I dramatically flung the old rag aside, its weathered fabric snapping through the air like a battle flag in the wind.
A billowing cloud of dust erupted from beneath, rolling over us like a sandstorm. I coughed and staggered back, arms flailing as if trying to swim through the air.
Ronald wasn't faring any better.
"Oui, that's quite a bit of dust," I wheezed between coughs, my voice rasping like sandpaper. I bent over, hacking as I waved away the particles. The room slowly returned into view as the haze thinned.
And what it revealed was…
A frame. Long, horizontal. Roped ends.
'An open bed frame with ropes. Is this what I think this is?'
I turned toward the imaginary audience with a sly grin, leaning into the role.
"Let's see what we have here," I muttered, voice tinged with theatrical suspense.
Ronald's eyes lit up as he examined the structure. The excitement in his voice practically radiated off him.
"It's a pulley device! Right? Right?" he said, hopping like an overenthusiastic puppy.
I couldn't help but laugh. "Nope, that's not a pulley, Ronald. It's called the rack."
"It doesn't sound harmful. How do we use it?" he asked innocently.
I beckoned him closer. The performance was about to begin.
"Let me demonstrate. First, we'll need to secure our dear star guest onto the rack."
Together, we lifted the zombie lady—still groggy and snarling. She thrashed once, nearly rolling off the frame.
I caught her legs mid-struggle, anchoring her down as Ronald, with surprising efficiency, tied her wrists and ankles to the bed frame. The ropes creaked, tightening.
"Done!" Ronald announced, wiping sweat from his brow with a proud grin.
"Ankles and wrists securely fastened."
I gave him a light pat on the back.
"Great job, Ronald. Now, let the fun begin."
Turning toward the "camera," I played the host role to perfection.
I walked to a nearby pole and hoisted it up for display.
"Next, we grab this pole and insert it into the socket right here."
I slid the pole in with a satisfying clink.
"Once that's done, all we have to do is turn the axle slowly."
As I rotated the axle, the ropes began to tighten. The zombie lady's limbs stretched taut. Bones creaked. Flesh pulled. Her body elongated unnaturally.
Ronald winced.
"That doesn't sound very child-friendly…"
I snorted.
"Of course it isn't, Ronald. The word 'torture' should tell you this isn't a kids' show."
Still concerned, he glanced at the imaginary camera.
"But what if there are children watching our show?"
I shrugged. "Well, that's not our problem. It's up to their parents to decide what they should watch."
I casually dug my ear, flicked away the gunk—
Crack!
"What was that?" Ronald asked.
We both looked at the zombie lady.
Her joints had audibly popped out of place.
"Oops, we might've rotated it a bit too much." I grimaced.
"I think we popped a few of her joints."
Ronald winced harder.
"That must have hurt. Should we try to pop her joints back in?"
I waved him off.
"Nah, we're not bone experts. We might make it worse. She'll recover like she always does."
Facing the camera again, I raised both hands for dramatic flair.
"For our dear viewers who may be genuinely concerned about our star guest, like our sweet Ronald here, let me share a little zombie trivia with you."
I held a finger to my lips like I was letting the audience in on a secret.
"You see, zombies are quite unique creatures. Why? Let's let our dear audience guess."
Beat. Pause. Imaginary suspense.
"And you guessed it!" I announced.
"They're immortal! But wait, there's more—zombies feel no pain. No disease, no poison. They're like cockroaches but harder to kill."
Grinning, I added,
"So don't worry about our guest. She's practically invincible. But—if you ever need to deal with one, remember: burn it. Why fire, you ask? Who knows. We're torturers, not scientists."
I turned to the next item.
"Now, let's move on to our next torture device!"
I gestured like a circus ringmaster.
"Hmm? What do we have here? Can Ronald guess?"
Ronald, arms full with the floppy zombie lady, eyed the object on the floor—three thick wooden boards, corded together like a primitive sandwich.
"Is this a torture device? It's only sticks and rope."
I chuckled.
"Now, now, Ronald. Don't judge a device by its appearance. This one's a traditional Chinese torture device called Jiagun. The suspect's legs are placed between the boards, and then the cords are pulled tight. Painful? Excruciating."
Ronald blinked in horror.
Then, spotting a smaller device beside it, he held it up.
"What about this one?"
I peeked.
"Ah. Zanzhi. Same concept, but used on fingers. Used mostly on women back then. Jiagun was for men."
Ronald instinctively rubbed his own hands and ankles, face contorting in sympathy.
"Shall we demonstrate it to our audience?" I teased.
"Must we?" he asked, looking like he might faint again.
I snickered.
"Well, we can skip to the next one. Time is ticking. Should we?"
Ronald nodded violently.
"Alright!" I clapped.
"Moving on to our next exhibit!"
As we continued through the chamber, Ronald stopped dead in his tracks at a table.
Displayed neatly was a knife—plain, unassuming. But next to it was a nameplate:
"Lingchi."
"This knife looks ordinary, but it has a name," Ronald remarked.
I stepped over, curious—then froze.
My stomach turned at the sight of the nameplate.
"Oh, Ronald. Do you know what this is?"
"No idea."
"Ever heard of 'Death by a Thousand Cuts' or 'Slow Slicing'?"
He shook his head. "Nope. I'm not really into horror stuff."
"Figured." I exhaled, then explained.
"Lingchi was a method of execution. The condemned was tied to a post, and their skin and limbs... removed piece by piece. The final cut would typically be to the heart or decapitation."
Ronald's jaw dropped.
"That's cruelty!"
"Exactly. That's why it's not used anymore." My voice tried to stay steady, but even I didn't like being near that knife too long.
Ronald spotted another object.
A container. Ordinary.
"What about that box there?"
"Don't know."
Curiosity tickled at my spine. I approached cautiously. The box had no engravings, no symbols. Just... sitting there.
I reached out.
Fingers gripped the edge of the lid.
With a soft creak, I pulled it open.
SHHHHHHIIIIING—!!
Light. Blinding, searing light blasted from inside, flooding the room like a solar flare.
"AAH!" Ronald and I shielded our eyes.
The zombie lady groaned behind us, seemingly in pain—not from torture, but from the light itself.