by Amy Cross
Barely able to open her eyes, Sam somehow manages to look up and see a thin, dark-haired woman standing over her. Wearing nothing but black rags that flutter in a faint breeze, the woman stares down at Sam with an expression of pure contempt.
“I don't usually follow people down from the wall,” the woman explains, as a smile slowly creeps across her lips, “but in your case I made an exception. It was fun watching you flailing around back there. Where did you think you were? In some kind of building? What were you fighting, anyway? What did you hallucinate? Come on, I'd love to know.”
“Who are you?” Sam asks.
“I told you. I used to skin and eat babies when I was alive.”
Sam shakes her head.
“You don't believe me?”
“This isn't real,” Sam whispers. “You're not real.”
“I'm a liar, is what I am,” the woman replies. “I hop down here from time to time and watch other people suffer. Makes me feel better about spending the rest of infinity in a dark little hole in a wall. That's the thing about Hell, little girl. You have to adjust to it and find a way to survive, otherwise it'll really do your head in. I suppose that's why it's called Hell in the first place.”
“I have to go to him,” Sam says, still hearing Henry screaming in the distance. “I don't have time for this. Henry's terrified. He needs me.”
“Who does?”
“My son.”
“A child?” The woman's smile grows. “Well, then you have to lead me to him. I'm so hungry, I could eat a -”
“No!” Sam yells, forcing herself up and pushing the woman back, filled with a sudden, primal burst of anger. “Get back! You're not going anywhere near him!”
“Are you sure about that?” the woman asks with a chuckle. “I might even eat him raw.”
“Go to Hell!”
“Already there,” she replies. “And so are you. Can't you get that through your thick -”
Grunting and filled with fury, Sam shoves her back another step.
“Relax,” the woman continues, still grinning. “Your son's not really here. You can hear him, can't you? Or you think you can. But would a little baby really be down here in Hell? It's not impossible, it's happened before, but it's very unlikely.”
“He's crying for me!” Sam spits.
“In Hell? Really? Do you have so little faith in your son, that you think he'd already be worthy of this place?”
Sam opens her mouth to reply, but then she realizes the crying sound has stopped. Turning, she looks toward the horizon, and then she understands that the woman is right. It hadn't occurred to her before, but why would Henry – her Henry, her perfect little boy, just a child – have ended up in Hell?
He wouldn't.
That's what she tells herself, at least.
“Don't be too hard on yourself,” the woman continues. “Things can seem very real down here, even when they're just in our heads. Especially when they're just in our heads.”
Sam turns back to her.
“You're a monster,” the woman adds, and now at least her smile has faded, leaving her stony-faced and intense as she stares at Sam. “You deserve all of this and more,” she continues. “You deserve the fury and the scorn of the crowd, you deserve to be hated and torn apart. You should be glad they don't have social media down here in Hell. Which, come to think of it, seems like an awful oversight.”
As those words leave her lips, dark shadows start to appear right behind her, quickly forming the faint outlines of people.
“You know I'm right,” she says, as Sam looks around and sees scores and scores of the same dark figures slowly advancing from every direction. “You've always known. Even when you scored that comfy little job as a gardener in Rippon, you knew you didn't deserve to be there. You knew you'd lucked out. You can't luck out here in Hell, though. Down here, the truth always finds you. You can't lie to yourself anymore.”
“Help me,” Sam whispers, as the dark figures become clearer and clearer. They almost have faces now. “Who are they?”
“They're the crowd,” the woman purrs with anticipation. “Crowds are one of the most dangerous things in all existence. Crowds are the ultimate murders, the ultimate torturers. Wherever and however they manifest, crowds are always so much more deadly than lone figures. Crowds were behind pretty much all the main atrocities in the mortal world, and guess what? It's your lucky day, because a crowd has finally arrived to make you pay for all your sins.”
“Get away from me!” Sam gasps, shuddering as she feels fingertips brushing against her shoulder.
She pulls back, only for other hands to touch her from another direction. Whichever way she tries to turn, the shadowy figures are all around her now, and finally she tries to crawl away across the rocky ground. With more and more hands grabbing at her, starting to pull on her shirt and her hair, she lets out a cry of pain as she feels the fingertips starting to sharpen and dig into her flesh.
At the same time, a groaning murmur is rising from the crowd, as if they're talking about her in words that aren't quite clear.
“This is your fate,” the woman explains, yelling over the excitement. “This is what you earned. I mean, I'm a child murderer and even I hate you, Sam Marker. Even I'm judging you.”
“No!” Sam yells, as the figure start clawing at her and tearing strips of skin and flesh from her body. “I'm sorry! Henry, I'm so sorry!”
The murmurs are getting louder and louder now, and finally Sam slumps down and starts sobbing as she feels herself getting torn apart. The hands are softer and less frantic than the vulture's beak, but they're digging deeper and she can feel fingertips relentlessly probing the gaps between her ribs. At the same time, the murmured voices start to spit out actual words that ring all around in the air.
“Monster!”
“Bitch!”
“Whore!”
“Slut!”
“C -”
“Enough!” another voice roars suddenly, and the hands instantly pull away.
Still shivering and cowering on the ground, not daring to look up, Sam feels the hands quickly return.
“I said that's enough!” the voice shouts again.
The hands briefly pull back, but then once more they return to scraping and pulling at Sam's body.
“Didn't you hear me, Sam?” the male voice says with a sigh. “Okay, third time lucky. That... is...”
There's a pause.
“ENOUGH!” he roars, and suddenly the hands vanish.
Opening her eyes just slightly, Sam sees the dark figures falling away, rushing toward the horizon as the laughing woman fades from view. Instead of relief, however, she feels a sudden rush of sorrow, as if she's lost her one chance to pay for her mistakes.
“Come back,” she sobs. “I deserve it, I deserve all of it.”
“Get up,” the male voice says firmly.
“She was right! They were all right!”
“This is tedious, Sam,” the voice continues. “Come on, don't make me get tough with you.”
Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Sam pulls away. She tries to cry out again, but the convulsions in her chest are too strong and all she can do is curl up tight on the rocky ground, sobbing violently.
“Don't be such a pitiful bore,” the voice says, and this time two hands grab Sam's shoulders and drag her up. “I thought you had a little more gumption!”
She fights back, kicking and punching furiously, but slowly she's turned around until she finds herself staring up at a figure that's now towering over her. Barely able to see properly through the tears in her eyes, she tries to turn away, but she's being held too firmly. All she wants is for the crowd to return and tear her apart.
“Sam -”
“Leave me alone!” she screams.
“Sam, listen to me, I -”
“Leave me alone! I'm not -”
“ENOUGH!” he roars again, and suddenly he slaps the side of her face so hard that she pulls back and slumps back down onto th
e ground.
This time, however, her tears clear and – frozen in shock – she stares up at a familiar figure that's now standing framed against the churning, stormy sky. For a moment she can't quite believe that it's really him, but her sense of shock quickly gives way to the realization that he is – quite simply – the last person in the universe she'd ever hallucinate.
“I didn't think you were quite this full of self-pity,” the Devil says, with a hint of irritation in his voice. “Pull yourself together, Sam. We've got work to do.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Drink,” the Devil says as he leads her through the open doorway and into a small room at the base of the cliff. “Hunger and thirst aren't real down here, of course, but you're still used to the idea that you need water. Drink and your head will feel clearer.”
“I'm not -”
“Drink!”
Sam hesitates for a moment, before seeing a cup of water resting on a nearby table. She opens her mouth to say that she's fine, but then she realizes that her mouth feels impossibly dry. Despite her misgivings, then, she finally steps over and takes the cup, and then she feels a rush of relief as she drinks and feels her thirst starting to subside.
“Feels good, doesn't it?” the Devil continues. “It's just an illusion, of course. Hard to shake the habit of a lifetime. Just like those people out there who you thought were coming after you. They weren't real, either.”
“I saw something else, too,” she says. “It was like I was back in my old life. I'd been drinking, and everything seemed to be on a loop, and then my body started falling apart and -”
“Let me guess,” he adds, cutting her off. “You saw yourself from outside your body.”
“In a way. My eyes had fallen out. I could see what was left of me, flailing around on the floor and screaming Henry's name.”
He nods. “It's not fun, is it?” he asks after a moment. “Seeing a caricature of yourself, I mean. Seeing how lame and pitiful and cliched you are.”
“But -”
“Henry!” he hisses, mimicking her voice a little. “Henry, it's Mummy! Mummy's here! Oh Henry, I feel so bad for dumping you in the street! I'm such a bad mother, let me whip myself and -”
“Shut up!” she snaps.
“But I'm right!” he says firmly. “You need to get a grip, or you're going to do what everyone else does here in Hell. They disappear into themselves. Believe it or not, this place tends to focus the ego.”
He steps toward her and holds out a knife. Before Sam can stop him, he slices a cut on her arm.
“Hey!” she hisses, stepping back. “I'm not -”
And then she stops, as she realizes there was no pain.
“Pro tip,” he says, heading back across the room. “Pain in Hell is illusory. It's all in the mind. That doesn't stop it hurting, of course, but at least it's a good way of working out whether you're really here or not. Once you know that you're in Hell, you can control the pain. And you'll notice that in Hell, you don't bleed. Not really.”
Lowering the cup once it's empty, Sam stares at him. There's not much light in the room, with just a couple of candles flickering on another table, but that's enough for her to see that he's staring straight back at her. It's almost as if he's waiting for her to say something, and she feels as if he's been trying to goad her into getting upset.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asks finally, trying her hardest to seem calm.
“Well,” he replies calmly, “I am the Devil, and this is Hell. Most people would think this is the one place they'd be guaranteed to run into me.”
“But you...”
She pauses for a moment, trying to make sense of everything.
“You ran,” she adds after a few seconds. “What are you doing here, with me?”
“You mean why, in all the rich vastness of a pan-dimensional multiverse with no boundaries, did I choose to manifest myself right next to you, and then bring you here to my little hovel?” Now he's the one who hesitates. “Is there any chance you'd believe me if I claimed it was all a coincidence, and that I just happened to be passing?”
She shakes her head.
“I wish you were gullible,” he says with a sigh.
“What happened to those people?” she asks, turning and looking back out through the doorway, and seeing the vast plain stretching toward a fiery horizon. She waits for a moment, just in case the throng of shadowy figures returns, but there's no sign of anyone.
It's almost as if she and the Devil are all alone.
“They were all in your mind, Sam,” he says.
“No, I felt their -”
“They were all in your mind.”
She turns back to him.
“You're kinda messed up,” he adds. “I knew that already, but I didn't know it was quite so extreme. You've got problems, girl.”
“Those people were real,” she replies. “They felt so real.”
“And if I hadn't interrupted and snapped you out of it,” he replies, “they'd have felt real for the rest of time. You'd probably never have got back on your feet. That's how it works down here, Sam, at least in the outer regions of Hell. You conjure up your own punishment, dredged from the depths of your true feelings about your mortal life.” He pauses again. “And from what I saw,” he adds finally, “it would appear that you really hate yourself for abandoning little Henry.”
“This can't be Hell,” Sam stammers, “I'm not -”
“Dead?”
“I'm not dead!”
“Yes you are. You're dead and buried.”
She shakes her head.
“Abberoth killed you,” he continues. “Even the state of grace wasn't enough to save you, not against his strength. I believe your friend Anna buried you in that cute little cemetery in Rippon. That's some admirable commitment to tradition, even in the face of the impending apocalypse. I've got to admit, I'm starting to think I misjudged that Anna girl. She's not quite as vapid or stupid as she looks Then again, nobody could be as stupid as she looks.” He pauses. “You look good without the knife in your head, by the way. More... optimistic.”
Sam hesitates for a moment, before turning and stepping back into the open doorway, where she stops and looks out once more across the vistas of Hell. In the distance, the sky rumbles with thunder, while the glow of a raging inferno dances across the dark, swirling storm-clouds.
“This is Hell?” she asks finally. “Like... This is the real Hell?”
“The one and only,” the Devil says, stepping up behind her and watching as a particularly large fireball rises into the sky. “The very outer regions, mind you. It takes time to work your way deeper. There are parts of Hell that are reserved for the most awful humans. Believe it or not, Sam, you're not quite the worst person who ever lived.”
After a moment, she feels a hand on her shoulder, and she turns to him.
“That was a joke,” he adds. “Not funny?”
“You're the Devil,” she replies.
“I know.” He pauses. “Wait, do you mean that in a bad way or a good way?”
“You're supposed to be, like, the king of Hell.”
“I am indeed.”
“But for some reason you're wearing torn and tattered clothes,” she points out, looking him up and down, “and you seem to be living in a complete dump. I mean, I know you were overthrown and chased out of town, but how have you fallen this far?””
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
Turning, he heads over to another table and pours himself a cup of water. After drinking for a moment, he lets out a gasp and then refills the cup.
“I thought you said thirst doesn't really exist down here,” Sam points out.
“I'm buying myself a little thinking time,” he says, before drinking again.
Sam watches, and waits until he's done.
He starts to pour another cup of water, but then he stops, and after a moment he turns to her with an expression of concern. Maybe even fear.
/> “What's going on here?” Sam asks cautiously. “Why did you really come and find me?”
“I might be...”
His voice trails off for a moment, and then he sets the cup down. He seems reluctant to say more, as if he's a little embarrassed.
“I told you, back in Rippon.” He pauses. “I might be... temporarily distressed.”
“Temporarily distressed?”
“Deprived of my habitual trappings.”
“In plain English, please.”
He sighs.
“I'm not exactly in control here anymore,” he adds, barely able to meet her gaze. “You might say I'm... unwelcome in my old abode.”
“Unwelcome?”
“Pushed to the margins.”
“The margins of Hell?”
“I got kicked off my throne,” he continues. “Remember? Didn't you think it was a little odd that my body had been buried in a cemetery in Rippon, of all places? I know that Faraday might have told you some things about me, and Fenroc too, and Raven and all those other people. They weren't quite right. And to be honest, I lied to you a little too. I suppose I was ashamed. The honest truth, Sam, is that a while back I let things get out of control down here, and by the time I realized what was happening, it was too late.”
“Who is Abberoth?”
“He's the guy who killed you. Try to keep up.”
“But who is he really? Where did he come from?”
“It's a long story.”
“But -”
“And I don't want to talk about it.”
“You told me a few things about him before.”
“Isn't that enough?”
“He's obviously someone important.”
“Oh, he's someone important, alright.” The Devil pauses, before pouring another cup of water and taking a moment to drink slowly. Once he's done, he sets the cup back down. “He was one of the first. One of the very first humans in Hell, I mean. Before any of the ones you might have heard of. The idea was that he'd be tormented for all eternity. Hell was basically created for a very small group of individuals, but obviously there was some mission-creep there and lots of other people ended up down here too. But originally, Hell was a place to torture the very worst people, and as you can see the original plan hasn't quite worked out. I suppose you could say he's proof that ultimately Hell was a failure.”