Down In A Hole

June 25, 2013June 24, 2013 ~ Tyr Kieran ~ 40 Comments

His tears were lost in the pouring rain. The night, clouded over in a thick storm, was almost as pitch as the void in his soul—a mark forged by great loss, eating away at his insides until it defined him.

Rain and sorrow dripped from his face, splashing onto the raw soil below. The astringent odor of earthen mold burned in his sinuses despite the heavy storm. His middle-aged muscles burned, but their complaints fell on ignored synapses as he now ran on a higher octane fuel than human strength alone. Powered by desperation and passion, he worked feverishly, shoveling faster and faster despite the toll on his body.

“You wouldn’t want to help me, would you?” He said panting, swallowing heavy breaths between words.

A smooth voice responded from the hole’s edge above him, somehow making the faint moonlight dim further as it intoned.

“Why would I do that?” The voice crooned, dropping on him with such depth that he flinched at its weight.

“To… to speed things up.”

“Time is of no consequence for me.”

“But, w… what if the effort strains my heart and I go into cardiac arrest?”

“Hmph, that would speed things up, wouldn’t it?”

The man cursed to himself and continued in his labor. He dug the rich, dense soil, carving deeper into the flesh of the earth. It wasn’t long before the frenzy of his passion succumbed to exhaustion. His body wore down, opening the door for all his emotions to flow free.

Slowing to a stop, he dropped to his knees in the saturated mud and sobbed. “I’ve missed her so much. She was everything to me!”

He cried amid the harsh applause of the rain as it pummeled his world.

“I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since she died.”

“Oh, do tell.” Oily, sighing sarcasm.

“I feel empty without her. I’ve lost the desire to eat, food is tasteless now. I have to gag it down just to survive, but I don’t—”

“Do I really have to listen to this? At least dig while you complain, Frank.”

The man did as he was asked, sobering slightly from the hint of anger in the dark voice above.

“She had so much life ahead of her. We, had so much life ahead of us, together. All of it gone in a stupid car accident. Why did she have to die?”

The thing sighed. “Does that really matter at this point?”

“But you’re going to change that.” Frank said, ignoring the question. “You can bring her back! I’ll be able to hold her again, feel her heart beating against mine. It’ll be just like before the crash.”

“Not quite. Do not forget the terms of our agreement.”

Frank shoveled in silence like a scolded child until his spade hit something with a solid thud. His passion returned and he scrambled to uncover the coffin. With a few chops of the shovel blade, Frank disengaged the locks and opened the lid to reveal a young woman dressed in white.

He plunged his hands beneath the corpse and pulled her against him.

“Mandy! Oh, my darling!”

Her lifeless body hung from his arms. Rain pelted her face. The funereal makeup rinsed away, exposing bruises and glued lacerations along her marbled skin. Mud sullied the angelic-white gown. Before Frank could turn to look out of the grave with a ‘What now?’ expression, the dead woman began to stir.

“Mandy, Honey, can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered and a groan oozed from her pale lips.

“It’s me,” Frank said, leaning back to look at her. “I’m here, now. You were in an accident, but I’m going to make it all better.”

“No, no, no,” she moaned and flailed her arms in feeble swipes at the air between them.

“I don’t think she wants to come back,” the dark figure added, chuckling with the gritty sound of rattling coal.

“She’s just in shock,” Frank snapped. “Give her a few moments to adjust.”

Mandy’s eyes opened and focused on his face. “Wha— But, I was—”

“It’s okay, Sweetie.”

“No, I don’t want to be here.”

“You’re just scared and confused. It’s—”

“I don’t want to be here!” She screamed and tried to squirm free of his grasp. “Get away from me!”

“Don’t say that, Honey.”

“Why won’t you leave me alone? I had to kill myself to get away from you and I’ll do it again!”

“But, the love we shared, it’s deeper than—”

“No!” Twisting her body, Mandy slid out of his arms and clawed at the mud walls of her grave.

“Please, Honey.” The man pleaded with outstretched arms. “Don’t push me away, I love you! We can be together again, just like before.”

A guttural laugh descended upon them. “It doesn’t seem like your student enjoyed it the first time, Frank.”

“It’s just the resurrection, she’s confused!”

“Really? Well, let’s make sure she understands, then, shall we?” The shadowed figure crouched down and spoke in a casual, sincere tone. “Mandy.”

“What? Who…” She search frantically for the origin of the voice, but couldn’t see past the driving rain with her clouded eyes.

“Your professor, here, is trying to reincarnate your lives together. Is that what you want?”

“N-no.” She sobbed and pointed a decaying finger at the man. “Keep him away! He raped me. He raped me repeatedly and blackmailed me to keep quiet. I’d rather die again!”

“Well, there you have it, Frank. You fucked the life right out of her long before the car crash took it.”

“Hey!” He shouted back, furious passion giving him false confidence. “A deal’s a deal, take my soul and let us go home.”

Everything stopped suddenly. The moonlight vanished, the rain ceased to fall, and the ambient noises fell silent for one long moment. Then, Frank knew why.

Cloaked in darkness, the demon landed in front of him with a teeth jarring explosion. Mud splashed over him like an ocean wave, the wet earth beneath him quaked despite its saturated surface, the rain renewed its heavy assault, and the creature’s voice pounded his eardrums.

“Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Mortal!”

Frank still couldn’t see more than just a shadowed form, but he felt the demon’s presence—hot breath pluming against his face and the pressure behind its voice seemingly added weight to the air.

Frank trembled violently and lost control of his bladder.

“Please,” he said, his voice meek and broken. “I need her!”

The demon reached out, placing a dark tendril on Mandy’s head, and commanded, “SLEEP!”

Her panic-stricken reincarnation came to an end. She collapsed at once and lay in the mud unmoving like the corpse she was and is again.

“No.” Frank croaked, his throat swollen with fear and despair.

The creature’s appendage turned to Frank and wrapped around his neck. It cinched tight and lifted him off the ground.

Now face to face with the demon, he finally saw its eyes. Painful to witness, Frank saw worlds of fire, grotesque creatures and beings of torment, gore and death, and horrors his brain couldn’t comprehend.

“You betrayed a student’s trust, abusing your mortal powers,” the demon said. “You destroyed her soul just to get your rocks off, then you sought to bring her back and live it all over again. Even I find that repulsive. You, Frank, deserve my worst.”

“But—”

“Let’s take the elevator all the way down, shall we? I want to introduce you to your new bed-mate.”

~ Tyr Kieran

Pandemonium

June 18, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ Daemonwulf ~ 36 Comments

The Call of Pandemonium

Staring out at the city of death, an exhausted Hannah sat sucking into her lungs the humidity that drifted in through the empty windowpane. On a side table, her dinner plate of raw meat was brimming with life as a cadre of beetles enjoyed her ignored meal.

With an appetite for only one thing, Hannah remembered her hunger. Sipping from a goblet of wine, she watched the fire burn in the distance.

Without anyone in the city concerned about extinguishing the blaze, the fire made an easy feast of the abandoned building. Its shuttered windows and splintered timbers providing the right fuel for the eager flames.

Smoke billowed up into the night sky as a series of new explosions rocketed skyward, sending fingers of death boiling through the surrounding streets. The silhouettes of a hundred riderless horses stood before the blaze, their black shapes stomping at the ground as if they themselves were enraged.

Raising her glass, Hannah finished with a long swallow as the entire city block was consumed in red hatred.

Standing, she removed her stained blouse and soiled leather pants, dropping them on the floor beside the bed. Her clothing made the room smell of smoke.

***

The girl labored among the rubbish, moving across the mounds of filth with the deftness of an accomplished thief rather than that of the young child she actually was. Her ability to scamper nimbly up and over the detritus spoke to her eternity of slavery.

No more than nine years old, she had the gait of a woman whose body had seen far more years of labor than it otherwise should have. A dull haze coated once-bright blue eyes revealing her truth — that of having been broken long ago.

Working among the acres of rot, her bared legs and shoeless feet were sucked deep into the mouth of death with each step she took. Navigating the piles of dismembered bodies, the child retrieved one bone after another, scraping into a gore-soaked bucket the remaining meat that clung to each discarded limb.

Paying little attention to the itching on her arms, she continued about her tasks, ignoring the hordes of maggots that swarmed her flesh, turning it into a writhing mass. Such was the nature of her work for the Prince’s harvest in the killing fields.

***

Hannah walked into the bathroom and flicked on the light switch. The dim bulb set the floor into motion as cockroaches scattered.

Stepping into the shower, the cold stones lining the compartment providing the slightest hint of relief to her aching feet, she turned the faucet with a rusty creak, and a baptismal spray of rank water stung her skin.

Subconsciously, she scratched at the droplets as they beat against her body. As broken fingernails rubbed her arms raw, all she could think of was maggots.

***

“GIRL!” The deep voice boomed across the field as two sharp cracks from a whip opened red gashes on the child’s bare shoulders.

Cowering, the pain like a slice of ragged glass across flesh, she fell to her knees in the abattoir.

Again, the voice.

“Are you not listening, you insolent little bitch?” More statement than question.

The blade of the dressing knife in her left hand dribbled unknown fluids onto the ground as a swarm of flies buzzed the cage of small human ribs she held in her grime-caked right hand. Hesitantly, she looked up to meet the gaze of her attacker.

Xaphan, the harvest commander and one of the Prince’s recent conscripts stared down at her with serpentine eyes that were the color of jade. He sat atop an armor-clad steed that belched cold mist from its nostrils and kicked at the ground, snapping human remains under its feet.

“Why is it you ignore me, you filthy abomination? Do you somehow think yourself of far more importance than to listen when the Commander of the Harvest addresses you?” Xaphan snarled.

“Forgive me, but I was simply busying myself with the tasks that have been selected for me,” the young Hannah responded, her voice tentative, a single tear clearing a path through the human grime that smeared her face.

Xaphan studied the girl, an air of superiority evident on his face. For an instant, he thought he noticed the familiar spark of hatred in her otherwise darkened eyes. Sure he was correct, he flashed a gratified smile.

“Come here, you little gutter pig,” he ordered, the whip snapping again, striking Hannah’s bare legs where they poked out beneath a tattered dress. “I’ve been instructed to find you among this filth and deliver you to the Great Hall. By the death of me I don’t know what the Prince wants with shit such as you. But you must come. And somehow find some way to clean yourself up!”

Hannah dropped the carcass of the human child from which she’d been scavenging. It landed atop the pile of cleaned bones with a hollow clatter. Retrieving the bucket of harvested meat, she cautiously edged her way toward Xaphan and his steed. Both of the monsters stared down at her – two pairs of matching green eyes.

“But, it’s not for me to question His motives, only to do as He asks. Follow me, girl!”

With that, Xaphan jerked the reins of the great beast, steering him through the human debris. Hannah fell in behind, following them from the killing fields. It would become her last time working Satan’s Harvest.

***

Running wet fingers through her filthy blonde hair, Hannah massaged her scalp under the blood-tinged spray. The water sluiced off her bare skin, sweeping away the coating of death that was her normal state of being. Hell worked its way into each and every of her pores until she, now, had almost become one with it.

Almost, Hannah thought as she watched the drain at her feet swallow the shit of her existence.

Rubbing the muscles of her arms, Hannah thought about how much she hated the Prince; and how much she despised even more his disciple, Xaphan.

***

Even freedom following an eternity of torture is incapable of removing the pain inflicted during captivity. Nor does it absolve the actions of one’s tormentors. By now, Hannah knew this all too well, which is why she had spent an age searching Hell for the soul of the murderous human known as the Hunter. She ultimately found him in the last place she wanted to look – the killing fields.

Himself having suffered at the hand of Xaphan when he’d foolishly bargained with his own soul in the human world, the Hunter had spent far more years trolling the boneyard than even Hannah herself. If there was a single one of Hell’s denizens that would be able to get her what she needed, she knew it was him.

Confident in the knowledge that the Hunter was unaware that the shadows following him contained anything more than darkness, Hannah was able to hide within the murk with ease. After years of practiced invisibility living within the Prince’s dominion, she had become highly skilled at navigating the streets of Hell unseen. She now watched as the Hunter, a bag slung over his shoulder, entered the abandoned structure. And, as expected, a few moments later, a dark figure flashing green eyes slipped from the shadows, following him inside.

The time has come, Hannah thought, as she followed them into the building.

From deep within the gloom of the warehouse, Hannah saw the flash of those familiar serpentine eyes. And then she heard the booming voice of Xaphan for the first time in uncounted ages.

“Why you ungrateful murderous deviant, we had a deal,” Xaphan spat the words into the Hunter’s face. “Don’t you remember? In that special spot of yours where you realized so many desires of the flesh?”

“That was then. This is now. And this time, Xaphan, I hold the cards.” The Hunter responded, shaking the sack in front of him, the wound that Xaphan had long-ago sliced into his bare chest visible in the dim light.

“But that’s where you’re wrong, fool. As long as your soul exists, you’re mine. I carry the collateral within me always,” the demon said, patting his stomach.

“But, as we know Xaphan, deals made between liars are likely to be broken. It just depends on which liar strikes first.”

“Give me what’s rightfully mine,” Xaphan ordered, reaching a taloned hand towards the bag.

“Not this time, oh great commander of the Harvest,” said Hannah, stepping from her hiding place.

“Ah, do my ears and eyes deceive, or is it my little scavenging pig?” Xaphan asked, turning in Hannah’s direction.

As planned, the Hunter turned the bag upside down, spilling the contents onto the floor with a clatter. Inside the bag was a pile of bones. Each one meticulously stripped clean, the flesh long ago having been harvested, consumed and then shat out by the denizens of Hell.

Reaching into the deepest pocket of her overcoat, Hannah removed a flare, striking the end and lighting the flame. Sparks flew through the air and bounced along the floor where they landed. For the first time that she could remember, she saw fear in Xaphan’s eyes.

“Go, Hunter. Your work is done,” Hannah ordered.

Having maintained his end of the bargain to locate the demon’s human remains in Hell’s boneyard, the Hunter ran from the building, his footfalls echoing through the void.

Once again alone and facing her demon torturer, Hannah spoke evenly, sure of her every word.

“Funny it is that how an eternity in Hell can change everything, and yet nothing at all…”

The flare in her hand illuminated all that remained of the human man who’d become the demon Xaphan after his own millennia of torture.

Refusing to beg, the demon explained, “Oh Hannah, even with all your years, what you still do not yet know about the ways of existence. It never actually ever ends. Once one is over, the next begins and so we experience yet another in a series of painful paths.”

“Well, if that’s the case, commander of lies, it appears it’s now time for your soul to find that new path. As it’s said: ashes to ashes…”

With those words, Hannah dropped the flare onto the pile of Xaphan’s brittle bones. At first they hissed and then burst into blue flame.

The demon let loose his last blasphemous cry. It was a scream that echoed throughout the city of death. As the last vestiges of his humanity burned, Xaphan’s demonic soul began to melt, pieces of it slapping onto the floor at his feet.

Hannah took a few steps backward as flame consumed the human bones, bringing an end to the demon. Fire licked upward, sparking the rafters and spreading through the building. Hannah turned, walking out the doorway and out into the perpetual darkness.

Far off in the distance, from the direction of Pandemonium, she heard the sound of a hundred sets of hooves as the horses thundered through Hell. The Prince’s dark forces were on their way.

Hannah merged into the shadows and walked away unseen by the lost souls who now gathered on the street to watch the death of one of Abbadon’s greatest angels.

***

Refreshed from her shower of blood, Hannah poured herself another glass of wine. Surveying her handiwork, she watched as Hell burned. The landscape of decay, bathed in the blood of tortured souls, spread as far as she could see until it melted into the eastern horizon.

Somewhere outside, within the city of death, she knew that a Hunter was running for his life. Perhaps he would find a place to hide. Or maybe he would simply return to the familiarity of the killing fields. To Hannah, it didn’t matter either way. She knew that the angels of death would pursue him far beyond the fields and for time without end, sure that it was he who had been responsible for bringing about the destruction of one of the Prince’s own.

Confident with her plan now in motion, Hannah sat and consumed her victory. One glorious day, she would take her rightful place. It would be the day she re-entered the Great Hall of Castle Pandemonium and claimed the throne of Hell after finally defeating Prince Abbadon himself.

~ Daemonwulf

This post is dedicated to Hannah Sears, our own Angel of Death and Damnation and winner of the Pen of the Damned anniversary sweepstakes

The Roommate from Hell

January 29, 2013February 8, 2013 ~ Daemonwulf ~ 39 Comments

Day 3

I have a new roommate. And he’s the roommate from hell.

I realize that phrase is thrown around a lot, usually to describe housemates whose behaviors range from the mildly annoying peccadillo to acts of full-blown psychosis. You know the type. We’ve all had them. But this is different. I’m now completely convinced there’s a demon living in my apartment.

Day 4

While no beauty by any measure, he’s not as repulsive as you might think. But he does have a slight odor, like a wet blanket left out too long in the rain.

His skin is nearly translucent — much like watered-down milk, and you can almost see the veins crisscrossing his body beneath. He appears cold to the touch, mainly smooth, but with a few wrinkles here and there, especially where his skin hangs loose on his bones. It flaps around as he moves — an altogether unpleasant sight.

He’s much shorter than I imagined a demon would be, and has a small, wide nose that’s almost squashed. Perhaps broken in some hellish brawl. His eyes are big and round. They’re slightly recessed and stare out at me from beneath an overly large forehead. A chubby belly jiggles when he waddles around the room on fat little legs that are out of proportion to the rest of his body. It’s amazing how quickly they can move, and he with them. Oh, and he wears short, yellow pants.

Day 7

I’ve come to the conclusion that he believes I can’t see him. I know this because he engages in a host of activities that would normally be reserved for times of personal isolation. He frequently gnaws on his long nails, whittling them down so the nubs of his fingers are raw and then spitting the remains all over the floor. He also picks his nose and flicks the dried clumps of mucus through the air. And I have to say I was quite shocked the first time I saw him pull his little pecker from his pants and happily go to work on it.

When the demon isn’t gnawing at, picking in or jerking off his own parts, he can be found sitting calmly in the chair behind me — waiting and watching. Watching television. Watching me. Sometimes he’ll stare almost wistfully out the window, even though there’s little to see — buildings stretching to the horizon, their smokestacks belching exhaust into the haze-filled skies. He’s there right now, staring at me. Something tells me he has no plans to leave.

Day 12

My demon’s started jogging. For the last three nights I’ve lain in bed listening to the patter of fast little feet as he runs the length of the apartment. He starts in the kitchen, races down the hallway to the front door, gleefully slides on the polished wood floor, spins and runs back again. When he passes the open doorway to my bedroom he’s little more than a blur. Only a few days ago I would’ve thought it odd for a demon to be jogging around my home. Now it’s become routine. His initial runs lasted for only a few minutes, but now he keeps it up for most of the night. He may be trying to drive me mad from lack of sleep.

Day 15

Today when I came home from work, the front door was locked — from the inside. It took some doing before I’d succeeded in breaking the door frame and forcing my way into the house. Once I’d made it inside, the demon ignored me. He sat, nonchalantly rocking back and forth and swinging his short legs to and fro like a recalcitrant child. The half smile on his pale face was almost a sneer, and his mouth flashed rotting teeth. I have to admit, he’s beginning to frighten me.

Day 21

I haven’t been outside in days for fear the demon won’t let me back in. Work stopped calling long ago. I’m sure I’ve been fired. And the food is running out. He has a voracious appetite, eating everything in sight. First it was the sweets — cookies, candies, cakes and all the sodas are long gone. Then he started in on the meats. He’s made the kitchen a filthy mess — countertops cluttered with unwashed pans, walls spattered with grease and foodstuff littering the floor from his failed attempts at frying, boiling, stewing and simmering everything in the house. I’m beginning to wonder how long I can take this.

Day 25

Last night, while I was asleep, he took a bite out of my thigh. I don’t know how he accomplished it without my knowledge, but he did. What do I know about the anesthetizing powers of the supernatural otherworld? Whatever it was, it worked, and I woke up this morning missing a large chunk of my flesh that, I must say, I’d become quite fond of. I realize he’s not likely to go away on his own; I must do something.

Day 27

Fever has wracked my body from the infection caused by his bite. I can’t even sit up to type. I think I’ll rest a bit longer today.

Day 30

This morning I cut off my leg. Unable to control the spread of the infection, I had no other choice. I wrapped it in a dirty sheet and hid it beneath my bed. I hope he doesn’t sneak in while I’m asleep and make a meal of it. I want to keep my body parts as far away from his as possible. I hear him on the other side of the door. He’s giggling.

Day 35

Yesterday my fever finally broke. And with my strength slowly returning, I started planning. After so many days locked in my room I’m badly undernourished. The flesh from my amputated leg will only sustain me for so long.

Day 36

I finally did it! Last night I struck! With a knife I’d secreted from the foul-smelling kitchen, I fashioned a spear by duct taping the blade to the remains of my tattered leg.

Once the demon had completed several laps down the hallway, I went for it. As he passed the doorway, I thrust my makeshift weapon into his path. The blade caught him mid-stride, severing his Achilles tendon, causing him to scream in pain and sending him tumbling head over heels into the front door where he crashed with such a noise it startled me.

I warily crawled to his side. And when I was sure he was out cold I grabbed his fat leg and sunk my teeth deep into the meat of his upper thigh. I have to say he tasted a bit like chicken. When I bit down, I felt his bone splinter between my jaws.

My bite shocked him back into consciousness with a keening wail that I was sure would wake the dead. I didn’t care if it had, choosing instead to relish watching him scamper away, groaning in agony.

Day 39

Things have been quiet. I haven’t seen the demon for more than 24 hours. Two days ago I heard the sound of breaking glass. I want to imagine he jumped through the window, meeting his death on the street below. But without the strength to check, I just lay here reveling in the fantasy. All that’s left for me to eat are the few remaining pieces of meat on my souring leg, and the horde of flies and maggots that have found a home there. I can only take a couple bites at a time, barely able to choke down the rotting pieces of my own flesh.

Day 40

He wasn’t dead after all. Last night he started the fire.

The flames made quick work of my cheap bedroom door, allowing him to break through. When he crawled across the threshold, I could tell he was in bad shape. The infection from my bite had taken its toll. As he dragged himself through the flames I realized the source of the crash I’d heard. In his crippled and feverish state, he must’ve fallen onto the dining room table. Shards of glass were now embedded in his cheeks and protruded from his forehead, creating dangerous spiked horns where there had been none.

To an outsider we must have looked quite the pair. Two crippled souls laying on the floor of a rancid, smoke-filled apartment that smelled of waste and death. He slowly dragged his body forward through the filth. But due to his lack of nails, he was unable to gain much purchase on the slippery wood floor, the manicured nubs of his fingers offering little traction.

I saw the desperation in his eyes as he pulled himself toward me. That’s when I realized he was far too weak and broken. During my self-imposed isolation, I’d been preparing, sharpening my own talons. My clawed fingers, combined with the scales that undulate in waves across my body ensured that I’d be more effective at dragging myself along the floor and plucking those hideous blue eyes from his skull before he could get hold of my own beautiful fiery reds.

~ Daemonwulf

The Devil Inside

January 8, 2013July 22, 2020 ~ jlwallen ~ 14 Comments

The vestments were always a bit tight, heavy. With each attack upon my faith, they burned my skin and made bitter my memory. They were, however, my duty. The Vatican, my employer. No matter how many times I’d been spit at, violated, and broken, my goal was to cleanse the colors of evil from man’s palette.

“Father, oh Father. Thank God you have arrived. The boy, he’s grown worse.”

“Your name?” I had little time for pleasantries, but knowing the names of those that would serve as my assistants made the rites and rituals far easier.

“I am terribly sorry. My name is Isobelle. I am the Abbess of St. Belle’s Orphanage.”

“Do you know the Rite of Exorcism?”

The sister gave pause, looked at the cracked and aged hardwood floor at her feet. “I must apologize, Father, I do not.”

“Ignorance of the Rite was one of the hurdles of having such a secretive arm of the Holy See. It is not a problem, Sister, I will guide you.”

As I was taking off my rain-soaked jacket, a low, creaking moan filled the air. The ambient temperature noticeably dropped.

“We have carefully examined the files and recordings you sent. Have there been any changes?”

Sister Isobelle stopped. The look on her face was drawn and hollow. “Yes.”

I stared, waiting for the thought to be completed. The Sister remained silent. The low moan was joined by a chorus of hideous screams. As the retched sounds reached a fevered pitch, Sister Isobelle slapped her hands to her ears. Tears flooded her mottled cheeks.

“Sister, you must be strong. Now, take me to the boy.”

Isobelle pulled out a handkerchief, blotted her eyes, and blew her nose. The simple act was an island of genuine humility.

“This way.”

Sister Isobelle placed one nervous foot in front of another. At the end of the candlelit hall, Isobelle opened a flimsy wooden door. The creak of the hinges only served to add another layer of macabre to the horrific scene I was about to witness.

Halfway down the cellar steps, I could feel the change. It wasn’t just another drop in temperature; the air felt heavy, corrupt.

“He’s in this room.” Isobelle’s shaky hand reached out and unlocked the door. For some odd reason, I expected the heavy wood to be blown to bits as the demon-infected child sensed the presence of a holy champion.

Instead, there was only low, arrogant laughter. The laugh insisted itself upon me, made sure I knew whatever unclean spirit existed within the room had no fear of the Cloth of God.

“Please, won’t you come in Father.”

The voice was simple – but not that of a child. When I glanced at the boy bound to the bed, the laughter stopped. His oil-black eyes addressed me.

“Did you expect me to speak in tongues? Latin? Something older? I can see the disappointment in your eyes Father. This isn’t the movies. My head will not spin ’round, nor will I spew pea soup. But if it so please you, I can begin afresh the theatrics.”

I sat my bag down and began to pull out the tools of my trade.

“Ahh yes, the weapons of holy war. Sprinkle me with God’s water Father. Speak your clean words into the ears of this infested child. Fight me. Force me to begone. By the power of Christ, compel me! By the power of Christ, compel me!” The boy writhed on the bed as he mocked me and my position.

“Father… ” Isobella started to speak. I held up a hand to stop her.

“Sister, you should know better than to interrupt a man of the cloth when he is near a young boy.” When the last of the demon’s vile words spat from his mouth, the door to the room slammed shut, nearly splintering the wood.

“I can smell it on you Father. Delicious corruption. It was only a matter of time – ”

“From all evil, deliver us, O Lord. From all sin, your wrath.” I began the chant. The sister recited back the words.

The beast roared me to silence and, with little more than a glance, flung the sister across the room. The woman’s head roughly smacked the floor; she lay motionless.

“Sorry, Father. She was weak, and I wanted to have you to myself.” A vile smile slithered its way across the monster’s lips. “It was only a matter of time before the blinded Holy See would send to me a man with such a tenuous grasp on his faith.”

I continued my chant. “From sudden and unprovided death, from the snares of the devil, from anger, hatred, and all ill will, from all lewdness, from lightning and tempest, from the scourge of earthquakes, from plague, famine, and war, from everlasting death.”

“From child-molesting priests, from bigotry, from young men gunning down innocent children, from mothers beating their babies, from hatred, from homophobia, from lust of the flesh and the coin… Shall I continue Father?”

The look on the vile demon’s face was painted with arrogance as he tore his hands free from his bonds and sat up.

“Father, it’s time the truth be set free. I am that truth. I am The Way.”

“Lord, have mercy!” I called out.

“Lord, have mercy!” The demon replied with a laugh. “How can the Lord hand you mercy when he’s none to give? The Lord is a lie. In the beginning was The Word and the The Word was a lie.”

A splash of holy water danced across the flesh of the beast’s face. The demon licked his tongue around his lips.

“The taste of your Lord’s tears is sweet.”

“Do not keep in mind, O Lord, our offenses or those of our parents, nor take vengeance on our sins.”

“Silence Priest!” The demon raised a hand. A gentle calm overcame me. “Please, have a seat. I want to tell you a story.”

From my pack came the written word – the holiest of holies, entrusted to me by my Cardinal.

“Hide that book of filth and shame from my sight or I will burn you Priest.”

Waves of heat rose from the skin of the boy. I assumed the threat honest and tucked my Bible back inside my case.

“Everything you know is a lie. The words in your tomes are little more than trickery to blind you to the greater truth – that some day your kind will be nothing more than fodder for God’s cannon. Once upon a long lost time, God and Lucifer stood side by side. It wasn’t until God realized that all within his dominion saw he and Lucifer as equals, that he decided to cast the loveliest of Angels aside. The Great Fall was tragic and God knew he’d made a grievous error. The Light of Perfection, however, could not admit to his wrong doing, else his power be lost. And so, since that great gaffe, your God has been amassing souls in preparation for Lucifer’s return to the heavenly dominion.”

The lilt and melody of the voice held me fast. I wanted to weep, to fall at the feet of the demon, and beg for some mercy I’d never receive.

“Had I not found you, Priest, your never-ending soul would have joined the Army of God. That is not to be now. Instead, you will fight for the truest truth. My God has been waiting for this chance since before you were nothing more than a shot of sperm from the prick of a self-righteous, ego-maniacal man of the soiled cloth.”

“I don’t understand. Why do you need me to fight your unholy war?”

A great puff of sulfuric smoke spilled from the nostrils of the boy.

“You are going to help me into the Vatican. From within the Holy See, I will gain access to a very special tome. The ‘Santus Bellum’ – or ‘Holy War’. Within that book is the very plan for God’s war to be waged against Lucifer and the dominion of Hell.”

I stood, a righteous fury fueling my voice. “You will never gain access to the Holiest of Holies.”

The demon released a moan, his eyes rolled to gaze within. As the temperature in the room dropped, the boy floated from the bed and into a crucifixion position. Wind howled through the room and ripped pages from the Bible I had stowed away. The gilded paper lashed about the air, slashing the tiniest of paper cuts over my exposed skin. With each slice I could feel my strength drain. I had never experienced such power, such raw emotion.

As an atonal chorus sang an unholy psalm, I felt the demon attempt to enter me, to take root within my spirit, give succor to a wanton soul. The blessed core of my conscience fought back, until a singular memory boiled up from the recesses of my mind.

I was young, innocent, lost in my ways. Until I was found by Father Stephenson, my life was little more than thievery and corruption. The Father took me in, cured me of my indecent ways, and taught me… Taught me love.

The simple memory shattered my trust, my faith. Stirring at the core of my being, my spirit was released from The Way. As the memory was released, a peace I hadn’t known for such a long time encompassed my heart.

“I welcome you demon. I embrace your light. I pledge my fealty to your cause.”

My proclamation brought stillness to the room. The boy’s body dropped back to the bed, his countenance returned to innocence. Isobella roused from the floor, rushed to the boy’s side, and held him in her frail arms.

“You did it Father. You’ve saved the child.”

As I placed my hand on the handle of the door, the wood fell to dust. I left the room and my holy relics behind. My cause was clear. I was to serve the true King of Kings. It was time to arm the Lord of Loss and tilt the scales of righteousness back to the side of truth.

~ Jack Wallen

Mercy – The Final Chapter

December 11, 2012February 8, 2013 ~ Hunter Shea ~ 22 Comments

(continuation of ‘Mercy’ chapter 3 http://huntershea.com/2012/10/31/a-gothic-tale-for-halloween-mercy/)

The striking of our grandfather clock woke me from a deep, bottomless sleep. The sky outside the lone window was still a dark gray, lightened ever-so-slightly by the threat of the dawn. I stretched my arms above my head and rolled my eyes, attempting to shake off my slumber.

My heart thudded in my chest.

I was alone, and on the opposite side of the parlor from my sister.

All of the candles were out.

How did I get here? The pile of books we had been reading lay a good seven feet from where I sat.

Jessamine was in the far corner, asleep and on her back.

I felt a tug at my ankle and stifled a yelp. I instinctively recoiled. In the dark, I couldn’t see what had gained purchase of the bottom half of my nightgown.

There followed the sounds of hurried clacking, as if a pair of rocks had skipped across the wood floor.

The ghoul!

Despite my inability to see it, I knew it had to be in the room with us. It must have waited until Jessamine fell asleep, then separated us so it could do its dirty deed.

“Jessamine,” I hissed, wanting to wake her, yet terrified of alerting the ghoul, lest I become its latest morsel.

There was no answer.

Willing my legs to stand, I inched my way upwards, using the bookcase shelves to hoist myself up inch by inch.

I heard a tearing sound, followed by something far worse.

The smacking sounds of mastication, broken by eager, glutinous breaths, filled the parlor.

“Jesssamine!” I shouted.

Still no reply.

I needed light. It was impossible to face the ghoul in the dark. My spirit wavered between bravery and death by panic. I fumbled around the desk until I found the matches.

I struck one against the desk. It sputtered for a moment, then fizzled out.

The sounds in the corner stopped.

I could feel the ghoul’s penetrating gaze cut through the dark.

I grabbed another match, and with unsure hands, tried again.

The match stick broke in half, falling to the floor.

Clack, clack, clack, clack.

Those odd footsteps again.

Now a gurgling sound, a bubbling death rattle of a cry.

“Please, dear God, help,” I whimpered as I reached to pick out another match.

My cry was answered, as my thumbnail flicked across the match head, a brilliant flame roared to life.

And in that same instant, I wished I’d never brought light into the parlor.

“Lucy!”

My doll, my porcelain companion, stood on two small legs, leering at me. Its face had turned a mottled green, and bloody teeth sprouted from a mouth that was never designed to open. Weeping warts covered it from head to toe.

Worst of all, a strip of flesh, Jessamine’s flesh, hung loosely from its mouth.

I yelled in horror upon seeing my sister’s exposed throat. She lay, still as death, as her blood pumped onto the floor.

The demonic ghoul had truly left my poor, dear sister.

But it hadn’t gone to hell.

It had made a vile home within Lucy.

The ghoul clenched and unclenched its gnarled hands and slurped up the shredded flap of Jessamine’s throat.

I don’t know what overcame me then. I had been living for half a year under the specter of Satan and his damned minion. Fear, as much as Lucy, had been my constant companion.

There was no longer room for fear. This abomination had destroyed my family, and I knew at that moment that I would never again be the same. My heart turned cold while my temper flared like the center of a great bonfire.

Snarling like a mad person, I grabbed the candle and leapt for the ghoul. Cackling, it tried to sidestep from me, but I snared one of its slimy legs.

Warts burst open like blossoming flowers and a vile, hot fluid leaked onto my hand, burning my skin.

Still, I held on.

It shrieked. It hissed. It chomped its jaws and just missed snagging its teeth into the back of my hand.

With a flick of my wrist, I managed to get it to flop on its back.

Lucy’s blue eyes had been replaced by obsidian pools of hate. I moved my hand that held the candle onto its throat. Once I had a firm grip, I transferred the candle to my other hand.

“This time, go back to hell where you belong!” I shouted.

I brought the flames tips to its eye and heard a satisfying sizzle as the onyx orb melted. I moved the candle to its other eye and didn’t stop until both eyes were gone.

Suddenly, the ghoul’s protests and flailing stopped. Its tiny body twitched once, and was still.

Reluctantly, I let it go so I could rub the burned skin on my hand. The ghoul was dead.

Keeping a close eye on it, I walked on unsteady legs to my sister. Her face looked so peaceful, as if she had died in the midst of the most wonderful dream.

The tears came in a torrent, and I held her head in my lap, ever watchful for signs of the ghoul’s return.

I stayed there in the corner with Jessamine’s cooling body for two days.

When father returned, I was too weak to run into his arms.

His face was aghast.

“What…what…what?” he stammered.

“It was the demon in Jessamine. It became a ghoul. When it left Jessamine, it hid inside Lucy. You can see it, right there!” I screamed, pointing at its lifeless body.

But when Father picked it up, he held only my Lucy, her little head fractured but still the Lucy I’d always known. Her eyes were tiny points of ash, but Jessamine’s blood had somehow been cleansed from her porcelain face.

Despite my anguish and exhaustion and vexation, I began to laugh.

I laughed while my father pulled me away, and in his carriage, all the way into town. I laughed when he brought me to hospital, and even when they carried me to a room that smelled funny and was so bright, it felt like I had been thrown into the center of the sun.

And I still laugh now, ten years later.

They think I did it.

Esther passed on from infection.

Jessamine perished from her wound at the ghoul’s hand.

Mother never regained her sanity. In fact, she’s in a room not very far from my own. I pass her in the yard sometimes. She spits curses at me and blames me for the evil that befell our family.

Only I know it was the ghoul; the demon that slipped into our Old Manse and within my departed sister, the dearest person in my life. And when it tired of a human host, it found Lucy.

I tell everyone but no one will believe me.

Evil is real.

The ghoul was real.

And Lucy is still somewhere, outside these four walls. If you see a doll with burned eyes, run. Run and pray your soul hasn’t been tainted.

Run.

And pray.

~ Hunter Shea