Page 16 of Hell and Its Pleasures

God. . . or Asmodeus?

The unknowable voice echoed in the recesses of my mind, but the church itself fell steadily quieter. One by one, voices in that choir were snuffed out, until I could hear only the creaking of chandeliers swaying in the breeze. Where Hell itself was tinted a harsh red, a cold, blue night had fallen over this church. Everything had been cast in an oily blue-black shadow that dripped from every corner.

Shoeless, I crept over the marble. The sounds of my feet—a rounded plap of a footstep—distorted as it echoed, growing sharper on the marble corners of the structure. I felt so small, though not in that delicious way Asmodeus had made me feel. Discomfort ate at me.

Pews upon pews lined the aisle, and I walked down this central vestibule until I met the altar at the end. Old habit came into me and I genuflected, dropping down to give the space respect—which was laughable, given my nudity and everything else about me.

When I stood, I knew my cheeks were flushing from my internal chastising tone. But this upset vanished when I looked up and saw that in those few seconds my gaze was averted, the sanctuary and the altar had changed.

A giant wooden crucifix lay across the altar, large enough for a man to be strapped to. Jesus came to me then, naturally, and I wondered if He would be disappointed in me. In how I turned out.

But He was always the one to save degenerates, some tinny voice cried out inside me.

The issue I faced, of course, was that I still didn’t want to be saved.

Still don’t want to be saved, still don’t want to be saved.

With the same echo of church bells, my own declaration rebounded aloud, as if I had spoken, in this facsimile church.

Something about being here naked at least made me consider what it meant to bear oneself wholly to God. Here was my soul, decked out with the iconography and paraphernalia of my faith, but rotten at its core.

I stepped towards the crucifix. It looked altogether normal, free of nails and blood stains, brand new for its crucifixion. The wood felt rough beneath my skin. I pressed the pads of my fingers into the grooves, waiting for splinters to split them open, or to become jammed beneath my fingernails. Neither thing happened, and when I pulled my hand away, the whole place shuddered.

A cold wind blew through the sanctuary and snuffed out the candles. I spun, expecting company, but no one and nothing appeared before me. Then, in defiance to the wind, the candles reignited—and the light expanded to encompass the whole ruin of the cathedral.

A deep and musical laughter rumbled around me, echoing off the marble and pillars until the sound felt spherical, its origin obscured. I cast about desperate, shivering nude and exhausted.

“Little lamb. . .” a voice cooed to me, and it wafted with the same cloying weight of incense, at once calming and suffocating. My chest relaxed. Minute muscle spasms were put to rest.

“Here you are. . .” called another voice, higher and mellowed, a voice that straddled neutrality.

I waited for the figures to resolve out of the shadows, but nothing changed. There was only me in that windy church. The human part of me was understandably frightened. I hugged at myself, aware of my nakedness the way Adam and Eve had become aware of it; gone was all that joyous pleasurethat had come with my nudity, and I was left with guilt and shame once more.

“You seek something,” the first voice said.

The second, in answer, “Well, you must seek something, to have risked it all to come here.”

I asked, “Who are you?” and my voice shivered, stretched out by the expanse of marble and stained glass, until I could barely recognise my voice in the returning echo.

“Human,” one whispered.

“Yes. . . little lamb, that’s it. I can smell life in you. Have you opened the door to Hell? Have you let us out?”

The facsimile church bells rang in a clamour, echoing out around the scene. The shadows shifted but still I could see nothing wholly.

I told them, “I opened a door. . .the Cave of the Sibyl.”

Some chatter happened then; in a language I couldn’t comprehend. I felt it move through me in vibrations. My bones shook with the depth of the sound. But the beings did not share their thoughts with me, and by the time they were done, they had come to some conclusion that moved the conversation on entirely.

Behind me, a shadow shifted, and warm breath tickled up my neck. I flinched and cast about, and once more saw nothing. The disembodied voice said, “I smell something on you. . . someone.”

“Asmodeus,” I said quickly. My voice sounded like a bark, all defensive. Fear sparked in my gut. “Will you take me to it?”

“Is that what you are after?”

“It must be. The human smells of sex and lust; the prince has corrupted it.”

Raucous, hearty laughter.

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