The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore

by Garrett, Wade H.

  A few days later when I put on my disguise and went back down in the chamber, I found him asleep. He was lying on the damp, stone floor of his cell rolled up on his side like a baby. I noticed he was dirty and he had dried blood all over him. I could tell he had been frantically digging at the concrete and stones below the bars of his cell to get free. His cell reeked of a foul stench, like that of a homeless person, and he had been urinating and shitting in one corner. All the dog food was gone and the water bucket was empty. He had torn the plastic water bucket into pieces as he had tried to use it to dig out. While he slept, I grabbed a dead rat out of a mousetrap and threw it on his head. Before the rat had a chance to slide to the floor, he jumped to his feet and ran over toward me like a crazy man. He grabbed the bars, begging for me to tell him what was going on, but I just stood back and looked at him, not saying a word. A few seconds later, I turned around and walked off, and as I disappeared into the dark, I could hear him screaming out hysterically and begging for answers. I kept that up for years, only going down in the chamber every few days to feed him dog food and dead rats. I would occasionally have to give him water in an old bedpan when the water would stop seeping from the wall. As the years went by, I checked on him less and less, which caused him to become very violent and irrational.

  Over those years, not once did I ever speak to him, which was creating enormous torment for him. His mind had become so irrational that when he wasn’t screaming and cursing at me, he would talk to the dead rats and play with his shit. Not only did he act like a wild animal, he looked like one too. The hair on his head had grown several feet past his shoulders and it was extremely dirty and matted; in fact, his entire body was so filthy and his body hair was so unkempt he looked like a caveman. Every portion of his body was covered with shit, snot, dirt, vomit or piss, and he smelled worse than an outhouse that was on a job with several hundred wetbacks. He spent most of his days painting incoherent pictures on the wall with his shit. Around this time is when I had brought Larry into the chamber, and as I would torture him and a few other lowlifes that shortly followed, the Reaper would watch in horror, and after he had seen what I did to them, he calmed down quite a bit realizing he wasn’t in all that bad of a position.

  A few months later when I went down in the chamber to strangle someone, I found that the Reaper had almost dug out of the cell. He had dug through the weaker part of the concrete under the front bars, and he was trapped by a piece of rebar that had torn into his right arm. While he had been frantically trying to escape, his adrenaline rush must have masked the pain as he mutilated his body and jammed himself into a bound position. When I had walked up to him I could see the shock in his eyes as he knew he had been caught. He probably felt like a kid who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He had a very hateful look on his face as he stared up at me while being trapped under the bars. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! You crazy motherfucker! You have no fucking right to do this to me.”

  To his surprise, I kicked him in the face with my boot, then stomped on his head until blood and teeth were all over the floor. I could see the fear in his eyes as I stepped back and kicked him in the mouth, which knocked him unconscious. Blood was running out of his face as I tried to drag his ass out from under the bars. He was bound too tightly and I quickly realized pulling on him was no use—a piece of rebar was stuck all the way through his arm. I had to use an acetylene torch to cut him free, then I tied him up on top of a large wooden table. His arm was infected where the rusty rebar had torn through his flesh and I didn’t want to risk losing him, so I decided to wait until he came around to amputate it.

  Thirty minutes later, he started waking up, and as I was standing beside him cleaning a hacksaw with alcohol he looked over at me with his bloody face. “What the fuck are you doing, freak?”

  “About to saw off your arm.”

  He looked at me very rattled, not for what I had said, but for hearing me speak to him for the first time in years. When I cut through the top layer of his skin with the first stroke of the blade he yelled out, “Fuck! What are you doing?”

  I took the saw and struck him in his bloody mouth. “Shut up, asshole! I’m cutting your arm off.”

  He started jerking around and screaming for me to stop as I slowly sawed into his right arm. When I made it to his bone, his wiggling around and deafening screams made it difficult to saw, so I hit him in the face a couple more times with the bloody blade. “Be still or I will cut your other arm off when I finish with this one.”

  It didn’t work. He jerked around more and screamed even louder. He finally passed out from the pain as I was cutting past the bone and into the other side of his arm. When his arm fell to the floor, I used the acetylene torch to cauterize his bloody stump.

  For the next few days he slipped in and out of consciousness from the traumatic experience. I tried to give him antibiotics, but he would spit out the pills and say he wanted to die. I would have to punch his bloody stump to get him to swallow the pills, then he would deliberately throw up in an effort not to get well, or simply to rebel. A few days later, I had to connect him to an intravenous bag filled with an antibiotic and nutrient solution to keep him alive.

  A few weeks later, he had made a full recovery and became his old, loudmouthed self. In fact, he was a little worse because I had sawed off his arm, and all he would do is rant and rave about it the entire time I was in the chamber. One morning I came in and found him tangled up in the ropes and hanging off the side of the table. All he seemed to do when I wasn’t in the chamber was try to escape, and I had become so irritated at his attempts I decided to hang his sorry ass on the wall. While he hung off the side of the table, he glared at me, cursing and making threats, as I mounted two large anchors in the stone wall; they were about five-feet apart and seven-feet from the floor. After I cracked him over the head with a club, I hung him on the wall with a chain. The chain ran from an anchor, under his stub armpit, across his chest, under his left armpit, then to the other anchor. Another chain ran across his back, secured on each end to the chain that went across his chest. I ran a third one from the center of the chain at his back, between his legs, and to the center of the chain across his chest. He was hung low enough to where his feet could touch the floor, allowing him to stand and ease the pressure of the chain across his chest and his nut sack. To prevent him from escaping from the top of his restraints, I secured metal straps around his ankles, then secured a chain from the straps to some anchors in the floor. I also hung his intravenous bag on a lamp fixture that was mounted on the wall beside him.

  Over the next several days he tried to scheme a way to get free when I wasn’t around, and he would curse and taunt me the entire time when I was. He had become very aggravated as he was being bound against his will, and he was furious that I had cut his arm off. Just to piss him off even more, I would ignore him like usual, and the fact that he couldn’t do a damn thing about it was even more infuriating to him.

  One day I finally had enough of his shit when I saw he had ripped the intravenous bag from the wall and torn the needle from his arm. I was so irritated that I grabbed his severed arm out of a trashcan. “You want your arm back? Here it is, asshole!” I violently beat the shit out of him with his own arm, and as I swung away I repeated, “Why are you hitting yourself?” I beat him for so long that I finally became too weak to even pick the arm up, and as he hung crying with snot and slobber dripping off his face, I tossed the arm on a table, then walked off leaving him a bloody and bruised pulp.

  The next day I came into the chamber with a device that would shut him up for good, and as I showed it to him, I told him that it was called a Spanish pear and I explained how it worked. The medieval torture device is kind of round, and after it’s inserted into the mouth, the handle is cranked. The more that the handle is turned, the wider its jaws are expanded. When the jaws are fully opened, they lock behind the victim’s front teeth. The device has a spike that protrudes out between its jaws, and when its v
ictim tries to speak or scream, the spike gouges their tongue.”

  Seth looked at Dicky. “By the way, where is that device?”

  “What device?”

  Seth glared at him. “I tossed it into your cell a few days ago.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Seth pulled a glass vial out of his pocket. “That’s fine. I’ll get Jimmy to look for it.”

  Dicky jumped to his feet and ran over to where his shit was piled in the corner. He started digging in a large pile, then pulled out the Spanish pear. He stood up, holding the device with shit covered hands.

  “That’s okay, you can keep it.”

  He looked at Seth for a moment, then dropped the device. He stood silently looking at his hands.

  “After I explained to Reaper how the device worked, I held it in front of his mouth.

  He looked at me hatefully. “You go to hell, freak. I’ll shove that up your ass.”

  When I tried to get the device in his mouth, he grabbed my arm and fought me with everything he had as he threw his head back and forth, and after a short period of time, I became so mad that I started punching him with everything I had, and I didn’t stop beating his face until he was unconscious. Now that he was dazed and not fighting back, I secured his left arm to the side of his body by going around and around his torso and arm with the duct tape. I went from his shoulder down to his wrist with several layers, and after I was finished, his arm was so tightly bound that all he could do was wiggle his fingers. When he started to come around, I grabbed the thick black thread that I used to sew my coat together and a large curved needle. I waited until he was fully alert and talking shit again before I began. “I know you have a death wish, but cursing and taunting me is only going to make you wish for death even more.”

  He glared at me with hate as I squatted down by his hand. “You can go fuck yourself!”

  I poured alcohol on the needle and thread. “This is going to hurt me more than you.”

  His facial expression change to a puzzled look as he looked down at me.

  I looked up at him and laughed. “I’m scared of needles.”

  He screamed out as I pushed the needle through one of his fingers and into the flesh of his thigh, and after the needle exited about a quarter of an inch from his finger, I tied the thread in a knot. It took about two hours for me to sew his hand to his thigh. I had outlined the outside of his entire hand and up and down each finger and his thumb with the thread. He had screamed so much he was now hoarse, and when I removed the tape from his body, pulling out most of the hair on his chest and back, all he could do was moan. When I poured alcohol on his hand and thigh, he let out a muffled holler. He was in extreme misery as he hung on the wall, and he was as pale as a ghost as blood and sweat dripped from his body.

  I held the Spanish pear in front of him. “Open up wide or I’ll sew each side of your nut sack to a leg.”

  He didn’t fight me as I inserted and cranked open the device inside of his mouth, and as he made gagging sounds I said, “Now let’s test it to see if it really works.”

  He could only stare at me in fear as I started beating him with his severed arm. Every time he tried to scream out the spike would jab a hole into his tongue. After a few minutes of beating him he started choking on his own vomit and blood, so I had to quickly remove the device before he had a chance to asphyxiate. After he spit vomit and blood all over his chest and the floor he yelled out, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll keep my mouth shut. Please don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll do whatever you want if you won’t hurt me anymore.”

  Two days hadn’t passed before he started cursing me again. I think the agony of him being bound to the wall was so unbearable that he was hoping he could agitate me enough to the point that I would just kill him, but instead his worst nightmare was going to come true. Over the course of several hours, I beat, burned, shocked, skinned, cut, stitched, stabbed, and choked him until he became so exhausted he couldn’t even moan. After several days of the same treatment he couldn’t even hold his head up and he was beginning to choke on his vomit from not being able to lift his head. He was also having a hard time breathing from his esophagus being pinched. I didn’t want to grant him his wish of death, so I grabbed his long hair and pulled his head back, and as I held it against the wall, I tied his hair to a spike above him. He became very aggressive and somehow mustered up enough strength to tear the hair out the back of his head to be defiant. It was obvious he was going to continue to be difficult, so I came up with an idea that would support his head, preventing him from choking to death. I went and grabbed an offset shark hook. The hook is very large; it has a five-inch opening and is fourteen inches long. He noticed it as I walked up with it, and right when he opened his mouth to speak, I grabbed his face and shoved the pointed end of the hook under his chin, and as his eyes widened, I grabbed the shaft of the hook with both hands and pulled upwards as hard as I could. He screamed raspy sounds as the barbed point ripped through his flesh and into the bottom of his mouth. I left the hook in him as I climbed a ladder and ran a rope around a ceiling support beam above him. He moaned as I tied one end of the rope to the hook. He screamed as I pulled on the other end of the rope, pulling his head upwards from his body as far as it would go without breaking his neck. He was screaming and gagging at the same time and his eyes were bulging out of their sockets as I tied off the rope. Now that I didn’t have to worry about him choking, I left him bound in the agonizing and barbaric position as I went and did some other stuff around the chamber.

  That evening after I wrapped up some needed tasks, I pushed a cart loaded with a few tools and parts up next to him, and as I stood beside him sorting them, he tried to speak, but he couldn’t open his mouth. Over the next few minutes he could only stare in fear as I stood in front of him and cleaned my surgical tools with alcohol. When they were all sorted and cleaned, I took a scalpel and started slowly cutting deep into the flesh of his jaw. He viciously fought at his restraints and screamed as I cut a fist-sized piece of flesh from his left and right cheeks. The holes left in his face revealed the inside of his mouth and exposed his teeth. His wounds were bleeding profusely, so I had to work quickly as I stitched around the bleeding edges, and as I worked, he was crying so much that my hands were covered with his tears. When I had his bleeding under control, I released the rope and pulled the hook out. He immediately lowered his head and gagged from the blood that had pooled inside his mouth. He was in real need of a haircut, so I took my torch and lit his hair on fire. He threw his head around and screamed as smoke and flames blazed from his head. The holes in the side of his face were making his screams sound strange. When the flames finally burned out, he had only a few patches of scorched hair left and some second-degree burns. He was breathing erratically and foaming at the mouth as I screwed stainless steel eyehooks into the side of his head just above his ears, and to ensure that the threaded part didn’t penetrate his brain, I measured the thickness of one of the skulls that was lying around. He was covered in sweat, blood, vomit, tears and snot, and he was white as a ghost as I tied a rope to each of the hooks. He didn’t make a sound as I pushed his head backwards and slammed it against the wall, and as I held his head back, I tied the ropes to the spike that was covered with his hair. He remained silent until I took the scalpel and cut the flesh from the bottom of his mouth, which was the portion that was under and behind his chin bone where the hook had penetrated. He had only screamed a few seconds until he passed out from exhaustion, so while he slept, I cleaned the wound and stitched around the hole just like I did on the ones in the sides of his face.

  A few days later, I took a piece of one-inch diameter stainless steel rod and cut a piece eight-inches long and one at ten-inches long. I drilled and tapped a three-eighths hole in the center of the eight-inch piece, then drilled and tapped one end of the ten-inch piece. I screwed a three-eighths by one-inch long piece of all-thread into the end of the ten-inch piece of rod.

  That evening I walked up
to the Reaper with the rods in my hand. “Open your mouth or I will cut your jaw from your face.”

  He didn’t argue and immediately opened his mouth. I pushed the eight-inch piece of rod through the hole in his right cheek and centered it in the middle of his mouth. I took the ten-inch piece and pushed it up through the hole in the bottom of his mouth until it came in contact with the center of the other piece of rod, then screwed the pieces together. The two pieces of rod formed the shape of a T, and the horizontal part of the T was running through his mouth and the ends were sticking out the holes on his cheeks, and it was positioned between his upper and lower teeth, kind of like a horse bit, and the vertical part of the T hung out the hole in the bottom of his mouth. After I untied the ropes that were holding his head back, he tried to let his head fall forward, but the bottom end of the vertical rod hit his chest and held his head in the upright position. While he tried to find a comfortable spot to rest his head I said, “What do you think of that, pal? Now you won’t choke to death, and you can’t run your mouth. I’d say that I killed two birds with one stone.”