A Window Into Hell

The night was consumed by an eerie and chilling silence when Matthew finally returned home. His otherwise white shirt was smeared with blood, its ruby shade drying up to a rotten hue of brown. His bloodshot eyes darted across his excuse of a dwelling, from the cracking walls spray-painted with profanity and messy graffiti, to the dusty wooden panels of the floor. His gaze then turned to the object in his hand, which he had covered in washcloth to make it appear as if it were something mediocre and ordinary. He uncovered his possession, revealing it to be a painting of the utmost proficiency and prestige. I did spill blood for it, he thought, as he looked at his clothes. He didn’t care for it, however. He did it every day, killing different people, stealing different belongings and making them his.

He took some time to admire the art he had purloined. It seemed to depict a sea of red, with tiny specks of civilisation lurking in certain locations. An inferno was rising in the background, and even in the painting, it seemed to be moving forwards, engulfing everything in its path. Destruction emerged from every corner of the illustration, with the art simply exuding violence. The thought plastered a twisted smile on Matthew’s face. Hanging up the painting on a wall in his room, he removed his clothes and drew a bath, as warm as his plumbing could allow.

…

Matthew woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in perspiration. He had awoken to the sound of death, as the scent of fire, decay and quietus wafted to his sensitive nostrils. He slid off his bed wearily, his senses heightened. When he identified the source of the sounds, he paused in his tracks. It was the painting. A golden light emerged from it, its reflection bouncing against the cold, grey walls of Matthew’s shack. As he walked towards his newest conquest, the commotions became louder and clearer. As soon as his fingers touched the light to investigate, he felt himself being pulled against his will. The wind moved rapidly with him, brushing against his body, with its harsh noise tearing his ear apart.

His dimensional voyage came to an abrupt halt, and his eyes feasted upon his destination. Fire consumed his surroundings, causing charred buildings to crumble and fall upon the people below. It was at this moment that he noticed something. He could see humans before him, but they seemed to be soulless, empty shells rather than living, breathing creatures. Their eyes were hollow, their skin inexplicably pale. Bones protruded from every corner of their bodies. Some pointed towards him with their fingers and screamed in shock, and a ghastly, haunting shriek emerged from their thin lips.

Matthew cautiously walked towards them. The ashes scattered on the ground crunched beneath his feet. He stopped in front of what seemed to be a woman. It was hard to tell whether her face had been replaced by a skull or not. Scraggly white hair formed a thin mane around her head, while her scalp was visible despite her desperate efforts to cover it. Matthew placed his hand on her shoulder, but when he did, it passed through her. His fingers froze for a moment as they dissolved through what he realised was not a human, but a sprit, a mere residue of a corpse. He flinched back in fear when he discovered where he was. As he stepped back apprehensively, he stumbled and fell back, grazing his elbows on the harsh surface of the ground. As he looked at the souls approaching him, he noticed the landscape behind them. The sky was marred with smoke and death, but something more was rising from it.

A shadow loomed over Matthew, casting a shadow over everything in his sight. As the creature grew closer, Matthew could discern a few of its features. A pair of horns protruded from a blemished, disfigured face, which stood proudly on a muscular, rufescent build. A forked tongue emerged from its hungry lips, its grin growing wider as it approached Matthew, who gasped as he became aware of who he was.

“You know why you are here, Matthew,” it grumbled, while an evil cackle lay buried underneath his stoic tone. As it laughed openly, Matthew glanced at his garments, which were once covered in blood. His eyes looked up in an apologetic fear, but they widened as the Devil’s clawed hands seized his neck, squeezing his throat, pulling the life out of his body. Matthew screamed and waved his limbs violently, hoping to escape. He could feel himself dissolving, transforming into nothing more than a replaceable void.

When a few moments had passed, the spirits gathered around to see what Matthew had been reduced to: a few particles melting into the wind.

…

A week had passed since Matthew has last been seen. His neighbours were not worried, but rather intrigued. They gathered together to casually converse about what might have happened to the young criminal. Maybe he moved away and changed his identity, or sold the spoils of his craft to earn a fortune. Young children would often listen to their theories, fascinated by concepts they could not understand. It piqued their attention, but their interest was lost soon after. Except for one boy. He was aware of the objects in Matthew’s abandoned house, and so, he resolved his mission for the night.

When the time came, he crept into the old shack. Fear entered his body every time the floorboards creaked under his feet. Glancing around the room, he took notice of a golden urn lying neglected on the old sofa, springs emerging from every corner. He had grabbed the vessel when he heard a commotion. He shivered in anxiety as his first instinct was to think that his neighbours had learned of his childish, immature crime. He glanced nervously outside, but saw nothing more than houses holding broken families and fractured residents.

It took more than a moment for his perplexed mind to realise that the sound was from inside the house. He crept towards the source of the noise, afraid but curious. For a moment, the cacophony of voice stopped, drowning under the loud, low grumble of something bigger. The boy entered Matthew’s room, and gasped in terror when he saw the light from the painting. As he moved forward to investigate it, he felt the thud of footsteps, forceful enough to vibrate the house. He cautiously walked closer to the painting, and as he glanced through the small window formed by the light, a large hand reached through it, grabbing him by the neck. As he fought helplessly to free himself, he saw his hands turning into dust, with the transformation beginning from the toes and moving gradually towards the rest of his body.

After a few moments, when the clawed hand had let go of the boy’s neck, he was nothing more than what Matthew had become: a few particles melting into the wind.