Category: The Damned

The Vengeance of His Evil

~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

Ted visited psychic surgeon Dr. Munstre Croon after relentless daily pressure headaches pounded the side and top of his head. Tad’s own doctor diagnosed stress and tension with possible depression and hypochondria “you don’t need a specialist,” she said.

“If you won’t help me,” Tad responded, “I’ll find my own cure. Pills aren’t the answer here.”

Sally, the janitor at Ellis and Company Insurance where Tad worked as supervisor, gave him Croon’s name. “This man’s a unique psychic healer.” she told him, “He will charge five thousand dollars cash, but he will solve all your ills.”

Tad wondered for a moment why Sally was being so nice. He always criticized her cleaning because she kept leaving half full wastebaskets all over the office and never scrubbed under the fridge. Tad gave her a written reprimand and announced that the next time she forgot to thoroughly sanitize the wall behind the couch she’d lose her job. “But thanks for the doctor tip,” he told her, “I haven’t tried the psychic angle, but I’ll do anything to get rid of this pain.”

Ellis and Company had hired Tad to get rid of all its unproductive employees so it could cut costs, and he’d been firing a lot of people. Nan, the old boss’s secretary was three months from retirement, but Tad dismissed her anyway, “you’re too set in your ways,” he said.

She pleaded and cried “I’ll lose my pension,” but Tad explained that the company couldn’t keep “dead wood.” She picked up all her family photos and ran crying from the room. Sally gave her a long hug and they whispered together. Tad thought “I’ll keep an eye on that janitor.”

Tad’s headache drilled into him as he sat in Dr. Croon’s office waiting for the healer. Eventually, the Doctor appeared, a very short round faced fellow with big sad eyes. “Sally said you have bad pain in the cranium,” he said, in a low and barely perceptible voice. “I’m sure she told you my cost.”

“I don’t care,” said Tad. “No one else will help me.” He was raking in the dough in his new position as assistant to the executive director, so had no problem passing the doctor five thousand dollars in small bills. “Cheap compared to the regular rip off artists,” he said.

“Let’s begin our assessment,” nodded the Doctor, as he carefully placed the bills in a paper bag, and then carefully placed both his hands on the sides of Tad’s head, as gently as he’d handled the money.

“Hmmm,” he whispered. “Please put on these glasses.”

He stepped back and handed his patient some fake-jewel encrusted specs from a gold case. Tad pulled them on.

“Jeezus,” he said. “What the hell is that?”

“Most glasses look out. These are looking in,” Dr. Croon said. “What do you see?”
“A giant grey and brown blob!”

“That’s your brain. What else do you perceive?”

“Wow, it’s pulsating… and there’s something on it!”

“Hmmm” Dr. Croon put his hand up to his client’s ear. “Now what?”
Tad peered closer with his reverse glasses and exclaimed “Something’s climbing around in there! It’s got suckers!” Tad gasped.

“Hah!” nodded Croon. “I knew it! Does it look like a devil?”

“Well, it’s got spines and omigod, it’s staring back at me… it’s got no eyes!” Tad ripped the glasses off as his head pounded.

“Yes,” said Dr. Croon. “You’re possessed with an extraordinary type of cancer.”

“Omigod, Doctor, how did that happen?”

“Well,” Croon took out a huge pair of curved forceps, at least two feet long. “Everyone’s born with a seed of evil, and while some extinguish that seed with good acts, others feed it with bad ones.” He clicked the forceps. “Do you want me to take the demon out?”

“Oh, indeed!”

“The tumour has grown very large,” Dr. Croon concluded. “You must have done a lot of bad things.”

Tad thought of all the hard decisions he had to make in his life. “A man needs to be tough to succeed,” he thought. “Sometimes he has to be ruthless.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have disowned my son,” Tad told the doctor, “but he did marry trash.” As if in response, needle like agony squeezed its way through his eyeballs, and Tad thought of the demon sucking his brain. “Doctor,” he moaned. “I want this to stop.”

“Well,” replied Dr. Croon. “Then we should go ahead with the operation?”

“Certainly,” Tad nodded as enthusiastically as he could.

“Sit right there.”

Dr. Croon took his giant forceps and stuck the ends inside each of Tad’s ears. The forceps fitted neatly over Tad’s head, and Croon moved the points further in. “Hmmm,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen such a huge devil tumour.” He adjusted his tool and tapped the forceps on the table to remove the ear wax. “In order for this method to succeed,” he explained, “You must tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done; get it out there, and the demon will show itself”

Tad thought of all the rotten lies he’d told, all the firings, all the foreclosures and property seizures he’d ordered when he ran a loan company, but those weren’t the worst things. Tad wasn’t sure he should tell Dr. Croon, but he wanted the pain to end.

“I killed a man,” Tad said. “In the South African jungle, when I served in the army twenty-five years ago; he was injured, and his wound became badly infected.”

“He was one of yours?”

“Yes. I was the patrol sergeant when this stupid guy was holding us back from getting out of there, moaning and crying, he acted like such a pussy. It was gangrene, sure, but he endangered everybody with his noise.”

“So you killed him?”

“I strangled him in secret away from the others. It had to be done. The enemy might hear him and discover our position. Also, we were out of morphine.”

“Well,” the Doctor frowned and rubbed his round stubbly chin. “That fellow is the main demon in your head right now; it’s your worst sin, fed huge by all the others.”

He adjusted the forceps and commanded “Put on the glasses.”

Tad lifted his specs.

“See how fat that sin is.” Dr. Croon insisted.

Tad gasped, witnessing the living tumour behind his eyes, and perceiving the demon’s attached suckers pulsating on his brain. The devil twisted its horny head, showing hollow skull bones and the demon face like the soldier Tad killed, mouth slack jawed in the moment of death. Tad saw huge growths and lumps pulsating all over the demon, and the being’s huge gut “all your other sins are stuffed into it,” said Dr. Croon. “It’s feeding now. A good time to pull him out.”

“Get it outta me!” Tad yelled. “This thing’s a f….. parasite!”

“We will,” said Dr. Croon. “Hang on, Tad!”

The forceps moved in, and through the reverse specs, Tad saw the steel pushing; he screamed as the force points jerked and pierced the devil in his brain. He screamed again and the devil screamed too as liquid and chunks of rancid meat poured out of Tad’s ears. He felt the gushing and pouring, an overwhelming sulphur stench, and an immense immediate pain free relief, like the lancing of a boil. He yanked off the glasses. “What in the name of God?” he yelled.

In front of him, a demon formed from the liquid rushing from Tad’s ears. It twisted and molded itself into human shape right there in Croon’s office, and it looked exactly like Tad.

“There’s your devil,” said Dr. Croon, as the coal-eyed stinking demon snarled and leaped towards Tad’s throat. “And it’s coming for you.”

Tad writhed as the demon pushed into him completely, forcing all its matter back inside Tad’s body. Tad convulsed for the last time and his features shimmered back to normal, as if nothing had ever been cast out.

Dr. Croon pulled out his smart phone and called Sally the janitor.

“Hey, Sally,” he announced. “This Tad guy seems to have had a stroke or something like that in my office.” He looked at the paper bag full of money on his desk and said “I’m giving you a discount. You don’t have to pay for the removal of the body, the police will do that for free. I’m calling them now.”

Dr. Croon knew it was a bit of a risk, having the police involved, but Tad looked peaceful there lying with one hand over his heart; the Coroner’s report would diagnose a burst aneurism. Croon picked the jewel encrusted spectacles off the floor, carefully examined the lenses under the office’s fluorescent lights, and secured them back in the gold box.

∼ Harrison Kim

© Copyright Harrison Kim All Rights Reserved.

Redress of Grievances

~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

“William James, come out tonight, for we have things to say; come out, come out, and be about, moonlight will show you the way …”

Insistent voices penetrate your dreams. Late these winter nights, you lie awake. They’ve been haunting you since you moved here, your family’s old estate in rural Salem. At last, you can stand it no longer. Donning warm coat and scarf and a pair of stout boots, you’re out the door. But first, you grab your father’s Glock, in case you find some homeless tramp out there. He wouldn’t be the first you “accidentally” killed for trespassing. Shooting a loser just might rid you of the voices in your head. You almost warm to the idea, but the chill wind rasps your skin and settles in your bones.

Your land at North Shore was once a part of Salem. Your family owned a substantial deal of it. Regular churchgoers, so righteous in their condemnation of those at Trials. Falsely accused as witches, the doomed were often burned alive. But that was long ago, and certainly no part of your affair. Catching a whiff of smoke, your eyes turn to the horizon. A light in the distance, could it be witches’ torches, or pagan’s rites? Your fingers curl around the gun in your pocket. As you near, the shadows take on human forms, their spectral faces pale and still. The Glock forgotten, you’re pinned by a mother’s glare, a father’s snarl, vengeful eyes around the fire. With a gasp, you realize you can see through them.

“William James, even as your ancestors, you’ve carried on most sinful acts with no remorse; driven your tenants to sell out, and granting them no respite. You’ve raped and beaten their women, even children alike. For shame! We’ve come to see you get your due.”

Like a driveling fool, you beg salvation. Deaf to your pleas, the spectral gathering closes in. You must give over, you’re the last of your vile kin. These ones have waited centuries to square things up. Tonight, your flesh will feed the flames.

∼ Marge Simon

© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.

Strange Encounters

~ afstewart ~ 6 Comments

As I walked over this lonely stretch of road, I counted my steps and watched the moonlight flicker among the trees. A fog crept over the asphalt, stirred by the wind, making it hard to discern where I was going.
Where am I going? I don’t know. I’m just walking…
Maybe it was the night, but I felt adrift in the shadows with no direction, the smell of autumn’s decay around me, the hard gravel of the roadside under my feet. Nothing but a misty horizon of desolation as my destination.
Am I eternally doomed to walk this long road?
A sound. The humming motor of a car. I turned. Headlights illuminated the night.
They’re slowing down. Stopping.
The passenger side window whirred open, and a young man leaned over the seat and smiled at me. “You need a ride, pretty lady?”
I smiled back and nodded, so he popped open the car door. Slipping inside, I sank into the seat and closed the door. The car remained idling. The driver leaned in, too close, his hand on my leg.
“How did you get stranded out here? Not the place to be walking alone. Especially at night. It isn’t safe.” He smirked.
Scooting closer to the door, I replied, “I was left out here. Can we get going?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” The car lurched forward, back on the road. “Good thing I came along, though.” He reached over and patted my knee, his fingers squeezing. “A sweet thing like you shouldn’t be neglected. You needed a big, strong man to rescue you.”
“From what?” I pushed his hand away. He moved it back to the steering wheel.
“Guess you’re not from around here. This is Applewood Road. Known for car crashes, disappearances, people wandering with no memory. Legend has it that a ghost haunts the area.” He chuckled. “Just superstition, of course, but this road isn’t always safe.”
I smiled again, this time with a hint of fang. “I’ve never seen a ghost.”
Grabbing the steering wheel, I yanked hard, simultaneously unlocking his seatbelt.
He screamed, “What the hell, bitch!” and cursed as the car careened into a ditch, crumpling the front end. The airbag prevented him from going through the shattered windshield, but he smashed his head against the driver’s door.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I wriggled from underneath the deployed airbag and pulled his unconscious body closer. I sank my fangs deep into his neck and drank my fill, savouring the sweet nectar of his blood until his heartbeat slowed, then stopped. I shoved his corpse back into the driver’s seat and licked my lips. The final touch was collecting a shard of glass from the dash and shoving into his neck to cover my bite mark.
Clambering out of the ruined car, I dusted off my clothes and climbed back to the road. I glanced back at the wreck.
“You were right, this road is dangerous.”
I laughed and started the long walk back to town. I had to inform the sheriff the job was done, and he had another death to cover up.
And one less predator roaming Applewood Road.

Splintering

~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 3 Comments

I pound my bloodied and torn fists against the sides of the box that I find myself trapped in, but it is a useless effort – there is no way out.  Scratching, clawing, even chewing at a tiny splinter I may have created in my mad scramblings does me no good. Bloodied and raw, I fill with a pressure that threatens to burst from my filthy being, further contaminating my raw and polluted soul.

There is no way out – there is no escape from the physically crushing, mind bending weight of this prison. I beg to be saved from this anguish in which I languor; but there is no salvation, not for me, not for one so undeserving, so uncherished, so unloved.  There is only the false glimmer of light my inner demon allows me to glimpse so that I may be tortured further.

Bloodied, scrapped, tattered and torn, a thing not palatable to any other, I slide to my scuffed and rent knees to become a pile of bleeding flesh that has been ravaged by the walls that surround me. I bend forward clutching at the only thing I have left, myself, and allow the wailing to erupt from my stricken lungs, my raw throat; I bellow the moan I’ve been containing for so long.

My demon laughs; he finds my horror of an existence a great delight. I am a toy to be played with to pass the eternal time in which he shall dwell within me.  I can not escape him, though I try – all the more to his amusement. He watches me struggle so futilely; he basks in the tightening of breath that can no longer escape my burning chest; he hears my moans of agony and licks the salty tears that streak my filth ridden face.  He is my tormentor, he is my key, he is my only chance for salvation – though he shall never grant it.

The walls of the box are by now so raw with splinters from my scrapings that no matter where I lay my broken body for comfort, I find none. There is only jagged surface to be found here, a prison so impenetrable no one but I shall ever glimpse it, nor shall I ever be released from it. I have no false hope, only a fool would hope for mercy from such a beast.  Though a fool I am, I am not that fool…

Laying weeping in a pool of my own tears, blood and shattered dreams, I can find no blame other than my own. My demon chuckles as he reminds me the box is of my own design, made impregnable by my own failings.

Yet still, I rub my ragged and blood caked palm along the wall hoping to find the smallest fissure, an mere indentation, any sign at all that can offer me even the falsest of hopes that someday I will break free – but there is none.  There never has been.

In this box I feel my deepest desires turned to dust; my most cherished dreams denied; my fate sealed.  In this box I find my demon observing my anguish, relishing its unending torture and its most exquisite pains.  Here I am me – I am this quivering thing that lies upon the floor begging for a mercy of freedom that will never come; just a small measure of what others are granted, but no – not me. I shall never have the experience of those things, for I am destined to scrape and scratch and gnaw away at this unyielding box that is both miniscule yet cavernous at the same time.

Why will it not swallow me and end this pathetic shadow I have become of my former self, I do not know … so that my demon may have a thing with which to entertain itself? Consume me I beg of it, but it will not – what use am I to the box if it has no grief to feed from; no pain to color its darkened walls with; no feather left to pluck with which to brush itself clean.

My demon wants me locked in this box of misery and pain, perhaps only because it seeks the same thing I do – a companion of equal measure. It lives a lone existence as well, though I believe it was meant to, whereas I am meant for more, I am meant to be freed from this punji ridden hell of eternal despair.

But that is yet another false hope; another path to mental depravity that I shall have to avoid for as long as I can. Just one more shattered possibility in a world filled with tightly sealed boxes. Yet without these boxes, would I not be an empty shell? Another harsh reality to be born on the back of so many other realities I wish were not mine. But the lie told children that wishes will come true is just that, a lie; and the box containing my soul is shoved just a bit farther out of reach, the desperate moaning a bit more frantic, the laughter of my demon that much stronger – with a promise that one day I will succumb to its crippling madness.

∼ Nina D’Arcangela

© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela. All Rights Reserved.

The Hunter’s Heart

~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 3 Comments

They told tales of her heart. They said she was a wild woman, a hunter, living off of the flesh of her traps. In life, she was little more than a dark spectre moving in fleeting glimpses at the edge of village life. In death, her sightings were all the more thrilling, her tales all the more chilling.

No one quite agreed how she died. Some said it was her own traps that caught her, leaving her prey to the appetites of the wild. Some said it was a human beast that preyed upon her, a lover turned wild by her feral influence. Still others said it was her own dark dealings, dues collected on devilish debts. Yet every story told of her heart: of it beating, even now, out in the shadows of the trees.

He had heard the tales. He had scoffed, yet also wondered. And now, out among the trees and darkness, the stories came back to him. The stories, and the sound. The pulsing thump-thump that seemed to come from all around. From the shadows. From the very trees. Steady, but growing louder. He felt the fear of prey, felt the dreadful certainty of a hunter drawing near. He stood frozen, as though stillness would save him.

But when the pace quickened, he knew too well that the hunt was on.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

© Copyright Miriam H. Harrison. All Rights Reserved.

A Christmas Story

~ Richard Meldrum ~ 3 Comments

The room looked like a scene from a Christmas movie. It was five o’clock and he was ready for their first Christmas together. Glancing round the lounge, he checked one last time to ensure everything was in place and just right. She would be home from work soon and he wanted it all to be perfect for her. It was a shame she had to work on Christmas Eve, but he’d lost his job and that meant she had to work as many hours as possible to keep up with the bills. He felt bad about it, but he did his best to make sure the house was tidy and there was always a meal ready for her when she got home.

The logs in the fireplace were burning brightly and the mantelpiece was festooned with a festive garland of holly, ivy and spruce. The Christmas tree sat in the corner of the lounge, resplendent with twinkling lights and sparkling baubles. It was a little bit too big for the room, but it was the perfect shape and you couldn’t beat having a real tree.

He’d placed Christmas decorations round the room, just as she had dictated. A pair of small pottery Victorian street scenes, backlit with tea-lights, sat on the mantelpiece. On the dresser was a small porcelain Christmas tree, complete with a tiny train winding its way up towards the star that crowned the top. Candles, dotted around the room added to the ambience.

He glanced at his watch again, if her train had been on schedule she would be at the station by now, climbing into her car to make the short drive home. He knew the roads were clear of snow, so it shouldn’t take her too long.

He clumsily knocked over a candle on the fireplace; it hit the stockings, causing an instant conflagration. Suddenly there was fire and smoke. He clutched his throat, he couldn’t breathe. His arms flailed about in front of him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t find his way out. He could feel the heat on his face, vaguely aware of the flames as they exploded from the fireplace and flowed like liquid over the Christmas tree. He stumbled over the furniture as he tried to escape. The noise of cracking wood and collapsing timbers was insanely loud. He fell to his knees in the smoke, blinded and choking. Darkness overtook him.

He woke and found himself still in the lounge. The room was a charred mess. He couldn’t quite believe it; somehow he had survived the inferno. He rose, checking his body. His clothes weren’t even charred, despite the heat of the fire. He stepped outside into the cold air of a winter’s night. The sky was clear, with twinkling stars and a full moon. It was quiet, the snow damping all sound. He glanced back at the house and saw skeletal roof timbers, black against the moonlight. The entire house had obviously been engulfed. Destroyed.

“How did I survive?”

He realised with a sense of infinite sadness he hadn’t. He couldn’t have. His body must have been completely cremated by the heat. He was…something. A ghost, a spirit. He felt nothing for himself, his sadness was for her. Thankfully, she hadn’t been home, that was the only saving grace. She had survived.

Weeks and months passed without notice. Time had no meaning in his new world. There were no seasons for him. It was always winter; it was always Christmas Eve. He knew he would forever be stuck in this ruined house, in the depths of winter. Alone.

His version of Hell was cold.

∼ RJ Meldrum

© Copyright RJ Meldrum. All Rights Reserved.

Pick Me Island

~ Elaine Pascale ~ 2 Comments

When the plane had to make an emergency landing in the Bermuda triangle, twelve girls swam to the closest land mass. They had been on a school trip, heading to Puerto Rico, and engaging in “compulsory volunteer work” with Habitat for Humanity.

Eight of the girls had resigned themselves to learning basic construction. They had hoped to get tan and perhaps meet some cute local boys who would entertain them in the evenings. The other four wanted nothing to do with the group. They declared loudly and often that they were “not like other girls” and were proud of their uniqueness.

“I don’t think we will meet any boys here,” Amber said, scanning the small island.

“Unless they’re part of a rescue mission,” Beth added hopefully.

The group explored the shore, with the mission of finding drinkable water or food. They stumbled over large bones that did not look as if they belonged to fish.

“Is that predator or prey?” Callie asked one of the “not like other girls” members. This one routinely skipped the school uniform and instead wore band t-shirts featuring obscure musicians that no one else was cool enough to recognize.

The girl didn’t answer, which was her usual response.

After finding zero coconut trees, the group began to consider other means of sustenance. Darcy turned to the “not like other girls” who always wore a taxidermized squirrel pinned to her uniform sweater.  “Can you catch us something to eat? Like a fish or bird or…egg or something?” she asked.

“I’m vegan,” squirrel girl replied.

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Wearing that?” She pointed at the squirrel that was worse for the wear.

 Squirrel girl shrugged. “I didn’t kill it. Besides, we came into the world alone, we exist alone, and we die alone. I suggest we split up.”

The eight “joiners” were losing patience with the “not like other girls” crew, but they did not want to split up either. They believed there was strength in numbers.

Emily suggested that they build a shelter. The eight joiners gathered fronds and sticks and attempted to craft a makeshift tent while three of the other four sat and stared at the horizon. The remaining “not like other girls” member practiced yoga poses which is what she had been doing in the aisles of the airplane before the sudden landing

Fern looked at the “not like other girls” member who was cradling the thermos she always carried. The girl proclaimed the thermos to be full of alcohol and would make a show of sipping from it during class.
“Let me have your thermos, for the fire,” Fern said.

“It’s only water,” the girl replied.  

“Good, let’s reserve it,” Gina suggested. “It’s not much, but we can add to it if it rains. In fact, we should gather shells and other items to act as water containers…”

As predicted, eight girls searched for large shells and washed-up items to retain rainwater and four girls contributed nothing.

As the sun sank beneath the horizon and the island became bathed in darkness, sounds of a strange creature could be heard.

Eight girls hovered beneath their shelter, while the other four shrank into the foliage.

“That shelter is not gluten-free,” one of the four whispered, more to herself than to her companions. They listened as the grunts and snorts grew closer.

They smelled her before they saw her.

A girl-like creature lumbered toward them. She was the height of two of them put together. Her snout was long and twisted, like a caiman and her hair was alive with buzzing bees. Her skin was scaley and it glistened in the moonlight.

The eight girls in the shelter were in awe of the being. They stayed still and watched as she turned her attention to the four who were screaming from the foliage.

An impressive blood bath ensued, and as the creature pulled a large bone from her mouth, Hattie exclaimed, “She really isn’t like other girls.”

∼ Elaine Pascale

© Copyright Elaine Pascale. All Rights Reserved.

The Unshriven

~ Charles Gramlich ~ 6 Comments

They come through the tunnels of Hell into the sunlight, wearing rusted armor astride horses of gore. Ancient swords hang at rotted hips and over decaying shoulders. Some carry morning stars, or battle axes upon which the blood of old wars has dried so hard it has bonded to the steel.

In dark madness they come, up fiery slopes of magma toward the snow-capped mountains of heaven. But the holy gates are shut against them and only earth is left to abide their time.

Unshriven. Unforgiven. No Heaven or Hell will have them.

Fortunately, they find that humans are both filling and taste great.

∼ Charles Gramlich

© Copyright Charles Gramlich. All Rights Reserved.

The Stray

~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 3 Comments

The scent of rot permeated the air; I knew I was close. I could almost taste the stench. I took each step with care—silence was essential. My eyes searched the darkness between the trees, looked for any sign of its bodily form. I tried to keep my imaginings to nil, as I didn’t want to spoil my initial reaction when my eyes finally witnessed its flesh. I wanted to see the dream for what it was, not for what it could be.

Movement in the brush ahead halted my breath. I listened to the silence that followed with fierce intent. The musky air thickened. But I heard no steps approach.

My heart pounded with a concoction of fear and excitement. I’d been hunting this legend since I was a boy. Those tales told around a fire, or with a few drinks—they stuck with me. They unraveled my focus on all other things. This was what I lived for. To find out what it really was.

Local lore said it might have once been human, an orphan raised by the wilderness. Others said it might be nature herself, risen from the earth to take vengeance upon anyone it could. No matter its origin, the stories said it traveled on all fours, and its nature was vicious and feral. If you think it’s close, it’s already too late. That’s how the stories always ended.

A release of breath shattered the silent night. It was hot against the back of my neck. I slowly turned to see what I yearned so badly for. My eyes went wide and took in all the moonlight had to offer. She towered above me, bare-breasted and malformed beyond description—an amalgam of evolutionary paths borrowed from a dozen species. But aside from her eyes and nose, her face was close to human.

She stared down at me as she reared up on her hind legs and let out an animalistic vocalization of aggression. I put my palms up and backed away a step to show I wasn’t a threat. She returned to four legs on the ground, her face now level with mine.

She approached, seemingly curious, and sniffed about my shirt collar. Her smell was so awful I could barely breathe. But I was content in that moment. I finally found what I was looking for. A smile spread across my lips as she ran her tongue along my neck.

Then the pain of her teeth sunk in. I heard the rending of my flesh in her mouth as it was torn from my neck. Agony, shock, disbelief, all surged through me in crashing waves. Her front leg pinned me to the ground. My ribs audibly broke beneath the weight.

Gasping for breath and drowning in my own blood, I struggled to gaze upon her one last time before she feasted on my body.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

© Copyright Lee Andrew Forman. All Rights Reserved.

The 6,666th Circle Rotation

~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

They still scream. Even after centuries, they never stop. The flesh rots, grows back, rots again. Their throats tear anew. It’s almost musical now, like a choir stripped of harmony. All bound to one shrill note of agony.

I should be tired of it. But, honestly? The pain stains me awake.

Today I was assigned three new arrivals. All of them preachers in life, they swore their souls were flameproof. I enjoyed peeling that arrogance like parchment off of wet bone. Their tongues, once full of sermon, hung in silence from my molten iron. I keep them in the ash pits where the smoke claws the lungs until coughing turns to bleeding.

One tried to beg for mercy. I reminded him of every unanswered prayer, every molested child that never saw justice. I showed him those memories while I shoved his face into the coals and watched his face melt, again and again. Mercy tastes like ash here.

What unnerves me, what I do not record lightly, is the sound I hear when my duties are done. When the halls are quiet and only the cinders whisper, I hear…laughter. Not the shrieks of the damned, but something deeper, older. A sinister chuckle that vibrates through the stone.

We are supposed to be the tormentors, not the tormented. Yet when the laughter rises, even I feel the itch under my skin, like claws testing the limits of my sanity. Perhaps it is Hell itself, amused at us all, kings, demons and sinners alike. I end the entry here…the laughter grows closer.

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

© Copyright Kathleen McCluskey. All Rights Reserved.