Jake Mattern stood watching over the three shirtless 18 year olds stung up to a tree limb by their tied wrists, clothed gagged. They were caught traspassing by him and his brother who forces them to strip to the waist and be strung up. "So you say your are cousins? Nice to have all of your from the same family. Do you know what we do with guys we catch trasspassing? We teach you a lesson. My brother and pop will be coming with a lot more rope and duct tape. Guess what we're planning to do to you.TRESPASSERS WILL BE PUNISHED
Jake Mattern stood watching over the three shirtless 18-year-olds strung up to a tree limb by their tied wrists, cloth gagged and disoriented in the fading afternoon light. Their shirts lay in a discarded pile at the base of the tree, removed during the initial capture. Sweat glistened on their exposed torsos despite the cool autumn air.
"So you say you're cousins?" Jake circled them, enjoying the slight sway of their suspended bodies. "Nice to have all of you from the same family. Do you know what we do with guys we catch trespassing?" He leaned in close to Tyler's ear. "We teach you a lesson. My brother and pop will be coming with a lot more rope and duct tape. Guess what we're planning to do to you."
The Benson cousins began to feel sweat trickling from their armpits. They knew they were in deep shit. Their muffled protests against the gags were unintelligible, but their wide eyes communicated their growing panic.
This can't be happening, Tyler thought desperately. These psychos can't be serious. Stay calm. I need to stay calm for Kevin and Eli.
Probability of reasonable outcome diminishing by the second, Kevin calculated silently. That younger one—Mitchell—he's our age. Maybe he's the weak link?
This is my fault, Eli realized with growing horror. I pushed us to cross that stream. I said the buck was worth it.
Headlights cut through the trees as a pickup truck approached. Jake straightened up, standing taller as the vehicle stopped and the doors opened. Robert Mattern emerged from the driver's side, his 41-year-old frame moving with military precision. Mitchell, 18, jumped out from the passenger side, carrying a duffel bag that clinked with metal hardware.
"Found some city boys hunting on our land, Pop," Jake announced proudly.
Robert approached slowly, evaluating the captives with cold detachment. "Cut 'em down," he ordered. "This isn't the place."
Mitchell pulled out a hunting knife and reached up, sawing through the ropes that suspended the cousins from the tree branch. Each fell roughly to the ground, unable to break their fall with bound hands, landing painfully on their knees and sides.
"Blindfold them," Robert instructed, tossing a roll of duct tape to Jake. "Mitchell, get their ankles."
Jake ripped long strips of the silver tape, plastering them across each cousin's eyes, pressing firmly to ensure they adhered to sweaty skin. The cousins jerked their heads, trying futilely to resist.
"Hold still unless you want your eyelashes ripped out," Jake hissed, adding a second layer to ensure complete blindness.
Mitchell worked efficiently at their feet, binding their ankles together with rope tight enough to prevent walking but loose enough to allow a shuffling gait.
"Stand them up," Robert directed.
The brothers yanked each cousin to his feet. Blindfolded, bound, and gagged, the three swayed unsteadily, heads turning frantically as they tried to orient themselves through sound alone.
"Now," Robert said, his voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carried more menace than a shout, "we're going to take a little walk to somewhere more private. Somewhere with proper facilities for guests who don't respect boundaries."
Jake grinned at his father's euphemism. "The barn?"
Robert nodded. "Mitchell, bring the truck around. Jake, get a lead rope on them, make them walk. I want them to feel every step of Mattern land they trespassed on."
Jake grabbed a length of rope, creating a crude harness around Tyler's neck and shoulders. "This one's the leader. The others will follow."
He yanked the rope, forcing Tyler forward into a stumbling walk. The other two cousins, connected by shorter lengths of rope, had no choice but to follow blindly, tripping over roots and rocks, guided only by painful tugs when they veered off course.
"About a mile to the barn," Jake announced cheerfully. "Hope you boys wore comfortable shoes."
Robert Mattern circled the cousins, now fully restrained and kneeling in the center of the barn. The blindfolds had been removed, but the reality they faced was possibly worse than the darkness. At 41, Robert's movements had the precision of military training rather than age.
"You boys got names?" His voice cut through the barn's musty air.
Tyler, still defiant: "Tyler Benson. These are my cousins. We didn't see any signs, sir. If you'd just—"
A sharp slap across the face silenced him.
"Didn't ask for explanations. Asked for names." Robert's eyes remained coldly focused.
"Kevin Benson," the middle cousin offered quickly.
"Eli," whispered the third.
Jake, leaning against the doorframe with the confident posture of a nineteen-year-old trying to impress his father, chuckled. "Whole family of trespassers. Must run in the blood."
Tyler squinted at Jake. "Don't I know you? Jefferson County High?"
Jake's smile vanished. "You're thinking of someone else."
Mitchell shifted uncomfortably in the background, recognizing Tyler from regional track meets but staying silent.
"Our property line is marked every fifteen yards," Robert said, squatting to eye level with Tyler. "Blue paint on the trees. Posted signs at every access point. That sound like something easy to miss to you?"
Kevin: "We came from the north ridge. There weren't any—"
Mitchell interrupted, his voice cracking slightly: "Found their trail. They crossed at Copper Creek, came straight through the marked boundary. Walked right past two signs."
Eli began to tremble. "We were tracking a buck. Weren't paying attention to—"
Robert nodded to Jake, who tightened the ropes with a practiced tug. Eli gasped.
"My daddy taught me about respecting boundaries," Robert said, voice dropping. "Now I'm teaching my boys. And today, they're teaching you."
Jake Mattern worked methodically, the rope sliding through his calloused hands with practiced ease. He began with each cousin's wrists, crossing them behind their backs before applying the hemp rope in tight figure-eight patterns. The abrasive fibers bit into their skin immediately.
"Too tight?" Jake smirked at the first wince. "That's just the beginning."
He continued the pattern up their forearms, creating a ladder-like binding that severely restricted movement. With each wrap, he'd pause to tug the rope harder, forcing soft grunts of pain from his captives. After securing the arm bindings, he threaded additional rope across their bare chests, looping it under their arms and back to their bound wrists, creating a harness that pulled their shoulders uncomfortably backward.
"My daddy taught me these knots," Jake explained casually, testing the tension with a finger. "Been tying up trespassers since before I could drive."
Can't sleep. Can't move. Can't think straight, Tyler thought as night fell. How long have we been here? Hours? The ropes are cutting off circulation.
Fascinating how pain affects time perception, Kevin observed internally, his analytical mind still functioning despite his predicament. What feels like hours may only be minutes.
Please God make it stop, Eli prayed silently. I can't feel my hands anymore. Is that good or bad? Bad probably.
Midnight. The cousins had worked for hours to loosen their bindings, taking advantage of the sweat-slickened ropes.
"I'm free," Kevin whispered, finally working one hand loose. "Hold on."
As he frantically worked to untie the others, Tyler kept watch on the barn door.
Eli, panicking: "Hurry, man. They'll be back to check."
"Almost got it," Kevin muttered, fingers fumbling with Tyler's knots.
Move! Tyler urged himself. Just a few more feet to the door. We can make it.
Failure probability: 89.2%, Kevin calculated even as he worked. Dogs represent unforeseen variable.
We're dead. We're so dead, Eli thought, panic rising. They're going to kill us now for sure.
The sudden baying of hounds froze them all.
Mitchell's voice from outside, higher with excitement: "They're loose, Jake!"
The barn door banged open, flooding the space with flashlight beams. Mitchell stood silhouetted, his hunting dogs straining at their leashes, his youth evident in his lanky frame.
"Didn't even make it out of the barn," Jake observed, stepping inside, shotgun held with casual familiarity. "Pathetic."
Tyler made a desperate lunge toward the side door, making it three steps before a dog intercepted him, teeth bared inches from his face.
Robert appeared in the doorway, expression unchanged. "Disappointing. I was hoping for more of a challenge."
"Please," Eli sobbed, "we've learned our lesson."
"No," Robert said quietly. "Not yet you haven't."
Jake stepped forward eagerly. "Dad, let me handle this one."
Robert assessed his son for a moment, then nodded. "Show me what you've got."
Mitchell's eyes widened slightly, knowing what Jake was capable of when trying to impress their father.
After their failed escape attempt, the Matterns' approach intensified. The elder Mattern arrived with thinner, more cutting rope.
"The thinner the rope, the deeper it bites," he explained, as he began the elaborate process of the strappado position.
This time, they bound each cousin's arms behind their back with elbows touching—an almost impossible position that stretched shoulder muscles to their limit. The rope criss-crossed their arms in diamond patterns, each intersection cinched tightly enough to leave marks. Once secured, the brothers hoisted their arms upward from a ceiling beam, forcing them to bend forward to alleviate the pressure.
Throughout the day, they would periodically raise and lower the ropes, never allowing muscles to adjust to a single position. Every few hours, they would spray the ropes with water, causing the hemp to contract and tighten further against sweat-slicked skin.
By the evening of the second day, the cousins hung limply in their bindings, all resistance seemingly gone. But the Matterns weren't finished yet.
Evening of the third day. The cousins hung in their final restraints, barely conscious.
Jake splashed water on Tyler's face. "Still with us, quarterback? No timeouts left in this game."
Tyler's eyes, once defiant, now vacant. "Please... we're sorry."
Not the leader anymore, Tyler thought distantly. Can't protect anyone. Can't even protect myself. Failed them. Failed myself.
Systematic destruction of psychological defenses nearly complete, Kevin observed from somewhere outside himself. Pain threshold exceeded approximately 11 hours ago.
I'll do anything. Say anything. Be anything, Eli pleaded internally. Just make it stop. Please make it stop.
"Sorry you trespassed, or sorry you got caught?" Jake asked, examining his handiwork with pride.
Kevin, voice hoarse: "We were wrong. The land is yours. We had no right."
Robert entered, studying each cousin carefully. Mitchell trailed behind, carrying additional coils of rope but looking increasingly uncomfortable.
"Why do we do this?" Robert asked, directing the question to his sons as much as to the captives. "Anyone figure it out yet?"
Silence.
"Respect," he continued. "Land demands respect. Men demand respect. Without it, civilization falls apart." He moved closer to Eli, who flinched. "You learn respect through consequence."
"We respect you, sir," Eli whispered, tears streaming. "Your land, your family. We were wrong."
"Saying it is easy," Robert replied. "Believing it takes more."
He nodded to Jake, who stepped forward eagerly. Mitchell hesitated briefly before joining his brother. Together, they simultaneously tightened each cousin's bindings one final turn. The coordinated cries of pain echoed through the barn.
"There," Robert said, clapping Jake on the shoulder with approval. "Now they believe it."
Jake beamed at the rare praise, while Mitchell averted his eyes.
By evening, the cousins hung limply in their bindings, the elaborate rope work contrasting against their bruised skin, all resistance finally extinguished.
The release came without ceremony. As dawn broke on the fourth day, Jake cut the ropes with a hunting knife, the blade uncomfortably close to raw skin. The cousins collapsed onto the barn floor, unable to move their arms voluntarily, shoulders and muscles seized from days of unnatural positioning.
Is this real? Tyler wondered. Are they actually letting us go? Don't trust it. Could be another trick.
Freedom probability: increasing but still uncertain, Kevin assessed. Calculating: 0.8 miles to main road at current shuffling pace equals approximately 27 minutes.
They're really letting us go, Eli realized with overwhelming relief. Thank you God. Thank you God. Thank you God.
Tyler, voice hollow: "Thank you for... for letting us go."
Jake snorted. "Thanking us for the lesson. That's new."
Kevin remained silent, eyes downcast, calculating the exact distance to the county road.
"You boys have family waiting?" Robert asked unexpectedly.
Eli nodded. "My mom's probably called the police by now."
Mitchell tensed, but Robert waved him off. "Let her. Wouldn't be the first time."
"You've done this before," Kevin realized aloud.
"Third time this hunting season," Jake confirmed, pride evident. "Though the Johnson boy from Riverdale only lasted one day before breaking." He stretched his young frame, muscled beyond his nineteen years from farm work and martial discipline.
Robert handed each cousin a canteen of water. "When you reach the main road, you'll find your truck parked at the gas station. Keys are in the glovebox."
The small kindness, after everything, was somehow more disorienting than the cruelty.
"Why?" Tyler managed.
Robert's eyes were impassive. "Because the lesson's over. And because you learned it better than most."
As they stumbled away, Mitchell called after them: "Try the Watson property next time. They just call the sheriff."
The cousins didn't look back to see Robert nodding approvingly at his youngest son's attempt at toughness, while Jake was already discussing who would reset the barn for the next inevitable trespassers.
Outside, the morning air felt surreal against their skin. No one spoke as they stumbled down the dirt road, each step putting distance between themselves and the Mattern property. Behind them, Jake hammered a new, larger "NO TRESPASSING" sign to a tree.
Two miles down the road, the youngest cousin finally broke the silence. "Think anyone would believe us?"
The oldest touched the rope burns circling his wrists, already darkening to bruises. "Does it matter? We're never coming back here."
The middle cousin said nothing, his eyes fixed on the horizon, occasionally glancing back as if expecting to see the Matterns' dogs pursuing them.
They made a wordless pact that day, sealed in shared trauma. They would never speak of what happened in that barn, but they would never forget. And they would never, ever ignore another property sign as long as they lived.
Weeks later, red marks had faded but something remained—a flinch at the sight of rope, a cold sweat when passing rural properties, nightmares of being bound and helpless. The lesson had been learned, branded not just on their bodies but deep into their psyches, exactly as the Matterns had intended." The Benson cousins began to feel sweat trickling from their armpits. They knew they were in deep shit.
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