Conflicting emotions cruised through me: relief at having my sight back and not being set alight, confusion as to how I got here, and totally wierded out by the odd man who attended to me and claimed to be Elliot.

While he tidied away the bowl and swabs, I studied him surreptitiously. He was deathly pale and thin, like he may be under-nourished. His hair was cut into a long eighties mullet style and his brightly colored clothing also reflected that era. When you factor in the plastic collar constantly hitting his face, he made for a very strange sight.

When he left the room, I scanned the space. It was a low ceilinged room, dimly lit and windowless. A creep of claustrophobia crawled over me and I tensed.

A second bed lay opposite; in contrast to my creepy cartoon bedding it was covered with plain black satin sheets and had an ornate back board.

I'm just over six feet tall, and when I looked up at the ceiling from the bed, I estimated I wouldn't be able to stand straight up. This observation caused claustrophobia to claw at me and once again I tried to move my legs; but they remained inert.

Throwing the farcical cartoon sheets to the floor, I examined my legs. I was as I went to bed the night before, fully clothed. My jeans showed no signs of having been tampered with and I felt no pain.

Deep breaths helped to control my claustrophobia from erupting into a full-blown attack.

The man re-entered the room, "You broke her rule and covered my dolls face. She glued your eyes closed," he said, giggling boyishly.

His giggles were disconcerting, but I pushed the freakery aside and asked, "Who is she?"

He looked suddenly bemused, "Mother, who else would it be?"

"Do you mean Mrs Milton?" I asked.

"Of course. Mother knows I'm frightened of covering my face; which is why I wear my collar. She's very strict on punishment for people who cover my dolls face," he said, with a sad look.

As he spoke I searched his face for answers: he was definitely a man in his forties, yet his body was boy like: small, perhaps barely over five feet tall."

"So, your name's Elliot?" I asked.

"Of course. I already told you that, you're silly, Billy."

Sitting up, I was forthright, "I was told you died in a fire many years ago."

He looked bewildered, like a child trying to figure out an adult perspective, "There was a big fire up there, but it didn't make me die. It made me reborn down here." Then he smiled and shook his head, "How can I be dead when I'm talking to you. You're very, very, silly, Billy."

My temper rose along with my voice, "STOP SAYING THAT!"

He jumped and began to shake, "I'm sorry, I didn't know that was naughty," he sniveled. When I saw his tears begin to fall, I was filled with a guilty compassion, "No, no, I'm sorry Elliot. I didn't mean to make you cry, it's just that I'm dazed and confused at the moment, that's all," I said, soothingly.

It worked; his tears halted and he said, "See, you called me Elliot, so I am Elliot and I am alive."

"Of course you are," I said, my head wrecked with questions and quandary.

"Elliot, go to your room, please!" The sudden familiar voice of Henry, filled me with hope and optimism,

Elliot immediately fled down the darkness of a narrow open doorway, to my right.

A light flickered and floated forward, eventually revealing its source to be a candle, held by Henry. He entered the room, his free arm linked lovingly through Mrs Milton's.

"Am I happy to see you two," I said, relief diluting my anger.

They ignored me and proceeded toward the opposite black satin bed.

"Look, I'm fine with whatever's going on here. I heard you tell the cleaner I'd left of my own accord. Just explain it all, and if I can help, I will. Then we can all walk away from this, and move on," I said, optimistically.

When Henry gently helped his wife onto the bed, I felt my temper rise, and I let rip, "Look what the f..."

..."NO – THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR PROFANITY!" Shouted Henry, his hand rising high with anger and indignation.

Alarmed by the violence in his outburst, I changed strategy and tried to appeal to his rationale side, "I'm sorry. But I'd appreciate some explanation Mr Milton, please?" I asked.

His eyes glanced over Mrs Milton, who lay with her hands clasped at her chest, in repose, like a corpse at a funeral home.

Henry turned to me, his composure returned, "Full explanation is contained in the letter, in Elliots' room, along with all relevant keys."

The word 'keys' buoyed me. 'Whatever they were up to, at least 'keys' suggested a way out,' I thought.

"Is Elliot who he says he is, your son?" I asked.

"Yes, he is. We didn't want him to lose his boyhood innocence. And down here, protected from the world and all its evil woes above, he never did," he said. A smile stretched across his face, "Don't ever grow up Billy, it's a trap."

Now realizing I was dealing with an unhinged couple, I returned the smile and surmised the truth, "I get the feeling this is a trap, Mr and Mrs Milton?" I asked, with a questioning eye.

Suddenly, I became aware of a rapid increase in temperature.

Henry continued with a detached matter of fact tone, "That's a crude way of referring to our care plan and package." He looked lovingly at his wife, then coldly at me, "My dear wife has cancer." He stroked her cheek with his finger, "We will take control of it, we'll decide when she dies, not the cancer. Won't we dearest?"

She didn't reply. Instead she lifted her head from the pillow, smiled at her husband then rested her head back down and closed her eyes.

He moved a little closer toward me, "Your breaking the rule so soon, has brought forward our plan."

The heat became such that I tore off my pullover.

Henry moved closer still, "You have everything you need down here, to take care of our son, for the foreseeable future."

It became so hot that I had to take off my t-shirt.

Henry explained, "Yes, it is getting rather hot. You see the house above is raging. Hopefully the emergency services will arrive before it becomes intolerable for you."

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pistol. I couldn't fight nor flight, so I shot defensive words: "No – Henry – No – please – No!" I pleaded.

He smiled, "I wouldn't kill you Billy, for you're our dear son's Forever Nanny now."

He walked with a slow resignation toward his wife, kissed her forehead and said, "See you on the other side my sweet."

Paralyzed with panic, I watched as he placed the pistol in the center of his wife's forehead and pulled the trigger.

The silencer produced a dull thud and her body jolted violently upwards, then settled gently into a tremoring death. A rivulet of blood spouted from the bullet hole and traced the craggy contours of her face before pooling onto the black satin sheets around her head, creating a crimson moat.

Henry turned to me and placed the gun to his right temple, "The anesthetic in your legs will wear off soon. All you require to know is in our letter. Take good care of Elliot. Goodbye," he said, calmly.

His head snapped violently to the right as the bullet ricoched off the wall and landed on Mrs Milton's lap – followed swiftly by her husband's corpse, which jumped and jolted in a crude parody of copulation.

The increased heat was really beginning to terrify me, but I held onto calm and shouted, "Elliot can you come in here, please."

He came bounding in, the sweat from his head pooling around his collar. He immediately went to a dial on the wall and twisted it. Mercifully great wafts of cool air drafted into the room, "I don't know why it has got so hot." He said, wiping his brow.

He halted and looked at his parents with a wide-eyed wonder, "Oh my. Why is father asleep on mother like that?" He asked.

"He was very tired and fell asleep," I lied. My head spinning.

Elliot walked tentatively toward them, "Come away. Don't wake them," I said, with an innate need to hide him from reality and protect me from dealing with his reaction to the truth.

He sat on my bed and whispered in a conspiratorial manner, "Mother and father only sleep down here when I have a fever." He glanced at me with a sudden knowing look, "Ahh, that's why I was hot. Have I got a fever?" He jumped from the bed, "If I have, I should turn the air-con off."

"No. Leave it on Elliot, come sit with me," I said, patting the bed.

As he sat, his hand brushed my leg, and I had a much-needed hit of hope – feeling was returning to my legs, 'brilliant,' I thought.

I forced an up-beat bravado, "So Elliot, do you know the way out of here?" I asked, trying to imbue the question with a sense of impending adventure.

His face took on a blank look, "Way out. What does that mean?"

"You know, how do we get outside, out into the big wide world?"

He looked at me mischievously, "This is the world, we're already in it."

I leaned into him and lowered my voice, as if I were letting him in on a secret, "Elliot, there's so much more to the world than this, I promise you, I'll show it all to you."

His face looked blank and he lowered his gaze, "I don't know what you mean, and you won't let me say you're silly Billy."

"You can call me 'silly Billy' all you like, and I won't get vexed, I promise."

"What's vexed?"

"Angry."

His smile grew wide, "You'll never get angry with me, that makes me happy."

"Great, will you make me happy?" I asked.

"If I can," he replied, with his boy like enthusiasm.

It became all too clear to me that Elliot was a man with severe arrested development. An average eight-year-old boy would have more emotional intelligence than this physically mature man. I literally had to treat him with kid gloves, if we had any chance of escape from this grave situation.

"So Elliot, will you go into your room and fetch me a letter and some keys."

His face lit up, "Yes, I know where they are, Mother showed me. I'll be right back," he said, skipping off.

Hope hit me again, as I heard the distant wail of a fire engine siren, 'rescue will be sooner than I expected.' I smiled to myself as I envisioned the open mouths of my friends as I regaled them with this tall-tale.

Elliot came bounding in and handed me the envelope and two keys, "Is it a story? Will you read it to me; stories are one of my favorite things," he beamed.

I tore the envelope and pulled out a neatly hand-scribed note. I read it voraciously, while trying to block out Elliots' intrusive interruptions.

When I stopped reading, I realized my body was trembling uncontrollably. Elliot shook my shoulder and although I saw his mouth move, I heard nothing. Then everything went black.

......

When I came to and my eyes flashed open, my first thought was for my mother. The prospect of her mourning my loss, wondering what had happened to me was my motivation to get out of this place.

'If I got down here, then I can get up and out of here,' was the thought that immediately became my mantra.

My legs, I could feel them. Progress.

I jumped off the bed and stood up, or rather, I stooped up. 'No, I'm not having this, I can't deal with spending a few hours in a space I can't stand up in, let alone days,' I thought, as I left the room and entered the dim light of a hallway.

The hallway led into another bedroom. Elliot was sprawled sleeping open mouthed on a bed, an old fashioned game consul clasped in his hand.

I crept onwards, through another half opened door, which led into a large kitchen area. All the usual appliances were included, except they looked really dated.

Not being able to stand up straight soon switched from irritating, to debilitating. I dropped to my knees and began to sob – uncontrollably.

"Did you fall and hurt yourself?" Asked Elliot. I turned and saw him standing in the doorway, holding a teddy bear and rubbing his sleepy eyes. I envied his small stature and his ability to stand tall in a space that diminished me.

"No," I snapped.

"Then why are you crying?"

I spun round to face him, "Because I'm frightened, Elliot."

His face dropped and his collar wobbled, "But you're a grown up, grown ups don't get frightened."

Trying to rationalize with him was useless, so I composed myself the best I could and said, "Go to your room Elliot. I have to clean something's up, then I'll come and read you a story."

He bounced off, without a backward glance; a happy man/boy.

......

I stooped back to the two corpses. Pulling Mr Milton from his wife, I was relieved to find that death had not yet stiffened his corpse.

It was a deeply unpleasant task, but I undertook it with a determined detachment.

Dragging Mrs Milton into the mausoleum, I was momentarily amazed by the planning and work that had gone into its creation.

Preparing to place the bodies into the incinerator as per their methodical instructions, I was distracted by Elliot talking to someone.

His voice was raised and animated, "I like Billy very much; he's my favorite nanny of all. He's going to tell me a story after he's cleaned up." When he paused I crept to the source of his sound.

Peering through the slightly open door of his room, I saw him standing by a narrow open passageway, his head nodding vigorously in conversation, "I will tell him that right away. Goodnight Mother."

Pushing the door open I heard the definite and distinct sound of rapidly retreating feet. Elliot turned to me, "Is it story time now?"

"Who were you talking to?" I asked.

"Mother."

I was blunt, "Your mother is dead."

He grinned and giggled, "Don't be silly Billy, she's awake now. I just spoke with her." His face turned serious, "She told me to take you to the tall room, when you get too frightened of your clostro-thingy."

Elliot grabbed my hand, "Come on Billy, I'll take you to your tall room right now; mother and father are waiting."