A Thousand Fiendish Angels: Stories Inspired By Dante's Inferno
Read A Thousand Fiendish Angels: Stories Inspired By Dante's Inferno Online
Authors: J.F. Penn
Tags: #horror, #post-apocalyptic, #Thriller
A Thousand Fiendish Angels
By J.F. Penn
Copyright
© J.F. Penn (2013). All rights reserved.
Cover Design: Derek Murphy, Creativindie
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental, or fictionalized.
Three short stories inspired by Dante's Inferno, linked by a book of human skin passed down through generations. On the edge of horror, thriller and the occult.
Sins of the Flesh
When the tortured and mutilated corpse of a wealthy author is discovered, the police officer sent to investigate finds a curious diary amongst the occult objects at the scene. Will he uncover the author's secret at the ruined chapel, and can he pay the price that it demands?
Sins of Treachery
On the death of their Grandfather, twin brothers Simon and Gestas are left a map covered in alchemical symbols that could lead them to great wealth and power. But they find more than they expected in the frozen wastes of the Arctic north ...
Sins of Violence
In a brutal post-apocalyptic world, a young girl is about to be taken to The Minotaur for a Blessing that will end her innocence. Can her sister gain access to the fortified city of Dis in time to stop the ritual and avenge her own lost youth?
Includes the Prologue of Desecration, a dark crime thriller, at the end of the book.
Sins of the Flesh
I left the hysterical housekeeper downstairs with my partner and strode up the wide staircase to the first floor, my feet sinking into the plush carpet, my hand clasping the burnished bronze railing to speed my journey upwards. The call had come in towards the end of our shift and I was keen to assess the scene quickly so I could get out of uniform and into the bar as fast as possible. Since Jeannie had left, I could no longer bear our meager apartment, a constant reminder of the myriad failings of my career and tainted love.
As I walked upwards, I felt a pang of jealousy at the riches of this man's kingdom. His smallest closet contained more than everything I own, I thought, as I reached the top of the stairs and paused to catch my breath. But even rich men cannot escape what must come to us all, and affluence means nothing to a corpse.
The stink of death reached me as I turned towards a partially open door made of dark oak, intricately carved with symbols of alchemy and superstition. I bent to look closer and found every sign of protection against evil spirits carved there: the inverted horseshoe, the Islamic blue and white charm to ward off the evil eye, and a Catholic saint holding up a cross against Satan's encroachment in his right hand. A Jewish mezuzah of teal Venetian glass was nailed to the doorframe, its Holy verses on parchment scroll denying destructive agents access, according to the promises of Kabbalah mysticism. This man had clearly tried everything to stop supernatural forces from reaching him, but the stench told me that death had crept in here despite his attempts at metaphysical protection.
I was no stranger to the dead but now I felt the need for that extra ounce of courage, for a curious dread had taken hold of me, a leaden coldness that spread through my limbs. I thought with longing of the hip flask hidden in the vehicle below, craving the swig of vodka to help me focus my mind on the task ahead. I didn't want to see what was beyond the door, but I crushed down the insidious fear and reached forwards to push it fully open.
The door creaked and wind chimes jangled to scare away malicious spirits, the sound bringing an incongruous sense of life to the inert atmosphere. I put my hand to my nose, trying unsuccessfully to mask the foul odor of voided bowels and rotting flesh. My sweeping gaze took in the ornate richness of the room and then the dead body splayed wide on the antique four-poster bed hung with embroidered curtains. On white satin sheets, now hideously stained with bodily fluids, lay a naked man, bulging flesh on a morbidly obese body lying in a vile slush of his own foul emissions. Christopher Faerwald had been a famous author who made millions from his novels, many of them adapted for the big screen, but he hadn't been seen in years. Now I understood how his physical disfigurement had turned him into a recluse, avoiding the public eye.
Accustomed to the stink now, I moved closer to the bed to examine the corpse. Flies rose into the air at my approach, swollen from feeding, their buzzing indignant at my interruption of their feast. Every inch of the man's bloated skin was covered with tattooed words. They may have been legible once, when his skin was young and taut, but they had since morphed into grotesque shapes, open vowels that threatened to swallow and sharp consonants, each cut into his flesh. The ink used to inscribe them was a dark crimson stain and I shuddered at the terrible thought that the words were written in his own blood. But surely this must be a fantastical idea awoken by this macabre den, for the walls were covered in crucifixes and painted with pentacles, and ancient holy books were cluttered in piles on the floor. Faerwald had clearly retreated here to fight his own demons, locked into some kind of madness brought about by his own imagination.
The man's face was a rictus of horror, a gaping grimace, as if he had witnessed the denizens of Hell streaming out of the maw of Hades and died of terror to look upon them. A thin stiletto knife and a mirror lay next to him on the bed, as if they had fallen from his hands. It looked like he had been trying to carve more words into his forehead, perhaps even as he died. I could barely read the disfigured flesh but it looked like the beginnings of a prayer for deliverance. As I examined him more closely, I could see that strips of flesh had been torn from his limbs, leaving weeping open wounds that now crawled with maggots. It looked as if he had died in the middle of being tortured by some perverse criminal. But what could anyone want of this man other than his vast wealth, yet there were no signs of forced entry and, according to the housekeeper, nothing had been taken.
I glanced around the room, the opulence a reflection of the rest of this grand property, dominated by the occult fetishes of his apparent obsession. The dying sun flooded through a pair of large bay windows, suffusing the room with a ruby glow and a touch of flame. Outside, it was darkening now and I could see thick purple clouds gathering like blood blisters across the sky, the beginnings of an unseasonal storm evident in the rain that pattered against the window. A wide wooden desk looked out towards a small church that squatted on the edge of a wood, perhaps Faerwald's personal chapel, since it lay within his vast estate out here on the edges of civilization. Apparently he had purchased this place before he rose to the heights of popular success and bought luxury properties around the world. Personally, I'd rather be on the beaches of Monaco than holed up here to die in obscurity, but he had been obsessed with the place.
To the right of the desk, one whole wall was devoted to erotic images, with gorgeous art morphing into pornography, and I couldn't help but look closer. Sandstone carvings from the Hindu temple of Khajuraho depicted orgies of debauchery, with bodies entwined in yogic poses as they thrust and writhed together. A set of art-house black and white photographs revealed scenes from a dungeon, as scarred and whipped bodies were soothed by gentle tongues.
Amongst the frenzied sensory overload, a small print caught my eye, portraying naked human figures swept into a hellish vortex, embracing each other with desire even as they were sucked into oblivion. William Blake's Circle of the Lustful, I read in the text below, and I couldn't help but glance back at the obscene figure spread-eagled on the bed, pushing away the repugnant image of this bloated man engaged in carnal acts. But beneath the mound of flesh, fattened from years of gluttony and excess, Faerwald's bones were aristocratic. He was now a shade of the handsome man he had once been, a magnet for beautiful women, and envied by men for his success.
I picked up a Hollywood-style photo frame from the desk, the picture within showing him in a slim-fit white tuxedo dancing a waltz, his strong arms wrapped around a stunning young woman, who smiled up at him with cornflower-blue eyes. I imagined them together, her shining blonde hair a veil that hid her eyes as they darkened with wanton pleasure. Envy surged within me and the need to drink almost drove me back to the car, desperate to tip even the tiniest dribble into my mouth. I pushed down the cravings and turned to examine the desk, using my pen to flick open a leather diary that sat in pride of place. On the final page, Faerwald's last words stared up at me, written in the same dark red ink, diseased now with tinges of purple and rusty clots that stained the thick ivory paper.
She comes tonight to claim what I promised in exchange so long ago.
I didn't believe her words back then, didn't think at all, but what she offered has come to pass and yet still I struggle to believe my soul can be so taken from me. I know I must pay the price for my sin, but if I can, I will prevent another from falling as far as I have done. With no self-indulgent pleasure bloating a soul to feed upon, she must sink back to the depths from which I summoned her. I have hidden the book so she will have to sleep again. It is buried, and I am finished, but perhaps this last act will earn me a sliver of redemption.
The diary page was signed with his name and yesterdays date, the handwriting measured, sane and deliberate, but the words read like one of his novels. Was he living within the realms of fantasy when he passed so violently into the next world? Yet as I looked over again at the man's horrified face, I knew that his agony had not been mere imagination.
My eyes were drawn out the window to the church, for he had sat here looking at it when he wrote those last words, and I felt a prickle of sensation, as if those murky portals called to me. Could he have buried the strange book within? Something dark began to uncoil within me and I felt compelled to delve deeper, for I knew that I would exchange much to experience the riches this man had enjoyed.
Running back down the stairs, I called out to my partner that I had to investigate further evidence outside. He shouted after me but I ignored him, caught up in the sensation that I must get to the chapel, and that time was of the essence. Part of me wondered at this desperate insistence but I felt possessed by something beyond my control.
As I stepped outside, the light rain that had been falling morphed into icy sleet and the heavy purple clouds above me split open with lightning. Thunder rolled across the desolate space between the house and the church and I was buffeted violently as opposing winds clashed all around. I pulled my coat tighter, fighting against Nature, as if I was pushing a great weight ahead of me into a squall sent from Hell itself to tear this sombre valley apart.
Each step across the open ground was a huge effort, but when I finally made it to the lych-gate at the entrance of the tiny churchyard the storm had eased a little, the rain lighter now, although the wind still howled around me. The church was old and partly ruined, with stone blocks that had fallen to the grass below, and eroded gargoyles hanging skewed from the edges of broken masonry. The present facade seemed to be built upon a more archaic structure, stones that had perhaps been worshipped as pagan gods in the days before Christ. I had imagined that I was running to sanctuary but now I felt that the miasma of the place was oppressive and malevolent. Yet I still wanted to enter, my curiosity deeply roused to search for the mysterious book.
