In the middle of a blizzard, a beautiful, scantily clad woman is stranded alone within a remote Bavarian mountaintop castle that holds a darkly horrifying secret, a blood-soaked torture chamber hidden deep within its ancient catacombs. An unspeakably terrifying place where, in the 1930s, hundreds of beautiful women went to their brutally torturous deaths simply for the sadistic amusement of highly placed Nazi officials, the vault of evil.

Recently unearthed Third Reich documents contained hints concerning this castle’s ties to sadomasochistic and occult interest by the upper echelons of the prewar Nazi party. I found erotically intriguing excerpts concerning senior party members secretly arriving to attend wild orgies that always ended in the torturous deaths of all the women involved.

I gained permission from the castle’s current owner, a wealthy Austrian industrialist, to visit and research the records from the 1930s. The castle owner at the time turned out to be one of Herman Goering’s First World War comrades who had flown in the same squadron. With the helpful suggestions of the current owner, I located dozens of boxes of records from that era stored in the castle’s archives. They contained over twenty years of journals and ledgers from the early 1920s until the owner of that time’s mysterious disappearance in early 1945. He’d kept meticulous records of the castle’s expenses. They seemed mundane until the early 1930s when I noticed a new pattern emerge, a cost increase that occurred every twenty-eight days for hosting a large party on the night of the full moon.

I’d explored the castle looking for clues for several days. Still, nothing seemed unusual, so I reviewed the journals and ledgers again, looking for anything unusual on the days leading up to these parties or immediately after. It was only then that I noticed a disturbing pattern. On the days leading up to the parties, the castle’s owner hired about half a dozen women, all from distant European cities, as “party hostesses,” their fees, train tickets, and even the cars hired to drive them up from the local train station all documented in the ledgers. However, on the days after the parties, while there was no mention of the expenses for sending them home, there was an entry for a German-owned cleaning service. This entry was usually listed as party cleanup, although not always. Some ledger entries listed it as vault cleanup.

The term vault seemed vaguely familiar, like I’d seen it mentioned in the ledgers from a few years earlier. Going back through, I found it in an entry from 1932, “Catacomb Renovations, the Vault.” Intellectually, I’d known about the catacombs beneath the castle but hadn’t had a reason to visit them. That is until now.

I worked on my laptop all that afternoon, documenting everything I’d discovered. The entire time, delightfully masochistic fantasies of what I might find in the catacombs evilly dominated my thoughts.

It was just after sunset when I finished the last of my notes. With an afternoon of stimulating masochistic thoughts still swirling through my mind, I knew I couldn’t explore the catacombs wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. After all, this wasn’t just about discovering the hidden truth. This trip down into the castle’s catacombs had become a hardcore, sexually masochistic adventure. Returning to my suite, I let my hair down, applied my makeup for the first time in a week, then slipped into my scandalously revealing red lace bodysuit with matching red high heels and headed downstairs to the castle’s kitchens.

Pausing just long enough to open a bottle of wine, I grabbed a wine glass and the flashlight I’d noticed in one of the kitchen cabinets. Then, I returned to the castle’s great room, and the doorway I knew from my explorations led down into the catacombs.

Switching on the flashlight, I closed the door behind me and started down the winding steps toward the catacombs. The steps were steep and treacherous, especially while wearing high heels, but I made it safely to the bottom. A short hallway led to an engraved archway that served as the catacomb’s entrance.

While piles of bones were everywhere, I couldn’t find any light switches. I knew from the castle records that the last person buried in the catacombs had died over three hundred years ago. That explained why they hadn’t bothered installing lights within the catacombs when they installed electricity around 1900 and updated the wiring in the 1970s.

The catacombs were delightfully macabre, piles of bones lining the walls of the main corridor, with every few feet, short cross corridors, with shelves carved into their walls, each holding the cobweb-covered skeletons of the dead. Then, at the end of the main tunnel stood a massive-looking wooden door reinforced with heavy iron straps. Standing there, staring at that door, I felt my heartbeat quicken. The labored sound of my breathing as my erect, already throbbing nipples ground almost painfully against the red lace material of my bodysuit with every breath I took. The sensation of wetness as my almost overwhelming sexual arousal soaked the thin fabric of my bodysuit’s snuggly fitting crotch.

Attempting to rain in my emotions, I paused to take a deep breath to ready myself for whatever diabolically torturous horrors awaited beyond this door. Then lifting the latch, I pushed the heavy door inward.

The beam of my flashlight fell on the nearest torture instrument, the rack. Near the end of the rack’s frame stood an iron brazier filled with ash and several cold irons and skewers. While along the wall, a table displayed cruel instruments of torture, all designed to painfully mutilate the victim’s body.

Looking away, I noticed wall-mounted iron sconces holding burned-out torches. I decided to save the flashlight’s batteries for my return trip, so I looked around and saw a table right next to the entrance filled with a pile of torches and several large glass jars of liquid. Opening one of the jars, I immediately noticed the strong scent of paraffin. Dipping one of the torches into the liquid, I used the flint striker I found on the table to ignite the torch. After several minutes, I’d replaced all the burned-out torches with fresh burning ones. The flickering torchlight eerily illuminated all the chamber’s diabolic horrors for the first time in over seventy years.

Setting the flashlight on the rack, I poured a glass of wine and slowly toured this vault of evil. From the first, it was evident that this was a place of brutal, torturous death, not interrogation. A terrifying place where their beautiful female victims endured slow, agonizing deaths simply for the sadistic amusement of their killers.

I tried to imagine what those long-ago nights were like. First, an elegant dinner party, followed by an alcohol and drug-fueled orgy, and finally, ending here in this torture chamber with the obscenely agonizing deaths of their carefully selected “party hostesses.”

Pausing to refill my wine glass, I contemplated the ancient horrors of this unspeakable place. A faint smile of utterly masochistic longing on my face as I closed my eyes and tried to imagine being there, helplessly enduring all the horrific tortures these women suffered. And, even knowing that I wouldn’t have survived, like any brutal masochistic wet dream, the lure of being one of them will always endure, in my darkest, most masochistic dreams...