I read an interesting article this morning, which really got me thinking.

First off - a link:  http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/russell-smith/want-some-writing-advice-ignore-any-advice/article1927034/

I'm not sure how I feel about what he says, to be honest. On one hand, I completely disagree with him - if it hadn't been for the honest feedback I received on my work, I would still be stuck in the doldrums of the beginning of the last century, drowning in a sea of adjectives (which I know it a fast-track to Rejectionsville nowadays, and have tweaked my natural rather baroque style into something I am *hoping* is a little more agreeable to the modern literary palate) ... but on the other hand, I do see what he is saying. Which brings me to something I have noticed on every single writing site I have been to, and has forced me to ask myself this question an awful lot: is it critique, or is it just 'wish-listing' on behalf of the critic?

We all have our own preferences in writing. Personally, I'm not really a fan of the modern preoccupation with literary austerity, and so I don't write this way. Put plainly, I don't like this whole 'simple sentences with little to no description' thang - I know it is unfashionable right now, but what the hell,  it's a taste thing. So why would (and indeed, should) I write a style I don't like reading? But in every single critique I receive, at least one person will either tell me to pare it down or re-write bits so that the piece fits their taste, leaving me feel a little... I don't know. Not annoyed as such - I'm grateful for the feedback - but... deflated? I end up reading the suggested changes, and they're never bad... but they don't sound like *me*. It always ends up sounding exactly what it is - someone else's work. And I do wonder just how useful that is sometimes - after all, what is the point of writing if you cannot claim ownership of it?

One of the comments on the site hit a particular chord with me:

"One of my grad supervisors kept returning drafts of my thesis literally heavy with red ink. By the 2nd time, I realized that many of his suggestions had self-cancelled and I was effectively back at my original wording."

I've experienced this myself - where critiques by the same person end up contradicting themselves to the point where, in one piece they say 'ooo, no; don't do that!' then, in another, they suggest you do exactly the thing they last advised you to avoid - and I tied myself up in knots trying to satisfy both criteria. And what did I end up with? An absolute mess of a piece that I ended up abandoning out of sheer frustration, because I couldn't get it 'right'. I'm a little way further down the path now (not that far; I've spent a lot of time sniffing the roses and watching the clouds drifting by, which I have been summarily had my metaphorical legs slapped copious amounts of times when it came to feedback time! Old habits dies very hard, especially when you're enjoying yourself...) and realise that you can't please all the people all the time, but that niggling feeling that if you're not slavishly following critiques, you're somehow 'slacking off' is hard to shake. Which leads me back to the article - how do other people feel about this chap's point of view? Have we gone too far down the road (his point about us not learning to be writers, but critics in writers' clothing), or is he just spouting a load of bunk?

 

2057

I posted this in the Sci-fi group, but it is as much political satire as it is futurist. I would appreciate any comments/critiques/discussion.  I hadn't planned on expanding it to a novel, but one of my American readers has suggested it.  I probably have too many other unfinished projects going now to consider it.

Gosh, what good fortune to find the Cloud. You put a chapter up in critiques, and half a dozen people give their views, sometimes coming back to add elaborations. What's so good about that? It's half a dozen viewpoints, that's what.

Yes, it's great to pay for a professional critique, but that critique, however insightful, will ultimately be one person's view. Okay, that person has lots of experience and expertise to back up what they say - well worth investing in.

For that matter, it could be well worth investing in two - from different companies - although that's where you might begin to feel uneasy. It's always possible that the well considered, well argued critique from company (a) might say something quite opposite to the well considered, well argued critique from company (b).

This is bound to happen sometimes - because what are we dealing with? Human reactions. How consistent are human reactions? Blessedly inconsistent. And that's why Cloud Critiques are such a valuable adjunct. You know you can't please all the people all of the time, but if you get half a dozen reactions you have more chance of seeing the general effect of your work.

In my case, it was a chapter that, for various reasons, I could no longer see as clearly as I wished. Consequence? There were some things I simply did not see at all. What happened? Some people pointed out some things, others pointed out others. The benefit? Lots of pointing = lots of things pointed at = more chance they would spot something I had not seen.

Ah Cloud, truly thou are mighty in thy works.

Have you ever sat down at your computer and your mind goes blank?
I have spent the last two days writing a 'horror' chapter. 1,000 words. How difficult is that?

I got stuck several times - my dialogue hit brick walls, or my characters wouldn't have said what I had written - the list goes on. I wrote - I erased, and I re-wrote. It still didn't come out right.

How do you kill someone? What is it I need to reveal to increase the suspense? Do I drag it out - or do I suddenly finish it?

I suppose you want to know what happened? How I got myself out of the black hole I'd dug?

I went swimming; I let my mind think it through without me being there.  When I got back I placed my hands on the keyboard and typed...

...now I have a chapter ready for critique - and that's when I find out it wasn't so good anyway!

Boo Hoo xx

I have just sent my first four finished chapters to my sister to read. This is crazy I know, but this is the first time I have ever let anyone read my work. I think my heart may just jump right out my skin, honestly have goose bumps! I don’t know what makes me so nervous, well, I suppose I actually do, I am scared someone says it’s rubbish and shatters all my dreams. But then I have to ask what dreams are if they are completely unrealistic, setting one up for continual disappointment, leaving one humiliated and disillusioned. I have already written the whole thing, and am now in the revision stage, and have done that numerous times already. I am tired and feel I can’t make any more changes to the first four chapters, so I really need an outsiders opinion. That being said, making more changes could mean a complete re write – horror. I know realistically that is what this is all about, but I’m not sure if I can stomach starting over. I believe in my story, but not in my skills to do it justice. I am just not sure if I’ll cope with her honesty!

In the intro to his (mostly interesting) War against Cliche, Martin Amis writes:

"Gallingly … there is no means for distinguishing the excellent from the less excellent. The most muscular literary critics on earth have no equipment for establishing that

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears

is a better line than

When all at once I saw a crowd

– and, if they did, they would have to begin by saying that the former contains a dead expletive (‘do’) brought in to sustain the metre."

Now what do we all think about that? I think he's just plain wrong. I think the difference is easy to hear, and easy to explain.

I won't say more just yet, because I want to hear your thoughts first, but I will say that the second line form Wordsworth is (IMHO) as pedestrian and dull as far too much of his writing. But let's get stuck in. Can we explain why the first line is excellent and the second one is anywhere from dull to OK? Let's give it a Word Cloudy go ...

OK if this goes well I reckon I have cracked the old Blog thing.

Critiques please. 

 

I hope you'll forgive me for indulging myself with a personal story of the process I've been through in the past seven months. If you're not interested then you're free to close your browser now and go and do something much more interesting. A quick warning that there is some profanity in this blog post.

It all started twelve years ago when I was undergoing an OFSTED inspection at work. The stress was so bad that I sat down at every opportunity to write something. It rapidly turned into a sci-fi novel about the life of an alien; written in the first person perspective - pure escapism at the time. I finished it a year later, had a friend read it through and make a few corrections, then sent it to agents. This friend's claim to literary fame is that he wrote a short story in the late 50's, early 60's, which was published in a fantasy magazine of the time. He used the phrase 'The fucking fucker's fucked' which was cited in court when Penguin books was put on trial for publishing Lady Chatterley's Lover (or so he always claimed), but I digress. The novel was rejected and I got on with my life.

In January of this year, I was at a loose end and found the archived work on an old hard drive. I read it through and realised that although the written style was appalling, the story had some merit. I got to work cleaning it up.

When I told my friends on Face book what I was doing, one came back with some general advice - don't put in too much exposition, she urged. Most people tend to 'info dump' when they start writing. Don't use ''ly" words too often. I was thoroughly, unquestionably, enthusiastically overwhelmed by her expertly crafted ideas.

Next I visited a friend who is very well read and who had heard some good advice for first time novelists on a BBC4 radio programme. Don't say "John said, angrily" too often. This is what amateurs do. If your individual character voice is strong enough it will show the reader who is speaking. Also if the words themselves convey anger the reader will know without being told the character's emotional state. Only tell the reader who is talking if there are a group of people in the scene, she said...

I deleted ten pages of crap from the first two chapters and decided that I was making progress. I then found some great web sites which gave me some more general advice.

http://www.darkwaves.com/sfch/writing/ckilian/

http://www.musik-therapie.at/PederHill/Structure&Plot.htm

And of course, 'The Word Cloud'.

I made contact with a really nice guy on here who kindly read through my prologue and first chapter. He was great, very kind, diplomatic and supportive. Very imaginative, he said, but you have a tendency toward passive voice. I did some immediate homework on line, learned everything I could about passive voice and went through from the beginning, editing the story again.

The Face book friend called me up - she's in the USA so this was a big deal - she told be all about the many writers workshops she attends, how she works with published authors and bragged about how expert she is. Can you see where this is leading yet? "Send me your first few chapters, I'll give you some professional critique."

When I received my work back from her I was astounded. There wasn't one single positive thing said. She had crossed through and re-written whole chunks in her own style, commented on every little detail, including my choice of character names, and slated the plot. I was devastated and tried to be grown up about it. Let me give you an example. Please imagine a sarcastic tone here as I find it difficult to write in such a style, where as she had no problem at all.

Iain McClellan!!!!!! WHY does he have that name? You're not writing about Gandalf are you????????

I was completely 'fucked up' by her comments! I stared at my opening chapter for three days after that, feeling like I'd lost the ability to write. Surely it wasn't all that bad, after all, other people, including a word clowder, had said some positive things about it.

Pulling myself together I did the adult thing and went back through my work, taking what I wanted from her critique and ignoring what I felt was pettiness. I ignored her following emails setting me 'homework' to improve my written style and went back to basics.

Three more visits to the well-read friend later, I'd worked on character voice, point of view (which believe me is difficult when you're writing in the first person but your protagonist is dead!) story and character arc, show don't tell and scientific realism.

Then much to my surprise, an email arrives from the American lady. Your turn to pick my work to pieces, she said in her mail. Could I resist it? Hell no, I pulled her apart. Actually I didn't comment on anything that I didn't feel deserved it. What shocked me most was that her written style, although completely different to mine, was no better than mine. There were errors in grammar and spelling all over the place. Whole paragraphs made up from one long, long, long, long sentence with lots of commas. Also an overly-flowery written prose at the expense of pace and plot development. It gave me great satisfaction to return her work highlighted in a multitude of colours with corrections and suggestions - although I'd never have the cheek to actually re-write another authors work.

Where does all this leave me? Well I've now posted my prologue on here, received some invaluable feedback which was honest, yet tactful, and encouraged me to completely re-write it - I forgot the show, don't tell rule in the prologue. I know that I've developed in all aspects of my writing and feel confident to give others feedback too. I always try to be positive, constructive, encouraging, yet honest. Other clowders seem to be the same.

I plan on letting one more person look at my novel from start to finish, just to get an idea of whether the whole thing hangs together as a complete story. Critique of individual chapters is okay, but you can lose sight of the bigger picture weighed down with minutia.

All this editing has increased my word count from just under 70,000 to 77,529 but I hope that every word counts! So when do I call it a day? When is the novel finished and no more critique needed? I could go on asking different people forever, never getting it out there. There was a time when my confidence was all gone, now it's back and ready for the hammering it will get by many agents' rejections.

Thanks, word clowders, for taking time to read and for letting me rant - critique of this blog post is welcome (not). Just kidding...

Angeriana (aka Jackie)

Recently, I've been struggling with a horrific case of the over-exuberant inner critic and big dollops of self doubt as to whether I can write. No, this isn't a blog about that (already had one of those!), but rather a comment on some of the things I have found whilst going through this patch.

Since the self doubt fairy has decided to inflict an extended stay chez Ely, I have taken to lurking, reading people's writing and observing what is being said about it. I've been a bit naughty: I haven't left much in the way of comments myself, but that is simply because I don't feel qualified right now to be criticising anything, but reading other people's critiques has been a very interesting pass time.

I write fantasy, horror and sci-fi, so that is what I have focused my energies upon. We have a large contingency of very talented writers who specialise in these genres, and so I've been a bit spoilt when it comes for things to read. What has interested me immensely is how many of them have recieved very similar critiques as me in terms of overwriting, telling rather than showing, dumping info, use of adverbs etc... mainly by people who don't write nor read fantasy.

This is not a criticism of those who write other genres. It's certainly not a criticism of anyone giving critique. Basic rules and guidelines are just that - basic rules and guidelines that should apply to all, regardless of genre (like spelling, sentence structure, basic grammar etc). But should people bear in mind the target audience and genre when they approach their critiquing, rather than just approaching all pieces with the same mindset?

I only ask this because I have seen a lot of fantasy pieces critiqued to the point of austerity, which whilst not a bad thing in general, does mean that the piece can end up lacking a lot of the things that people expect to read when choosing a fantasy story. There have been a few cases when the fantasy writer has felt they have to defend their stance, and a few more are now reluctant to post pieces for critique because they know straight away that those who do not read the genre they are writing for will slash through their piece in a moment and declare it overwritten. Of course, this very well may be the case, and it can be a helpful (if painful!) thing, but there are other times when I feel that the suggested cut reads more like a list of things done and loses all of its genre 'flavouring'.

I suppose this blog has arisen because I am writing a Cthulhu Mythos short story right now, and in keeping with the Mythos conventions, it is quite baroque and, for lack of a better term, 'very wordy'. If I do put it up for people to read, there are going to be a lot of people unfamiliar with the Mythos and its conventions who are going to declare it overwritten tripe and then give me suggestions to pare it back to its skeleton. The problem with this is, if I ever approach a Mythos publisher with it, they are going to expect a Mythos story in its full baroque glory... not a modern tale told with a modern taste for literary austerity, and therefore the critique may not actually do me any favours in the long run (whereas someone who does know the genre would be able to see past the stylistic conventions and critique the actual tale as opposed to being horrified by the seeming overuse of the word 'indescribable' when describing Cthulhu!) .

And I fear that if I point this out, I will be accused of that terrible sin: being defensive.

So - to put this rambling load of nonsense to bed: where do you stand? Should genre be considered when critiquing? Or should we all abide by the same rules and be critiqued equally, regardless of genre? Should 'genre expectations' ever be a defense for a stylistic choice in prose? Or is it all just defending bad writing?

 

 

 

The  Painting, by Andrew Williams

July  17th,  1910,  England.

For  the  past  200  years,  the  area  above  the  fireplace  in  the  library  at  Waterston  Manor  has  been  inhabited  by  an  old  and  terrifying  force,  a  painting;  The  Eternal  Night.  The  painting  is  of  unknown  origin,  created  by  some  nameless  artist. In  the  centuries  it  has  spent  here,  an  accumulation  of  more  than  just  household  dust  has  found  its  way  within  the  Eternal  Night’s  burnt-black  frame.  

James  Kutuzov  was  standing  in  the  entrance  hall  of  Waterston  Manor,  staring  up  into  the  high  wooden  ceiling.  It  was  night  outside,  and  the  full-moon  was  shining  brightly  through  the  huge  tinted  windows  which  illuminated  the  uppermost  reaches  of  the  Waterston  household,  giving  the  whole  entrance  hall  a  faint  bluish-grey  colour.  A  door  creaked  open  about  twenty  feet  ahead  of  him,  causing  his  gaze  to  fall  immediately  over  it.  Flashlight  held  high,  he  approached  the  doorway  keen-eyed  and  alert.  The  warped  wooden  door  had  been  carved  out  from  a  lump  of  ancient  driftwood,  James  wondered  how  it  managed  to  still  hold  its  form.  Some  unreadable  text  had  been  scrawled  all  over  it,  the  same  series  of  characters  repeated  hundreds  of  times.  James  recognised  it  to  be  early  Norwegian  -  for  he  had  studied  ancient  Norse  poetry  in  university  many  years  beforehand  -  but  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  translate  it.  The  door  was  only  slightly  ajar,  yet  the  vacuous  blackness  of  the  room  behind  it  sliced  through  the  meagre  opening  and  seemed  to  pull  him  towards  it,  challenging  him  to  enter.  A  sudden  noise  behind  him  caused  him  to  glance  backwards  towards  the  entrance  door,  it  had  slammed  shut.  ‘It  has  me  now,  I’m  at  its  mercy.’  He  thought,  whilst  shuddering  in  fear.

Putting  all  his  weight  on  his  left  foot,  James  kicked  the  door  open  with  his  right,  shining  the  flashlight  inside  as  he  did  so.  Dust  from  the  top  of  the  door’s  frame  drifted  down  and  disturbed  his  vision  for  a  second.  Once  the  dust  had  cleared,  James'  eyes  darted  around  the  room,  following  the  flashlight’s  beam  over  rugged  and  broken  terrain.  Mound  upon  mound  of  old  newspapers  littered  the  floor.  There  was  nothing  else  in  the  room,  or  at  least  that  was  how  it  appeared  from  his  current  perspective.  Unsure  of  whether  to  step  inside  or  not,  he  cautiously  leaned  through  the  doorway  and  looked  left,  shining  the  flashlight  along  the  floor  and  wall  as  he  did  so.  ‘Nothing  but  more  papers…’  He  turned  to  the  right  and  repeated  the  same  procedure. 

A  shiver  shot  straight  from  the  top  of  his  neck,  right  down  his  spine  and  ended  up  at  the  back  of  his  legs,  turning  them  to  jelly.  First,  he  noticed  the  fireplace:  resembling  something  pulled  straight  out  of  the  dark  ages,  a  heavy  scorched  lump  of  black,  badly-cut  marble.  It  was  so  low  and  wide  that  it  could  easily  have  been  mistaken  for  an  altar;  had  it  been  in  the  centre  of  the  room  rather  than  against  the  wall.  Smoke  billowed  out  of  it,  as  if  the  chimney  were  blocked  off  causing  the  grey  clouds  to  backfire  into  the  room.  However  the  fire  wasn’t  lit  and  he  failed  to  smell  anything  burning,  the  only  scents  were  that  of  mould  and  decay.  The  room  was  pitch-black  aside  from  James'  flashlight,  so  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried,  he  could  not  find  any  logical  explanation  for  the  smoke’s  pattern.  It  continued  rising,  as  if  it  were  being  sucked  into  a  vent  or  fan  on  the  ceiling.  

James  stood  for  what  seemed  like  millennia  staring  up  into  the  bleak  painting,  trying  to  work  out  what  he  should  do  next.  ‘No.’  His  mind  corrected  him;  ‘You  know  what  to  do,  you’re  just  too  afraid  to  do  it.’  He  bit  down  hard  on  his  bottom  lip  until  he  tasted  blood,  then  forced  himself  into  the  room.  He  walked  cautiously  to  its  centre,  one  step  at  a  time,  shining  his  flashlight  at  the  floor  as  he  did  so  and  paying  close  attention  so  as  not  to  trip  or  fall.  He  came  to  a  stop  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  the  painting  began  to  swing  and  sway  in  its  chains;  reaching  for  him.  It  hung  directly  above  him  now  and  he  could  feel  its  pull  growing  stronger  and  stronger,  still  with  each  fleeting  moment.

‘I  want  my  wife,  I  want  Jess  back.’  James  spoke,  and  it  shocked  him.  He  was  confused  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  and  was  embarrassed  with  realisation  of  how  foolish  he  must  look;  standing  on  newspapers,  talking  to  a  painting.    Moments  passed  and  nothing  changed,  he  began  to  grow  restless  and  even  considered  leaving.  

His  flashlight  grew  immensely  hot  and  burned  his  hand  -  reflex  made  him  throw  it  to  the  floor.  It  smashed  and  the  light  was  extinguished,  he  was  buried  under  blankets  of  darkness.  James  grinned  as  the  door  he  used  to  enter  the  room  was  slammed  shut.  ‘Please  Jess,  forgive  me.’  he  prayed.

‘Greetings,  James.’  The  voice  was  cold  and  upon  hearing  it  James  lost  all  confidence  he  had  retained  -  it  felt  like  his  spine  had  turned  to  ice.  This  was  so  far  beyond  goose-bumps.  It  had  came  from  above  him,  from  the  painting.  

‘Who  goes  there?’  James  asked,  through  a  broken  voice.

‘My  name  is  Legion:  for  we  are  many.’  It  replied.

James'  arms  and  legs  were  on  fire,  it  seemed,  for  he  burned  whenever  Legion  spoke.

‘I  came  for  my  wife,  I’ll  do  anything  to  have  her  back.’  James  announced,  biting  his  lips,  awaiting  the  burn  which  was  sure  to  accompany  Legion’s  reply  to  his  statement.  Moments  passed,  he  almost  thought  it  would  not  come.  But  then  it  did.

‘Those  who  fall  unwillingly  but retain  a  virtuous  soul  will  ascend  up  into  Heaven.  Those  who  choose  to  fall  are  not  caught  by  He-Who-Currently-Rules  and  enter  Hell.  You  dare  taint  this  holy  place  with  your  snivelling,  filthy  carcass,  then  go  as  far  as  to  ask  me  to  simply  hand  over  what  is  mine  by  right?’

The  burning  sensation  returned,  coursing  through  his  veins  causing  him  to  fall  to  his  knees,  wreathed  in  pain.  Once  the  pain  subsided  he  spoke,  anxious  to  get  this  over  with.  ‘Please,  I  can’t  leave  her  there.  We  have  3  children  together,  they  need  their  mother  more  than  anything.  I’ll  do  whatever  you wish’  he  pleaded,  getting  up  off  his  knees.

Then  Legion’s  tone  changed,  he  really  did  have  this  man  where  he  wanted  him.

‘Would  you  murder  to  have  her  back?’

James’  response  was  cold  and  took  almost  no  deliberation.

‘I’d  slit  King  George’s  throat  while  he  prayed  at  Westminster  Abbey,  if  need  be.’

‘Well  then,  we  offer  you  the  chance  to  save  your  wife.’

Although  it  pained  him  still,  his  excitement  and  joy  could  not  keep  his  tongue  chained  much  longer:  ‘Thank  you  so  much,  what  must  I  do  to  see  this  happen?’

‘The  painting  is  a  doorway  to  my  kingdom.  Use  it,  wait  for  Archon,  he  will  be  expecting  you.  Bow  to  his  every  will,  follow  his  orders  exactly  as  he  gives  them.  Do  not  deviate  from  or  object  to  any  command  he  issues  to  you,  for  if  you  do;  I  will  take  your  children.’

James'  face  was  swiftly  whitewashed.  Could  he  really  put  his  children’s  lives  up  as  collateral  against  the  Devil  himself?

‘I  need  time…sorry,  I’m  just  not  sure  if  I’m  ready  to  decide  yet,  it’s  a  hard  decision  to  make.  I  love  my  children  with  all  my  heart,  I  couldn’t  possibly….’

‘You  wholly  misapprehend  the  position  you  are  currently  placed  within.’  The  Devil  barked,  interrupting  James  mid-sentence.  ‘We  are  Legion.  Your  wife  is  broken,  your  children  and  yourself  could  just  as  easily  join  her  in  the  pit.  You’re  lucky  I  haven’t  taken  everything  that  is  yours  and  cast  you  down  for  your  wife  to  feast  on  for  all  of  eternity.  What  are  you  failing  to  grasp  about  this?’

‘Sorry,  my  apologies.’  James  bowed  cowardly,  then  stopped  half-way  as  something  triggered  a  thought  in  his  head.  ‘Wait,  sorry,  that’s  ridiculous.  No  matter  what  you  could  have  done  to  her,  she  would  never  even  dream  of  such  an  abhorrent  thing!’

‘We  told  you,  We  broke  her.  The  damned  will  do  anything  if  it  means  being  spared  for  even  a  single  day  the  torments  inflicted  upon  them.  See  for  yourself.’

Darkness  still  wrapped  around  him,  but  James  instinctively  knew  to  raise  his  hand.  It  was  immediately  clutched  by  a  cold,  skeletal  claw  and  he  was  pulled  upwards  into  the  deep,  voided  canvas  of  the  painting.  It  was  an  incredible  sensation,  similar  to  diving  underwater,  but  instead  into  a  strange  new  substance.  It  felt  as  though  he  were  rising  through  quicksand  and  would  soon  reach  the  surface,  but  the  surface  never  came.  It  was  cold  here,  cold  and  dead.  He  could  hardly  breathe  at  all,  the  air  was  so  scarce.  It  felt  old,  as  if  it  had  been  here  since  the  beginning  of  time  passing  through  the  lungs  of  the  uncountable  damned.  

Suddenly,  they  came  to  a  halt.  Despite  the  severity  of  the  situation,  James  couldn’t  help  thinking  of  the  children’s  tale  Alice  in  Wonderland.  ‘I  wonder  how  far  down  this  rabbit  hole  goes…’  Legion  relinquished  his  hold  on  James'  arm,  this  shocked  him,  he  had  grown  used  to  Legion’s  grip  and  now,  realising  it  was  lighter  than  before,  decided  he  would  turn  and  observe  the  Devil’s  appearance.  James  was  shocked,  this  man  looked  normal  and,  in  every  way,  distinctly  average.  He  wore  a  brown  jacket  with  grey  jeans  and  a  white  shirt.  His  hair  was  long  though  and,  rugged.  He  said  nothing  at  first,  but  pointed  at  a  wardrobe-sized  metallic  box,  a  few  hundred  feet  in  front  of  them.

‘Once  you  have  seen  her,  Archon  will  find  and  talk  with  you.  Remember  my  words.’  Legion  turned  to  face  James,  his  eyes  were  voids.  Jet  black,  they  drew  smoke  into  them  like  the  painting  did  in  Waterston  Manor.  James  couldn’t  take  it  anymore,  his  gaze  faltered  first  and  Legion  departed.  He  then  turned  and  ran  towards  the  casket.  Running  was  hard,  all  movement  here  was.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  heavier,  as  if  gravity  itself  were  stronger.  This,  coupled  with  the  scarce  supply  of  oxygen;  made  him  instantly  regret  the  sudden  burst  of  speed  and  his  childlike  excitement  once  he  reached  the  casket;  and  collapsed  unconscious  over  it.  

Minutes  later  he  regained  consciousness,  rubbing  his  eyes  and  standing  over  the  metal  box  which  encased  his  wife  like  a  children’s  doll  in  its  packaging.  The  casket  was  thick  and  made  of  un-even,  badly  forged  iron.  There  were  slashes  all  over  it,  random  holes  here-and-there  and  its  entire  left-side  was  covered  in  rust.  Carefully,  he  ran  his  fingers  around  the  handle  of  his  wife’s  tomb  and  opened  it  with  caution.  As  light  from  outside  filled  the  metal  prison,  it  rested  on  his  wife’s  features.  

His  mind  raced;  ‘Jess!  It’s  her!  It’s  finally  her.’  A  smile  seemed  to  ambush  him  as  he  saw  her  and  it  now  controlled  the  entire  width  of  his  face.  For  the  first  time  in  over  two  months  he  was  happy…But  his  smile  soon  departed  as  he  noticed  the  first  signs  of  torture.  She  lay  motionless  inside  the  metal  coffin,  scrunched  up  in  a  ball,  hands  covering  her  face.  Cowering,  expecting  it  to  be  someone  wishing  to  cause  her  harm,  it  hurt  him  deeply  to  see  her  this  way.  Her  clothes  were  much  less  than  rags,  they  had  been  ripped  and  torn  at  so  much  she  was  practically  naked.  Her  hair,  once  James'  favourite  of  her  features,  was  now  mostly  ruined  and  missing  random  patches,  as  if  it  had  been  torn  out  by  a  savage  beast.  She  was  thin  now,  too.  Not  only  thin,  but  starved  to  a  point  were  she  should  have  died  days  ago.  He  could  see  bone.  It  was  a  wonder  she  could  move  at  all,  James  suspected  a  sewer  rat  would  have  more  meat  on  it  than  she  currently  did.  There  were  scars,  too;  scattered  all  over  her  body  -  deep  and  black  they  were,  James  envisioned  demons  ripping  her  apart  with  their  claws  and  then  using  dark  magic  to  rebuild  her  body  from  the  pieces.  You  can’t  die  to  escape  the  pain  of  Hell,  you’re  trapped  here  to  endure  it  day  in,  day  out.  There  is  no  escape.  

Being  unable  to  just  stand  and  stare  at  her  in  this  shape  for  much  longer,  he  stood  over  her,  placing  his  hand  on  her  head  and  began  to  whisper  as  softly  as  he  could,  while  ordering  his  tears  to  not  show  his  sadness  to  her:  ‘Jess,  it’s  me,  you’re  safe  now.  Don’t  worry,  it’s  James.  You’re  safe,  I’m  going  to  get  you  out  of  here.  I  love  you.’

She  came  alive  when  she  heard  his  voice  and,  slowly,  lowered  her  hands  from  her  face.  James  dropped  to  his  knees  and  wrapped  his  arms  around  her,  burying  his  head  in  her  chest.  He  just  couldn’t  hold  it  any  longer  -  he  burst  into  tears  when  he  saw  that  they  had  taken  her  eyes.  

‘Jess,  what  have  they…I  don’t…I  don’t  know  what  to  do.’  He  managed  to  say  through  an  onslaught  of  his  own  treacherous  tears.  She  made  a  faint  groaning  noise,  causing  him  to  pick  his  head  up  off  her  chest  and  he  wiped  his  eyes.  Looking  up  again,  he  noticed  that  she  was  smiling,  and  it  was  a  cruel,  toothless  smile  which  tore  through  him  like  a  tank-shell  through  a  cobweb.

‘I  missss-seh-seh-seh-d  yuh-yuh-you.’  Jess  said,  through  broken  speech.  James'  jaw  dropped  even  further,  her  tongue  had  been  sliced  into  shreds,  it  was  now  over  5  ripped  pieces  of  flesh.  He  couldn’t  cope.  ‘Duh-duh-don’t  leh  dem…’  she  began  having  a  panic  attack  and  couldn’t  finish  what  she  was  trying  to  say.  Her  breathing  became  furiously  fast-paced  and  she  cupped  her  head  in  her  hands  again,  and  began  rocking  back  and  forth  uncontrollably  against  the  outside  of  the  casket,  groaning  as  she  did  so.

‘Jessie,  you’re  safe  now.  I’m  here,  you’re  safe  with  me,  I  won’t  hurt  you.  I’ll  protect  you.  You’re  safe  now.  I’ll  get  you  out  of  here;  I  promise…What  in  blazes  did  they  do  this  for?  Jessie  I  am  so  sorry.  I’ll  get  you  out  of  here,  don’t  worry.  Everything  will  be  better  soon,  you’re  safe  now  -  you’re  safe.’  James  continued  whispering  soothing  words  into  what  little  remained  of  her  only  surviving  ear,  with  his  arms  wrapped  around  her,  rubbing  her  lower  back  to  help  drive  the  sense  of  safety  home.  

Moments  passed  and  Jess  fell  into  a  deep,  relaxed  sleep.  However  James  decided  to  stay  awake  and  remained  holding  her  close;  rubbing  her  twisted  and  broken  back,  his  fingers  felt  the  abnormal  lumps  and  scars  littered  around  her  body  whilst  still  whispering  softly.  Shock  was  still  washing  over  him  like  a  tidal  wave,  he  truly  didn’t  know  what  to  do.  He  hoped  he  hadn’t  spoken  a  promise  to  her  which  he  couldn’t  keep.  But  he  had  her  in  his  arms  and  that  was  good  enough  for  now.

Hours  passed  and  Hell  grew  a  darker  shade  of  rust-brown.  James’  eyes  grew  heavy  and  he  began  to  wonder  whether  Archon  would  show  up  at  all.  He  had  been  commanded  by  Legion  to  talk  to  Jess  and  await  Archon  for  further  instructions;  yet  he  wondered  if  he  would  have  enough  time  for  a  few  minutes  rest  before…  

James  awoke  several  hours  later  to  the  sound  of  drums  on  the  horizon  and  a  distant  roar  from  a  Hellish  monster,  growing  nearer  and  nearer  with  each  passing  beat  of  the  unholy  percussion.  The  noise  from  the  unseen  creature  disturbed  Jess’  sleep.  She  awoke  and  sat  up  instantly  when  she  realised  what  it  was.  Noticing  that  James’  arm  was  still  around  her  she  smiled,  then  shook  her  head  and  managed  to  mutter;  ‘No  good’  before  leaning  back  into  his  chest  and  covering  her  one  remaining  ear  with  her  free  hand,  so  as  to  isolate  herself  from  the  oncoming  scene.

Ten  to  fifteen  minutes  passed  and  the  drums  grew  louder  as  the  unholy  cavalcade  grew  closer.  James  could  now  make  out  the  shape  of  a  wicked  looking  beast  and  its  rider,  leading  a  column  of  chained  humans  -  the  damned,  and  escorted  by  40  or  50  armed  soldiers  of  Hell.  The  beast  looked  like  something  straight  out  of  a  nightmare,  a  Hell-horse  of  monstrous  build.  Dark  black  was  its  colour,  heavily  armoured  from  head  to  tail  with  chain-mail  forged  from  voided-steel.  The  horse  itself  was  huge,  comparable  to  an  elephant  in  both  size  and  shear  muscle,  but  better  formed,  more  stream-lined.  Just  as  a  champion  horse  ought  to  be.  An  odd  sensation  struck  James  as  he  watched  the  monster  approaching.  There  was  fear,  obviously  he  was  threatened  by  its  ferocious  appearance;  but  also,  escape  from  the  guilty  feeling  of  admiration  for  such  a  unique  creature  seemed  impossible,  it  was  simply  breathtakingly  impressive.  His  emotions  were  weighing  scales,  with  curiosity  and  excitement  for  the  beast  lifted  high  in  the  air  by  the  heavy  weight  of   fear.  He  couldn’t  wait  to  get  a  closer  look  at  the  unholy  beast…But  not  so  much  its  rider,  who  was  now  within  ten  paces  of  the  cowering  forms  of  Jessie  and  himself.

The  man  atop  the  great  horse held  a  long,  metal  staff  with  a  banner  attached  to  its  sharp  point.  The  banner  was  blood-red  with  a  white,  upside-down  crucifix  at  its  centre.  The  exact  opposite  of  the  ancient  Templar  Knights  emblem  used  during  the  crusades  in  the  middle-ages.  He  wore  a  red  robe,  with  the  same  inverted  white  cross  embroidered  exquisitely  on  its  reverse.  He  wore  his  robe  hooded  to  conceal  his  facial  features,  James  thought  he  preferred  it  this  way,  some  things  were  better  left  unseen.  Although  now  his  imagination  was  free  to  run  wild  and  he  wasn’t  sure  if  he  liked  where  it  was  taking  him.  He  thought  up  rotten  flesh  beneath  the  hood,  tusks  and  bloodthirsty  teeth,  maggot-filled-crevices,  a  treacherous,  snake-like  tongue  and  the  cold  dead  eyes  of  a  man  who  had  spent  the  past  eon  torturing  and  breaking  people.  He  did  not  wish  for  their  lifeless  gaze  to  fall  upon  him,  such  an  arduous  burden  would  those  icy  spheres  bring  to  his  already  laden  shoulders.

‘Listen,  mortal,’  The  rider  began  with  an  air  of  command to his voice.  ‘My  name  is  Archon.  Your  wife  is  ruined,  but  she  can  be  mended  back  to  full  health  and  returned  to  the  surface-world  with  you,  if  you  do  as  I  say.  If,  however,  you  do  not  follow  my  commands  as  swiftly  as  possible,  your  children  will  be  taken  and  mutilated  far  more  abhorrently  than  your  wife  has  had  to  suffer  so  far.’  

James  took  a  deep  breath  and  looked  down  at  Jessie,  who  was  still  covering  her  ear  and  burying  her  head  in  his  chest.  He  had  no  other  choice  now,  he  would  have  to  agree  to  Archon’s  request.  ‘Okay,  what  would  you  have  me  do?’  he  gulped,  expecting  the  worst,  unable  to  do  anything  but  wait  for  the  storm  to  hit.  

Archon  lowered  his  hood  and  smiled.  James  was  taken  aback,  the  face  he  saw  grinning  in  front  of  him  was  nothing  similar  to  what  he  had  imagined.  The  governor  of  Hell  had  deep  blue  eyes,  short,  stylish  dark  hair,  perfect  teeth  and  a  charismatic  smile  -  capable,  he  imagined,  of  charming  the  most  heated  of  opponents  into  submission.  He  looked  to  be  in  his  mid-twenties,  but  James  knew  this  to  be  naught  but  a  mendacious  ploy.  ‘Nothing  in  life  is  free,’  Archon  began  in  a  cooling,  very  precise  voice.  ‘So,  in  return  for  your  wife  you  will  deliver  for  us  two  souls.  Simply  burn  the  bodies  alive  in  the  fireplace  at  Waterston  Manor.  If  you  kill  them  first,  their  souls  will  go  to  purgatory.  So  they  must  be  alive  when  you  burn  them  to  stop  this  from  happening.  The  fireplace…no,  the  altar,  will  act  as  a  gateway  -  transporting  their  souls  directly  to  Hell.  ’  Archon  stopped  speaking,  awaiting  James'  response.  

James  looked  at  Jessie’s  crippled  form  clinging  onto  his  chest  and  sighed.  He  then  looked  to  Archon  and  enquired  ‘What  if  I  refuse?’  Archon  barked  out  a  rough,  insane  laugh.  ‘Then  we’ll  take  your  three  children,  James.  We’ll  have  their  souls  instead.’  Knowing  there  was  no  other  choice,  he  reluctantly  accepted  the  deal  with  the  Devil  named  Archon  and  bid  his  wife  farewell.  ‘I’ll  see  you  soon,  Jessie.  I’ll  be  back  for  you  before  long,  don’t  worry.  I’m  coming  back.  I  promise  I  won’t  leave  you  here  for  much  longer.’  Jessie  grabbed  his  hand  and  began  to  groan  woefully,  and  was  obviously  distressed.  

‘I’m  ready  now,  Archon.  I’ll  do  what  you  want.’  James  said,  still  holding  Jessie.  He  embraced  her  tight  and,  kissed  her  forehead.  ‘Got  to  go  now,  Jess.  I’ll  be  back  soon  though,  hang  in  there.  I  love  you’

‘D-d-don’t  leave  me!’  She  cried  out,  but  James  had  already  disappeared.  Leaving  only  a  cloud  of  smoke  where  he  had  been  standing.  In  a  few  moments,  maybe  ten  or  twenty  seconds,  he  would  be  spat  out  of  The  Eternal  Night  painting  and  land  in  an  undignified  lump  on  the  newspaper-covered  floor  of  Waterston  Manor.

The  transition  from  Hellish  to  Earthly  oxygen  was  like  a  splash  of  water  to  James’  filthy  face,  it  revitalised  him.  For  a  few  moments  he  sat  solemnly  on  the  floor  in  Waterston  Manor;  embracing  the  fresh  life  that  the  air  provided  to  his  exhausted  lungs.  His  thoughts  were  hectic  and  blurred,  they  crashed  and  collided  within  his  mind  like  rocks  in  a  meteor  storm  until  he  couldn’t  take  it  any  more,  he  had  to  act  now.  There  was  no  time  for  deliberation  of  whether  or  not  he’d  have  it  in  him  to  do  the  dreaded  deed,  his  family  depended  on  him  to  save  them  from  eternal  anguish  and  torment,  he  would  not  let  them  down.

The  cold  running  down  his  spine  and  the  shiver  of  his  blood  gushing  through  his  veins  gave  away  his  fear,  yet  he  was  determined  to  fight  the  daunting  urge  to  flee  and  decided  he  would  persevere.  Rising  to  his  feet,  James  began  the  long  walk  out  of  Waterston  Manor.  As  he  approached  the  ancient  library  door,  it  creaked  open  of  its  own  accord,  as  if  some  grim  invisible  man-servant  was  holding  it  for  his  master.  He  walked  through  it,  smiling.  ‘As  you  were,  Jeeves,’  James’  face  grew  dull  and  lifeless,  ‘I‘ll  be  seeing  you  soon’  he  concluded,  then  continued  walking  and  as  predicted  the  library  door  closed  shut  behind  him.  

Overhead,  outside  of  Waterston  Manor,  he  could  hear  a  storm  raging;  its  monstrous  fists  of  wind  and  rain  pummelled  the  building’s  ancient  structure  in  an  unstoppable  onslaught  of  Mother  Nature’s  prominent  power.  From  time  to  time  there  would  be  a  crack  of  thunder  or  a  bright  flash  of  lightning.  As  he  opened  the  main  door  and  stood  under  its  protective  frame,  James  glared  dismally  into  the  foreboding  night  stretching  out  ahead  of  him.  As  he  stepped  out  into  the  heavy  downfall,  there  was  a  tremendous  crack  as  heavy  slate  tiles  fell  from  the  rooftop  and  came  crashing  down  at  his  feet.  Deciding  it  was  unsafe  here,  James  began  to  sprint  through  the  puddles  and  out  into  the  bleak  darkness  of  the  night,  heading  for  the  quiet  streets  of  Bridgestone  village.

That’s  when  it  hit  him,  the  warm,  un-earthly  glow  of  the  pub  on  the  corner  of  South  Waterston  Street,  the  busiest  public  house  in  Bridgestone  -  The  Rocky  Hearth.  It  was  inside  this  bar  more  than  thirteen  years  ago,  that  he  had  first  set  eyes  on  Jessica.  She  was  so  bright  and  full  of  life  back  then,  at  the  tender  age  of  22  her  heart  was  whole;  not  yet  had  she  been  tainted  by  the  cruelty  of  the  universe  and  its  wicked,  godless  inhabitants.  Deciding  he  needed  a  drink  to  calm  his  nerves,  James  marched  with  waterlogged  boots  into  the  Rocky  Hearth  and  gazed  around  the  room.  A  dog  raised  its  head  and  snapped  its  jaws,  growling  as  he  entered.

‘Shut  that  ruddy  door,  you’re  letting  the  heat  out.’  Some  gruff  voice  aimed  at  James  called  out  from  across  the  room,  the  source  of  it  was  buried  deep  amongst  a  sea  of  men  in  tweed  hats,  waterproof  trousers,  warm  fleeces  and  heavy  overcoats.  The  thirty  or  so  farmers  in  the  pub  all  appeared  to  be  in  their  late  40’s  and  all  wore  the  same  style  of  clothing.  Several  of  them  were  drenched  and  dripping  wet,  warming  themselves  by  the  fire  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room.  Though  most  were  sat  around  the  bar  in  deep  conversation  with  one-another  or  the  barman.  

‘Come  on  in,  lad.  Lets  get  something  strong  down  your  neck  to  warm  you  up  some.’  With  an  out-stretched  arm,  the  rosy-cheeked  barman  beckoned  James  towards  him.  He  was  only  too  keen  to  comply.  As  he  made  his  way  forward,  the  crowd  of  men  moved  aside  to  let  him  pass.  His  hat  and  heavy  leather  jacket  had  helped  to  keep  the  rain  at  bay  and,  thankfully  -  with  the  exception  of  his  hands  and  legs  -  he  could  barely  feel  any  wetness  at  all.  

‘Thanks  for  the  warm  welcome,  friend.  It  makes  a  nice  change  in  these  most  dreary  of  days.’  James  said,  adjusting  his  jacket  and  taking  a  seat  at  the  bar.

‘Aye,  the  weather  is  terrible,’  the  barman  nodded  toward  the  large  window  next  to  the  front  door  and  James  grunted  in  agreement.  ‘But  something  tells  me  that  it’s  more  than  this  cursed  rain  dampening  your  spirits.’  

‘You’re  right,  friend.  But  please,  just  get  me  a  bottle  of  vodka  and  I’ll  be  on  my  way.’  James  glared  almost  pleadingly  at  the  barman,  for  a  while  the  pair  just  stared  at  one  another.  The  barman,  unsure  of  whether  he  would  regret  it,  solemnly  reached  behind  the  bar  and  pulled  out  a  bottle  of  Verdi’s  Vodka  and,  blowing  the  dust  off  from  it,  stood  it  up  on  the  bar.  

‘That’ll  be  two  shillings,  sir.’  The  barman  presented  his  open  hand  in  front  of  James,  awaiting  payment.

‘But  the  bottle  says  five’  Protested  James,  feeling  somewhat  ashamed  that  he  was  being  treated  as  a  charity  case.

‘I  know  it  does,  friend.  But  it  looks  like  you  need  this  more  right  now  than  I  need  those  extra  three’  With  a  gruff  laugh  the  barman  smiled  as  James  handed  him  the  two  coins  and  slapped  him  on  the  back  heartily.   ‘I’ll  be  seeing  you  here  more  often  hopefully,  take  care  of  yourself  mate.’

‘Aye  friend,  you  have  shown  me  much  kindness,  yet  you  don’t  even  know  me.  Such  a  rare  occurrence  in  today’s  turbulent  times.’  James  rose  off  his  chair  and  placed  the  bottle  in  his  inside  jacket  pocket.  ‘For  your  generosity  I  thank  you,  take  care.’  The  two  men  shook  hands  and  James  made  his  way  through  the  crowded  room  and  out  into  the  unrelenting  storm  that  continued  to  reign  outside.  

Downing  one  third  of  the  bottle,  he  fastened  the  top  and  put  it  back  firmly  into  his  jacket.  ‘Come  on,  come  on.’  he  spoke  out  loud  through  grinding  teeth,  looking  towards  the  night  sky  as  nature  continued  beating  down  on  him  with  tireless  fists  of  water  and  wind.  He  walked  around  the  muddy  village  for  around  five  minutes  until  he  reached  a  dark  street  he  had  strolled  through  as  a  child  once,  there  were  less  lamps  here,  about  twenty  yards  ahead  of  him,  James  could  see  the  dark  black  outline  of  a  man  leaning  against  one  of  the  lampposts  with  his  hood  up  over  his  head.  

As  James  drew  closer  to  the  lamppost,  the  hooded  man  noticed  his  presence  and  walked  out  to  cut  him  off  and  deny  him  passage.  James  noted  this  movement  and  brought  the  bottle  out  of  his  pocket  and  began  to  swig  the  rest  of  it  off.  As  he  drank,  the  hooded  figure  had  made  his  way  to  him  and  now  stood  a  few  steps  in  front  of  James  and  soon  began  to  speak.  ‘Hey  mate,  you  got  the  time?’  James  pulled  a  solid-silver  watch  out  of  his  front  pocket,  ‘Yeah,  hold  on,’  James  struggled  in  his  drunken  state  and  blurry  vision  to  read  the  time,  but  eventually  continued.  ‘It’s  twelve-fifty…’  but  was  soon  cut  off  as  the  hooded  figure  sent  a  fist  flying  his  way.  James  took  it  to  the  chin,  he  was  expecting  conflict  to  occur  but  in  his  drunken  state  his  reaction  time  had  severely  depleted;  thankfully  however,  the  opposite  had  occurred  to  his  pain  threshold  and  the  blow  seemed  to  be  as  that  of  a  child.

Retaliating  swiftly,  James  sent  two  drunken  fists  sprawling  into  his  attacker,  sending  him  crashing  to  the  floor,  landing  in  a  muddy  pool  of  water  which  had  amassed  in  the  deserted  road.  Swigging  the  rest  of  the  bottle  of  vodka,  James  smashed  it  against  the  wall  and  lunged  at  the  man,  holding  it  menacingly  against  his  shivering  neck.  ‘Right  you  horrible  parasite,  you’re  coming  with  me,  alright?’  The  man  looked  like  he  still  had  some  fight  left  in  him,  so  James  applied  more  pressure  on  the  bottle  and  forced  it  harder  into  the  man’s  neck,  just  slight  enough  to  draw  blood.  ‘I’m  not  going  anywhere  mate,  you’ll  kill  me  no  matter  what  I  do!’  the  man  wailed  and  spat  blood  aimed  at  James.  Picking  up  a  loose  cobblestone  from  the  ground  near  his  left  hand,  James  shook  his  head,  ‘Wrong  answer,  mate.’  he  said  with  disappointment  as  he  sent  the  fist-sized  stone  hard  into  the  man’s  temple,  causing  him  to  slip  into  unconsciousness.  James  then  proceeded  to  bash  the  man’s  arms  and  legs  until  he  heard  them  crack  and  buckle  as  they  broke.

‘God  forgive  me’  he  muttered  as  he  lifted  the  unmoving  and  broken  wreck  over  his  shoulders.  Then  James  began  the  long  walk  back  to  Waterston  Manor.  His  journey  back  to  the  painting  was,  not  including  the  four  or  five  times  he  had  lost  his  grip  and  sent  the  man  splashing  to  the  floor,  thankfully  without  incident.  The  rain  had  softened  now  and  only  a  slight  drizzle  diluted  the  air,  though  the  night  still  retained  its  skeletal,  Legion-like  grip  on  England.

The  manor  struck  a  daunting  sight;  perched  atop  a  hill  with  a  full-moon  shining  eerily  overhead,  silhouetting  the  building’s  highest  black  spire,  like  a  ring  of  ice  levitating  above  the  Antichrist’s  horned  head.  Heaving  the  almost  lifeless  body  of  the  un-named  man  up  the  muddy  path  and  through  the  open  hallway,  James  approached  the  library  door  and  stopped  momentarily  outside  to  recoup  his  energy  and  think  through  his  unholy  deal.  

Moments  passed,  and  finally  the  man  regained  consciousness.  ‘Ahhhhhhh!’  He  screamed  out  while  writhing  on  the  floor  in  agony.  ‘What  have  you  done  to  me!?’  James  wasn’t  going  to  reply  at  first,  but  the  pleading  and  hurt  look  in  the  man’s  eyes  triggered  the  last  drops  of  conscience  remaining  in  him,  and  so  he  told  him  of  the  painting,  his  wife  and  of  the  deal  he  had  made  with  the  governor  of  Hell.  ‘Ironic  really,  you  attempted  to  attack  and  steal  from  me,’  James  kicked  him  lightly  with  his  foot,  ‘I  guess  just  this  one  time,  somebody  else  got  the  drop  on  you.’  

‘You’re  insane,  let  me  leave!’  begged  the  man.  James  only  shook  his  head  in  reply,  and  then  picked  the  man  up  over  his  shoulders  and  kicked  open  the  library  room  door.  The  Eternal  Night  glowed  with  a  somewhat  pseudo-holy  light.  When  he  previously  saw  it,  the  painting  was  as  black  as  the  space  between  stars,  but  now  it  shone  an  eerie  white  light  into  the  room,  illuminating  it  slightly,  but  just  enough  to  allow  James  to  meander  his  way  through  the  piles  of  newspapers  and  assorted  junk,  and  make  his  way  toward  the  painting.

When  James  reached  the  centre  of  the  room,  he  dropped  the  man  ungraciously  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  As  would  be  expected,  the  man  never  complained,  he  just  stared  open-mouthed  at  the  painting  hanging  above  him.  

‘Legion!  I’m  back  with  my  side  of  the  deal.’  James  called  out  toward  the  painting.  Moments  passed,  then  that  same  icy  voice  he  had  first  heard  what  seemed  like  a  lifetime  ago,  replied.

‘The  deal  was  for  two.’

Legion’s  voice  hurt  the  man,  it  was  obvious,  for  he  screamed  out  and  wriggled  about  on  the  floor.  However,  for  some  unknown  reason,  it  no  longer  had  any  effect  on  James.  He  could  not  feel  its  icy-burn  surging  through  his  body,  this  bolstered  his  confidence  and  gave  him  the  courage  to  press  on,  he  was  so  close  to  saving  Jessica  from  that  wicked  place,  excitement  and  eagerness  would  make  him  a  fool  here.  He  had  to  remember  who  he  was  dealing  with,  and  that  any  false  words  or  movements  would  blow  the  whole  unholy  agreement.

‘Take  this  man  now,  I  will  present  you  with  the  other  when  Jess  is  safely  back  on  Earth  and  in  full  health.’  He  said  with  a  cool  and  concise  tone,  hoping  silently  that  he  had  not  made  a  bad  move.

‘As  you  wish.’  Replied  Legion,  again  his  voice  not  even  tickling  James  but  devastating  the  wounded  man.  Then,  Legion’s  black  skeletal  arm  reached  down  from  the  painting,  it  was  longer  than  James  had  remembered,  almost  seven  foot  in  length,  and  it  managed  to  reach  right  the  way  to  the  floor.  As  it  gripped  the  man  offered  to  it,  he  screamed  out  ‘No,  please!  I’ll  do  anything!’

‘Silence.’  Whispered  Legion  as  he  tossed  the  screaming  man  to  James’  feet.  ‘I’m  sorry’  whispered  James  to  the  man  as  he  dragged  him  roughly  towards  the  fireplace  and  held  him  in  place.  The  man’s  voice  broke  as  his  body  was  engulfed  by  the  flames  and  he  managed  to  scream  out,  cursing  James  with  his  last  breath  before  being  taken,  along  with  Legion,  into  the  void.  James  waited.

It  was  two  hours  later  when  finally  something  happened,  the  sun  was  rising  outside  and  the  room  was  filled  with  a  soothing,  orange  ambient  glow.  James  had  grown  incredibly  drowsy,  and  it  was  hard  for  him  to  stay  awake.  Just  as  he  closed  his  eyes  for  a  few  moments,  a  massive  thunder-crack  followed  by  a  light  thud  awoke  him  out  of  his  sleep-like  state  and  he  was  fully  revitalised.  Standing  in  front  of  him,  with  the  warm  glow  of  the  morning  sun  behind  her,  was  the  angelic-figure  of  his  wife,  Jessica.  

Tears  filled  his  eyes  and  James  could  no  longer  hold  back,  nor  did  he  want  to.  He  ran  straight  towards  her,  arms  outstretched,  and  fell  into  her.  Wrapping  his  eager  arms  around  her  he  hugged  her  tight  as  tears  from  his  eyes  stained  her  exquisitely  white  gown.  For  ten  minutes  the  lovers  embraced  each  other  and  kissed,  and  all  the  while  words  and  sound  failed  both  of  them.  

Then  Legion’s  skeletal  hand  swooped  down  out  of  the  painting  and  wrapped  itself  around  Jessica,  lifting  her  into  the  air.  

‘Our  deal.’  Legion  spoke,  and  James  fell  to  the  floor  in  agony.  These  two  words  had  cut  through  him  like  a  lance  and  left  him  pinned  to  the  floor.

‘What  deal?’  Questioned  Jess  in  a  distraught  tone.

James  burst  into  tears.  ‘I’m  sorry  Jessica,  I  wont  ever  see  you  again…the  children  are  with  your  mother.  I  love  you.’  He  then  looked  upwards  into  The  Eternal  Night  and  bellowed  out  his  last  words  before  stepping  into  the  fire;  resembling  a  mythical  warrior,  fighting  to  the  death  against  certain  defeat,  ‘Legion,  my  soul  is  yours  and  our  deal  is  complete.  Release  her.’

The  End