Hellraiser: The Will of One

HELLRAISER: The Will of One
Chapter 3: Dreamscapes and Assaults

Shorter chapter, but, two in a day, guys!

It was cold, that was the first indication.
And dark, dark she was used to, but not this; not this fitful darkness, that held all secrets, her hand three inches before her face could not be seen at all. She was in her bed, she knew this, the sheets changed before she finally slept, the warmth of her comforter quickly fading, but still familiar. It was her bed.
But not her room, it seemed. There were walls where there should have been doors, to either her closet or the hallway, and arches where there should have been doors. It grew colder, and she shivered in the small t-shirt she wore to sleep in, hugged her arms for comfort. Then, finding no relief gathered up her blankets and wrapped them around her to ward off the oppressive gloom. She felt more lost now than ever, not knowing where she was for sure, though the back of her mind screamed against her eyes that she knew exactly where she was. Her mind raced with a hundred questions… Where? How? And finally, the last refuge of sanity, denial. There’s no box, her mind reasoned; this could not happen without the box. She had to open a box.
An answer came. From deep in the arches, a strange green glow began, not the blue she was accustomed to, and she could tell the Cenobites were summoned by the disturbingly beautiful blue glow that followed them. No, this was different altogether. Sickly, pulsating like the beacon on a lighthouse, it flowed in and out of the room from the hallways now made apparent behind the arches. She could see the rot on the walls, the mildewing filth that lined the cracks and crevices everywhere. Secondly, a tinkering, banal tone sounded, like a child’s music box out of sync and tune, playing a short piece then repeating it endlessly. It distracted Kirsty for only a moment, and then the winds began, and then she was certain.
She had not summoned them; they had summoned her instead. And finally, in the intervals between the music box’s tune and the throbbing glow that first filled the room then left it a void, other sounds. Screams, chains slithering through the air, laughter, pleas and gratitude’s unnumbered assaulted her senses all at once. She looked wildly about, found her bed the only thing that occupied the room, save for the spinning racks in the corners. Racks that contained things she could only begin to guess at, things of metal and flesh, barbed wire, facets of the box made larger, knives of every shape and purpose, a collection of nipples nailed to one side. She turned her face to look away, tried to shut her eyes, but the assault kept up, and she knew she should not close her eyes, after all, convinced of her damnation, she should get used to this. She turned to face it, her acceptance of the scene a kind of defiance.
And the smell that followed the sounds, blood and shit and jism and entrails filled her nostrils, wafting through the hand she threw over her mouth and nose. Vanilla and dust and mingled with spinal fluid and ashes, and thousands more odors that she could not identify. She gagged, but did not retch. That ordure was near overpowering, blood was everywhere, it dripped down the walls, bile following it. The screams and laughter rose in volume, rising above crescendo, the tears and begging and thanks roaring in her ears and she clamped her hands over them, but just as her olfactory senses could not be tapped down, the sound was just as encompassing. Kirsty could stand it no longer. She raised her face to the ceiling and screamed.
“Take me then, you motherfuckers!!!” she shouted in defiance, she knew this was it, her fantasy of a few hours before given way to the horrid reality. She was prepared for this destiny, the eventuality of it was not lost to her, but she would not go quietly. “I don’t care anymore, just do it and get it over with, you bastards!!!”
“Why should we start now?” came a sibilant voice to her left, and the sounds stopped. “We have all the time we need.”
Kirsty swung her head around. It was not a voice she knew. She was used to the deep tones of her usual tormentor, one time rescuer. Not even the female one sounded like this. The voice was male, or at least what was left of it sounded masculine. The green glow flared and held, revealing her addresser.
It was tall, maybe even taller than the Black Pope, or perhaps its thinness made it seem taller. The robes were there but differed. Hook-like spikes adorned it in places, and its head was crowned with a ring of spikes holding wired flesh from its bone-clean skull, though the face was still unsullied. It carried a haughty stance, and an amused expression stayed on its face.
A new one, she realized. They sent another to start my path- “Who are you, one of the Order?” She asked it, looking at the thing before her with what she hoped was no fear registering on her.
“Oh yes,” it answered, and the smile grew a little larger. “One of the Gash, to be sure. I will introduce myself, since I have been titled. I am the Inquisitor.”
“Where’s the usual ones?’ she demanded. She would not be given to lackeys. She was for him-
“The one you refer to will come for you, soon enough. Though I’m sure you anticipate that greatly, considering your activities.” It smiled broader, and the teeth finally showed themselves, blood between the gums. It noticed her shocked expression, knew what she tried to hide behind her eyes. “Nothing you do is unknown to us, you have only escaped for now, but you are tainted, and your time among us is sooner than you could ever think. Have no fear,” the Inquisitor smiled again, she hated the thing instantly. “We have all time, we will know every inch of you, every centimeter, and what exactly makes you cry aloud.”
It backed away, and again the assault on her senses was there, this time all at once, only more. With all of it came the numbing ache in her sex, and her eyes flashed with every memory that she ever knew, all before her, the terrors of her past encounters playing out before her mixed with her father playing with her as a little girl, with the Cenobite watching over them in the same scene, nodding affirmations while they held hooks and chains, and god alone knew what else as that insistent throbbing made her writhe on the bed in tortured ecstasy, every lover she’d ever had working in her on top from behind, on her knees even her rapist claimed his trophy again and again they came at her with hard cocks and spurting come all over, she was swallowed in illusions of a hundred men and women at her all at once, betraying her private games and darkest fantasies the Black Pope took her on her knees in front of his God and she moaned in delight, the others clapping as if grading the performance. It was all too much, and her nerves catapulted between agony and orgasmic pleasure and all at once and she thought -This is madness I’m going insane oh my god I’m coming-
And then she sat bolt up in the bed and cried out in what she was sure was the orgasm that would stop her heart it would burst through her chest and they would laugh and tear her limb from limb-
“Just a taste, of what’s in store.” The mocking voice laughed, “When we know your flesh.”
Screaming, she bolted in bed again, hands clutching the thin material of her sleep-shirt and crying.
She was home; light through the windows of her bedroom spared her damaged mind. She’d only been dreaming, a nightmare of epic proportions, but she was home. Thank god, she was safe. Safe, but for how long? She was drenched in sweat again, and knew it was pointless; she would not sleep again tonight. But at least it had only been a dream. She reached for her lamp, flicked it on –
And she saw her door, the clothes hook on the back of it held something, something not familiar to her. She got out of bed, careful to look down first, lest she step on something they had left behind. Walking to the door, her eyes opened wider and she began to make out what it was.
A torture tool. One of theirs, she was certain of it. Its serrated edges and curved cutting blade spoke of wickedness and depravity, and she dropped to her knees with the certainty of one thing that brought tears to her eyes for the second time tonight.
It had not been a dream at all. And they knew where she was.
She knew she had to stop crying, it would not help anything. Wiping her sniffles away, she got back up and opened the door, turning on lights as she made her way to the kitchen to fix a cup of tea. She didn’t want to touch the thing on her door, some childish part of her knowing that if she did they would come again, for real this time, and shred her in every way fathomable.
Water in the kettle, heat on…get a cup…wait for the boil…it all seemed so ludicrous to her, tea was not a solution for everything, no matter how many Englishwomen claimed it. But there she was, waiting for the soothing scent of the leaves and warmed milk to calm her frayed ragged nerves and let her at least calm herself if she could not sleep, and she looked at the clock in her kitchen. Three forty-seven. She was a night owl, ever since her first encounter with the box it sometime seemed that she would never sleep at night again, but her forays into her now chosen field made being a night owl easy. Most of her clients didn’t like to be seen coming to her in the daytime. But this was entirely different. She’d been able to rest whenever she felt like it recently, some sort of peace had been made with her psyche that allowed her to do so, though she knew it was only denial. And denial was useless in her case.
The tea poured, she sat down on the sofa and grabbed the remote, turning on channel 4. It would do to get a laugh, at something, if only to ease her mind momentarily.
Eddie Izzard repeats. That would do to get her mind off things, and sipping her tea, she tried to settle down and let her thoughts not stray beyond an Englishman with a taste for both hilarity and a fashion sense a damn sight better than her own.
But, when the commercial hit, her mind went back to her room and the tool on her door, knowing she could try and try to put her mind to rest, but it would do no good.
“We have all time,” it had said. “We will know your flesh.”
She shivered again, gooseflesh covering every inch of her.