hadn't heard before. Like there were more people in the house. He never seemed to get visitors. I could listen to the sound of things being shoved around and crashing. I heard the voices of men shouting. Then I listened to the word "police," and my heart dropped.

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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 was not making any sense; I was screaming for help, help, help. I heard him speaking but couldn't tell what he was saying.

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That's when the door flew open, and I saw a guy in all black with body armour and a helmet on. He walked over to me, picked me up and said, "It's ok. You're safe now."

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Sincerely,
Jane Doe

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