White Room Torture Novels & Stories

The room was dim, heavy curtains prevented the sunlight from penetrating, and the air was imbued with a strange, metallic smell. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized I was surrounded by a collection of sinister objects. Firearms, sharp knives, and objects that seemed destined for torture. My heart skipped a beat, and a chill ran down my spine. This was not an ordinary room; it was a sinister lair that hid Andrew DeLuca's darkest secrets. It was a torture room.

The once-white door, now stained with blood and years of rot, was the only thing separating me from my nightmares. My fingers wrapped around the handle, the door squeaking as I twisted it and pushed it open. "Fucking hell." I hissed as I looked at the scene before me. Winston was sitting in a chair in the centre of the room, his bare tattooed chest covered in blood. His onyx hair was equally drenched in the blood of his victims. Bodies scattered around him; he truly was a thing of nightmares. Winston's eyes locked on me, nothing but murderous intent filling them as a sadistic smile etched its way across his face.

Nothing in the entire world could have prepared me for what I walked into and no matter how I thought about it, I would never have thought about walking into something like this. What’s going on? Is this how angry he is? The room was shining with red lights that illuminate all over and it looked different, with chains, whips and all sorts of sex weapons all around the room. It looked like the exact kind of redroom that I saw in movies and read in books and nothing different from the ones I’ve seen online when I was surfing for some hardcore porn to watch. The sight of it was exciting because never in my life had I ever thought that I was going to experience whatever pleasure that comes with

“This isn't the floor my mother was staying on.” The nurse smiled again. “No, Miss Oxford.” Something about that smile made Marilyn suspicious. “Your mother's room has been upgraded.” “Upgraded?” “Yes.” The nurse pressed another button. “To one of our VIP recovery suites.” Marilyn stared. “What?” “I assumed you already knew.” Marilyn didn't answer. Because she didn't. The elevator doors opened. The floor they stepped onto looked nothing like the rest of the hospital. Everything was different here. More luxurious. More exclusive.

he wiggled his fingers. “I am going to return and hunt you down!” I yelled, while being taken away by Tyler. Before long, we arrived at the white room. Tyler opened the door, and brought me in. As I swept my eyes all over the place, a cold chill ran down the length of my spine. In front of me were sheets of glasses extending across the room like a bridge. From what I heard, some of them could hold the weight of a rock, and others were as fragile as an egg.

“It's a room my father likes to use to make us think about the mistakes we make, until he believes we can change our faults.” “Don't bullshit him. If he's your mate he should know what you're walking into,” Ransom says before pinning with his eyes. His acceptance of my place in her life affects me in a way I can't describe. “It is one of his many torture rooms. He chains us up to two main scales suspended in the air. We hang there by our wrist in the dark for hours or days. Randomly a slot above our heads would open and I'm ice cold water on us. This will continue until he’s ready to speak to us.”

It felt intentional—like whoever designed this wanted me to sit in it and let it crawl under my skin. I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t panic. The room I was in wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t comforting either. White walls. Bright overhead lights that hummed softly. No windows. No visible doors except the one that had just swallowed Brandon whole. At the center of the room was a single chair. And a screen. Of course there was a screen. I laughed weakly. “Original,” I muttered. “Really pushing the boundaries of psychological torture here.”

He presses the side of one cabinet, and it swings inward. Correction, musty with a tang of rust. And more than a fucking tang now. We’re walking into a torture room. There’s no other way to describe it. A meat hook hangs from the ceiling in the center of the room. A locked chest sits against one wall. I know whatever is in that chest is not going to be fucking fun for anybody on the receiving end. I might be well and truly fucked.

He was here because the urge, the desire, the need to hurt something had become overwhelming. He needed release. And Walter was perfect for it. Bryan grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the white room like he was nothing more than trash. Walter screamed. “No! Please! Not the other room! Please—please, I’ll do anything—No! BRYAN!” But Bryan didn’t even blink. He kicked open the door to the second chamber. A darker room. A colder room. A room with shelves filled with tools no sane man should own.

I began as I moved towards the center of the room. “If you keep up with this, he’s going to bleed out and you’d have all wasted your time with him. Torture doesn’t need to have immediate effect, it can take a while—a month or two perhaps, as long as it guarantees you results. White torture, also known as white room torture, is a kind of psychological torture in which the victim is completely isolated and denied any senses. A prisoner is confined to a cell that robs them of their identity and senses. It is most commonly employed in Iran, but there is evidence that the intelligence agencies of Venezuela and the United States have also used it.”