Hell's Coming With Me

cover image by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

Dark clouds rolled over the approaching, jagged horizon while fog creeped over the encompassing hilltops. A bitter breeze blew through, chilling all wild animals and wanderers through fur and tuffskin. As such, a heavy presence pressed down on the landscape; a blanket of impending low-hanging suffering.

The valley seems to be untouched from this. A town of a considerate size built into the grassy bowl. It dipped in such a way that the town only had one entrance. A large wooden arch with a rickety fence surrounding the rest of the town. In multiple places, beams and planks of various other colors were nailed in as bandaids. But its imposing size was unmistakable.

The town's saloon was strategically placed halfway between the church at the far edge of the fence and the cluster of houses. Their storage room was bigger than the public house; external signs still where they excavated underneath to add a basement and therefore more product.

Despite it being mid-day, the place was bustling. Cards being thrown about hand to hand, the bar lined with drunk patrons sliding mugs back and forth, the wraparound porch’s rocking chairs shoved all to one end to create a semi-circle of gossiping women sipping wine and waving fans.

Walking boots with snaps clicking together echoed off the saloon’s porch. A woman layered in long flowing skirts, royal purple atop the darkest blacks and lightests whites. A coat longer in length than the skirt with intricately designed buttons.

The morning sun bounced off chestnut hair that swung is a wide arc all the way down her spine. Dark eyes that gleamed soft. Not black, not brown, not even green.

The gossips hushed and watched with jealous awe as she politely swung open one door and stepped inside. She tilted her head, one hand thumbing the hem of the coat buttoned all the way down to cover her torso.

The walls inside were lined with aged posters. Dating back years, decades, centuries. Wanted criminals with red streaks across the photos were mainly behind the bar and matching the stairs while certifications from places she did not recognize were framed above the door.

The barkeep swept the patrons with dropped jaws out of the immediate space, making sure the expensive beer and ale spirits were in full view. Giving her a toothy grin, he leaned against the bar and beckoned her over.

“Welcome! I am the esteemed owner of this establishment. What can I get you?”

She hummed and made a show of looking over the various bottles lined up behind him. Most were labeled in such a script it was a task to read them fully. “What ale do you recommend?”

A golden tooth twinkled back at her. “Why this thrice decade aged mixed ale!” He brandished a yellowed red bottle and tipped it into a tankard. “Our finest from the mines.”

“Mines?” She asked, taking the glass.

“S’where we age all our drink.”

“Hmm, aren’t mines mighty dangerous?”

The barkeep waved her off, but grinned glowing with misplaced pride. “Nothing us old timers can’t handle! We’ve been running this town so long, we could burn it down and rebuild it mile by meter.”

“Tell me, what’s your name lassie? Such a woman of refined taste, it’d be a pity to have you divulge my drinks without knowing that much at the least.”

She tilted her head. “Retha. Have you lived here long?”

He puffed out his chest with pride. “All my life! This bar here used to be owned by the toughest nail biter in the valley. Challenged him to a brawl when I turned 18 for the rights and won first try. Been running it ever since.”

Retha gazed around the room. It was an interesting mass of people to say the least. Men with pressed vests slyly passing pressed bills into passing hands. People no older than the grain outside with glasses as tall as the company they sat with. Wandering eyes a plenty; as many as there were scared.

She hummed.

It was a perplexing situation and Retha drummed her fingers on the bartop. With a sweet smile and sparkling eyes, she asked, “Do you attend church often?”

“I’m sorry?” the bar asked back, not sure he heard her correctly.

“You wear a necklace upholding this land’s deity. Strange jewelry for a bartender, don’t you think?” A silver pendant, multiple tree roots intertwining downward. Nothing special about it past that. Those unfamiliar with the practice wouldn’t even give it more than a quick glance.

He laughed. “Oh this old thing? Was my mother’s before she… passed on some years ago. A big believer she was.” He turned it around and she caught the name ‘Morgan’ stamped into the silver piece. “But enough about that,” he diverted, despite only speaking half a sentence on the subject. “Why haven’t I seen you around these parts?”

“My family and I are merely passing through.”

“Merchants?”

“Something like that.” Retha slipped a hand into her pocket. Fingers touched a coin too heavy to carry any longer. She took it out and shrugged a shoulder. “For the ale.”

She dropped it and the coin clattered on the counter.

Short hiking boots strolled into town. Consideration scanned the entry, the now dangling ‘Welcome’ sign and arrow pointing towards the aforementioned mines.

A short-statured man set his eyes for the school. Wild brown hair pushed back by a dark blue bandana enchanted by silver stitching. Green eyes darted at the group of children watching as he strolled past, whispering behind hands and giggling.

He paused for a moment, taking in the scene and seeming to consider. The children shyly waved and he returned it before going on. He passed the saloon and he caught the wandering eye of Retha. Around them, time slowed down as the two’s conversation was exchanged across meters, silent to those in between.

A second passed and he was on his way to his destination.

The schoolhouse was only one story. Made of brick and tar and settled near the cluster of homes. Children spilled out the door, dropping coats and pencils on their way. Hands were taken and siblings were thrown onto each other’s backs while they all shouted about freedom and playing in the road.

The man politely stood to the side, watching until they were all evacuated before peering inside. A woman, older than him but no more alive, with a stern expression stood at the leading desk. Tips of her fingers seeping red as she dug nails into the thin wood.

With one quick sweep of her arm, the pile of books atop her desk were thrown to the floor. They flopped open with no sound louder than a fallen hymnal. Sighing, she stooped down to pick them up.

He could only assume she was the teacher. “Ma’am?”

She straightened up and yelped. He had snuck inside as quietly as a dead mouse. He smiled and bowed slightly. “My apologies. I did knock.”

“‘Tis quite alright. I suppose I didn’t hear, children yelling in your ear all day will do that to you.” She grimaced towards the still open door where the gleeful screams of the children still rang through the air.

He gestured to the now messy sea of papers on the schoolhouse floor. “May I help?”

The schoolmarm smiled warmly. “Absolutely! I appreciate the help, Mr…” she trailed off, cheeks tinting red with embarrassment.

He adjusted his bandana. “Leif. I have no need for titles.” He knelt on the ground carefully, as if attempting to not scare off a bird.

She started gathering the scattered workbooks. “You’re not a townsman.” It wasn’t a question.

“Indeed. Me and my family are merely passing through.” Scooping up papers with jagged and messy handwriting. “Are you the only teacher? There seems to be many children in this town.”

She snorted, so unlike her demeanor so far that Leif raised an eyebrow. “Children, yes. Students, no. So many kids here don’t understand the meaning of respect and education.” She took in a deep breath and smiled at him. “I’m sure you understand. You seem like a well-educated man.”

Leif’s eyes traveled to her throat, where a tree root system hung in silver. “In a sense, yes.”

Before she could question his wording, he held out the papers then his hand, both of which she took. He helped her to her feet. “May I escort you outside?”

“You may.”

He gently closed the door behind them, shutting off the schoolhouse from the rest of the town and time. Leif’s eyes flickered around the yard. The children were now bouncing a bright red ball around an enlarged circle. Certain words being spouted like harmless rhymes. Rhymes that hardened his chest.

“What do you do with a silly sinner?”

“Pray for him, pray for him!”

“Where do we take the silly sinner?”

“Down into the mines!”

“Hey ho, hi ho! Down into the mines we go!”

Leif and Evangeline bypassed them. He mimicked tipping his non-existent hat to them. A small girl, no older than the past decade, eagerly waved until she saw her teacher. Quickly dropped it back to her side. Her classmates let the red ball bounce to nearby bushes as they followed suit.

The schoolmarm sucked in a breath behind him and he saw the girl flinch. “Blasted kids. Would you get on home!”

“We’re just gonna play, ma’am. We’s promise.”

“Hmm, see it you do.” Evangeline delicately swept her hand across Leif’s arm before parading away. Casting one last look at the children shaking in their buckled shoes and bare feet. He watched until she skirted a building and disappeared from view.

“Excuse me, sir!”

The little girl tugged on his coat pocket and waved for him to kneel down. “Would you like to play squares with us? We can teach you the rules if you don’t know the game.”

He smiled. “I would love to. Tell me, though. Where did you hear that song?”

“We learned it in Holy Class.”

“Is that so? What is Holy Class?”

A young boy next to her huffed and crossed his arms. “S’where they shove all the kids during church. It’s less boring than whatever sermon the preacher spews, but-”

“Jacob.”

The boy- Jacob- snapped to attention. Evangeline, who Leif didn’t even notice returned, glared daggers. “What did you say about the lovely, well put together sermons Preacher Jonathan teaches us?”

“N-Nothing, ma’am! I mean-”

She raised an eyebrow. “Was that a loud tone you took with me?”

“N-No.”

“No what?”

“No, ma’am.” There was a collective chokehold over the children, but Leif could only stand by and observe. Biting his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

The schoolmarm looked at each of them in turn. Each child whose face bleed white was mimicked with a crack of one of his fingers. Eyes either turned down or blank, vacant, dissociating. Splotches of purple and red just barely visible under the hems of their clothing.

Finally, she hummed in approval, turned, and left the schoolyard for good.

“Jacob?” Leif made sure his voice was low and soft, questioning and he was rewarded for such. The boy lifted his head.

“Is Miss Evangeline normal today?”

He worried the implication was too subtle, but Jacob seemed to understand. He nodded, eyes downcast and sullen.

Leif patted his head then straightened up. There was no hesitance in her movements towards him, lingering. Stark in contrast to the way her hands reached for blunt objects around the children and white knuckled at the slightest noise they made.

Children who kept a 15 foot radius from her. The same children who waved at him on the road and wanted him to play with them.

Leif sighed, almost regretfully, before reaching into his pocket. A coin, shiny in the sun and dull cold to the touch. Flipping it and letting it drop in the dust as he walked away to the waiting children.

A gentle breeze swept him in; a lone man of average height and average looks. Spurs gritted the dusty road as he walked through the gate. Taking a quick gander of the situation, he glided towards the cluster of housing.

A few houses could be mistaken for renovated tin cans, but one near him was clearly well kept. A fresh coat of paint with a matching wraparound porch. Perfectly cut and sanded rocking chairs facing each other.

An old woman sat in one chair, a quilt draped over the back. Her hands were folded on her lap and a sharp glint spun through her eyes. Wrinkles adorned her face, however, and he adjusted his stride to pass the abode.

Her gaze flickered at the movement and flinched back in the chair. “That- it couldn’t be!”

A young woman stepped out onto the porch, drying her hands on a towel. “Who? What are you talking about, Ma?”

The old woman clutched her necklace, the shiny silver tree roots with ‘Angie’ stamped on the back. Terror washed over her pale face and she choked down a dry swallow. Her mouth cracked as she opened it and whispered barely loud enough for her daughter to hear. “Dason.”

Spurs abruptly stopped and she gasped.

Dason chuckled and continued on his way, frantic cries behind him. He remembered Angie. She was as shrill as ever.

At the end of the disheveled homes was the largest building in town by far. While all other residentials and businesses were built with wood from the far off woods, the church was polished white stone, chiseled with intricate designs along the bottom trim and up the attached pillars. Pillars only for show, doing nothing to uphold the sloped roof  that ran off either side. 

All topped with a sharp steeple penetrating the darkening sky. It was more so a mausoleum than a place of worship by the likes of it.

A wind blew past him, not a hair on his head bothered. The door opened at its command and a man in long black robes and a blood red vestment. Gray hairs teased the space behind his ears, but a full head of blonde hair still flowed. Eyes filled with a twinkle left as soon as they laid on Dason.

The preacher stumbled back, knocking into the still swinging church door. It banged against a table just inside and Dason’s eyes darted towards the noise. The preacher gasped and darted inside the church.

Dason wanted to follow. Confront and make him explain away the past decades. But that’s not what his job was, so he faced forward and knocked on the secretary’s door.

A little old lady, with squinty eyes and reading glasses perched on her nose, opened the door. She adjusted the rims and had to angle her head back to look up at him. “Oh hello, how may I help you?”

Dason kept in his canines when he smiled. “I am looking for the church’s bookkeeper, but I was told a much older woman than yourself was her. And certainly not as beautiful.”

“Ohh you~” she placed her hand over heart like she was shot with Cupid’s arrow. “Such a charmer you are. But I'm afraid I don’t recognize you. Have we met?”

“My family and I are passing through and I was curious about your graveyard.”

“Oh yes, there’s a man in town who does these lovely sculptures and he made all the headstones. Each one was planted personally by our undertaker as well as the graves dug. Did you know a member of the church?” She asked the question with hesitant skepticism.

“I was actually inquiring about your other graveyard. The one along the field. Not as well kept, I saw.”

“O-Oh yes. That one…” She wrung her hands and stepped back into her small office. There was a simple wooden desk and two chairs with pillows on either side. A stack of multiple Holy books of varying stages of life on one corner.

“Well, there was an incident some years ago.” She seemed to be choosing her words carefully, wringing something through her blouse. “An argument that turned needlessly violent. A handful of people were severely hurt in the process. Requested they not be buried with the rest.”

“Who requested?”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“Who requested they not be buried in town?”

“Well, I-”

“What was the argument about, Marilynn?”

She swallowed and leaned against the desk heavily. The stack of books shook dangerously close to the edge. “I did not tell you my name, sir.”

“I have a good memory. What was the argument?”

“I- I’m sorry. I’m afraid my memory isn’t as-” she attempted to swallow and coughed on the air evaporating from the room. “The child, she wasn’t supposed to be near the mines. It was an accident!”

“Was it?”

“Yes! Please believe me, it was never our intention for him to become so angry, they couldn’t be buried here! It’s Holy ground, Dason!” She grasped at the necklace resting atop her shawl. The tree roots tangled and intertwined. The secretary’s name, Marilynn, was stamped into the back. “I-I swear I didn’t know they would go th-that f-far.”

Dason tutted. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not! I swear on our Holy, I’m not!” She pressed her hands together in a prayer and he immediately flicked his own hand. One of hers bent back, snapping the wrist until the back of her hand almost touched her forearm.

She was smart to not scream.

Dason leaned down and Marilynn curled up her shoulders, like she was trying to block out her surroundings with her shawl. He stared into her eyes and she couldn't help but be frozen staring back. “I told you all back then and I shall say it again: those of you wearing those necklaces will only be joined in the religion of hatred. The ferryman awaits you.”

His spine snapped back and he turned to take his leave. It wasn’t until he was out the door and reaching into his pocket that Marilynn came to and raced after him. “P-Please, Dason! I swear, we’ve only been doing what- what we think is best!”

One look was all it took. She gasped and stumbled back, knocking into the church doors. Yellow eyes reached into her soul and grasped at every memory and decision she’d made on Holy grounds. A writhing twist of coils circumventing the inside of her throat until the air was stripped from her lungs.

Dason took out a coin with splotches of dull color and rough to the touch. “Spare your sermon for the devil.” It hit the dirt and clean kaleidoscope lines of fire erupted. Marilynn shrieked, feverishly gathering her skirt to avoid being set aflame.

The fire swirled out like a gently blazing flower; blue stems reaching to entrap multiple buildings and fence posts around them, yellow leaves and thorns branching out from the entrails to poke and prod at the screaming townspeople rushing for safety, orange and red petals flourishing as they climbed to the rooftops.

Heat built up quickly and women and men alike discarded coats and shawls. Dason stepped on a few smoldering as he bypassed. Some tried to escape via the fence, but couldn’t reach it in time before the fire overtook it in its entirety. The town was trapped in a makeshift pyre surrounded by a wall of fire.

And in the midst of it all, was him. Blistering, pale white skin covered in decades old bruises and scars. Loose clothing that was tied off in odd places and patched with horrifically stained cloth. A black beard and mustache that encapsulated his unwavering face.

Dason tipped his hat and Ragnar nodded in return. Before anyone could blink, a whirlwind of smoke bolstered from the increasing ruin. Embers crackled in the tornado, giving the illusion of a fire twister overtaking the town’s center. It was scarce higher than the surrounding buildings, but with all the power of a demon taking its final souls.

People screamed in terror as they tried to escape. Screams abruptly cut off as they were thrown at walls and chucked to the ground. Deafening cracks from skulls splattering against bricks and bones splintering as they hit just at the right angle on corners.

It was mass carnage, but no death just yet. Only immense, burning pain across the town as the people were treated like toys and inanimate objects in the fiery storm.

Ragnar’s hair flicked out of place in the wind and he brushed it back down.

The tornado died down amongst the growing fire. A wooden platform was in its place, left behind in the disastrous wake. Covered in the kicked up dust but raised three steps high in the square.

Homes around them broke piece by piece. Beams broke free only to be eaten by flames, causing more walls and joints to suffer the same fate. Until the once painful reminder of what once was was destroyed.

Leif emerged from the dwindling flames of a nearby house as it was reduced to cinders. “Don’t you think the gallows are a bit overkill?”

The platform was now the main focus of the square: three nooses and completely made of rickety, splintered wood but was spared of the flickering fire. Angie shuffled past, shrieking as a noose swiveled in the wind towards her.

Dason shrugged. “If you’d like, Evangeline can be one of the first.”

“Better.” Leif tightened his bandana. “I’m going to find Retha.” And with that, he disappeared back into the fire.

Dason surveyed the damage so far and hummed. “Where do you supposed the preacher got off to?”

Ragnar didn’t answer. His limbs didn’t move independently, his whole body a voodoo doll of destruction turning to the far end of town. Each move forward popped a bubble of tremors, shaking the ground and cracking the foundation.

Marilynn fell near his feet. Flames danced along the hems of her clothes and the black, burnt flesh adorning her face complimented the frozen O-shape of her mouth. Dason stepped over a rolling bale of fire, reached down, and snatched the necklace off her.

Her body scrunched up like a dead rat, but her eyes still watched as the metal melted in his palm. Liquid false silver seeping across his veins, through his fingers as an ironfall splashed against her red, singing flesh.

He left her just like that: writhing in her own molten fluids.

Retha was settled against the saloon, watching the mayhem unfold. She winced with every cry and her nose wrinkled from the beginning stages of burning flesh. She never did like this part. Said it wasn’t the holy way, but it was part of the family’s job.

Leif, on the other hand, was settled in one of the wicker chairs. The frayed edges of the seat and splintered chip in the handles were on fire. Batting back and forth, but not attempting to engulf the wooden chair.

Five children surrounded him. A small girl and boy were on his lap, both crying into his chest and shoulder respectively. Leif patted their backs, singing softly to the ones at his feet who stared in blind terror at the townspeople they knew and allegedly loved collapse at the stairs of the gallows.

Dason approached and the people cowered, preferring to press themselves closer to the hanging wreaths than let him near. He rolled his eyes and twirled a finger. Twelve of the twenty one jerked their heads back as necklaces were ripped from their bodies. Dason stepped on one as it landed with a dusty cloud and stared at them. “At least six more of you look familiar. Left your talismans of hate at home, eh? As if it’d save you?”

A man began to cry.

The fire around them grew, creating a valley within the valley with the gallows at the heart. The remaining townspeople crept in, the wall of fire their only other option. Ragnar dusted through the fire, the preacher cuffed by his collar in his hand and trailing flames along his pant legs.

Tossing him onto the board beneath the swaying rope, he stood to the side silently.

Retha tsked. “So many necklaces. Were there this many before, Dason?”

“Not nearly.”

She shrugged. “Many might not even know the significance. Or understand.”

“Doesn’t matter. They put it on. They acknowledged it.”

A young man, couldn’t’ve been older than 30, took a deep breath and stood up. Those around him clambered for his coat tails, begging for him to stand down, but he remained on his feet. “What is the meaning of any of this? We’ve done nothing wrong!”

Ragnar stood motionless and Dason laughed. “Oh, quiet down now. If you don’t know the history, don’t speak on it.”

“History of what? This town was founded in sin, for sure, what place wasn’t? But we’ve worked hard since to repair those tears in morality! May the gods above be my witness, we’ve lived through hardship and strife to live a simple life?”

“Tears in morality? Is that what you call the butcherings?”

The man faltered for a moment, but continued on. “We have been abandoned by the gods, we have done what we needed to to survive!” His voice cracked on the last syllable, his eyes darting towards the preacher.

Retha pushed herself off the saloon doors, reaching into her coat and pulling out a wide brimmed hat, dark blue with a white ribbon. “The gods really have dragged you people through the mud haven’t they? Or at least, that’s what your prayers claimed.” Placing the hat on her head, her eyes briefly flashed a blazing hot white.

Leif tugged off his bandana and his face morphed for just a moment. The people watching on gazed upon it in horror. Their own personal nightmares reflected back at them. “I’m hurt I didn’t get a single prayer. Or even a threat to break you free from this torment you so boldly claim wrecks your every waking moment.”

“You’re hurt?” Dason laughed and a low rumble shook the hanging stage. “They barely even remember me. Most of you were just babes when I last visited, but you-” he turned to the preacher who was still cowering by the stairs. “Your frontal lobe was allegedly fully formed.”

“I- I-” the preacher swallowed hard. His newly polished shoes were pointed towards the towngate, body poised to make a run for it, even with the path blocked by death, if the fear of a more painful execution weren’t holding him to position.

Ragnar hovered over him. The fire towered behind him like castle turrets, poised to strike and kill as a moment’s notice. Cathedral towers meant to collapse and smother him, snuffing out his final breath and decree.

The nearest noose was in his grasp in a moment, wrapping around the preacher’s neck. He screamed and begged, his cries for life heard and ignored by the townspeople who looked away. The children crowding Leif did not weep, they only stared.

The preacher’s necklace stabbed into the skin where it was scraped between the rope and his throat. A chorus of threats and pleas choked out of his bleeding mouth as Ragnar dragged him to the gallows by the noose. Methodic steps before a quick sweep of his arm lassoed the preacher to a SNAP!

The buildings still standing crumbled, brick and mortar leaning in on itself until the weight of everything was too much. The town collapsed around them and the townspeople’s curses and feeble attempts to escape went up in smoke.

The children perished in the collapse and Leif let out a deep sigh, dropping his head against Retha’s arm. “Waiting for rebirth won’t be long for them, but it will be heartbreaking.”

“They will not remember the pain they endured once they do, my gods willing,” Retha assured him.

Ragnar simply turned away and began the long walk, tread, journey out of the valley. Dason gestured to the other two and followed, a pep in his step that didn’t exist on their arrival. Departing was always a weight off his heart.