Hellraiser: The Will of One

HELLRAISER: The Will of One

Chapter 7: Chaos Theory

Harold lay in his bed, the night’s exertions fresh in his mind, and after his second glass of brandy, began the steady sonorous rumbling that began his sleep. He’d showered, was fresh for the morning, and was impatient.

She’d still not called. It was almost maddening, this waiting, but it was important that he not seem too aggressive. That would only lead to further delays, more denial of the ending he truly sought. He thought in his deepest heart he’d never be allowed to actually copulate, though the more secret part of him wanted that. No, he would have that denied him, as long as he could feel the whip one final time. What could one do to earn such distinction, he mused, not fully realizing that the key to it was himself.

She didn’t like him, he realized, probably not one bit. In fact she probably loathed him, and that was a bit of a nasty turn. But why not, why wasn’t he worthy? He was rich, could afford to give her things she herself couldn’t possibly imagine, a place more lavish than the one she occupied currently for certain. It had its advantages, but the location was far from desirable, it was the east end, for gods’ sake; no one who really wanted to chose to live in the east end. There must be a reason for that.

“Next time,” he murmured to himself, half asleep.”Next time I’ll suggest something nicer, place in the west, closer to me.” Harold smiled at that thought. Keep her closer, show her what he could really do for her, and she might turn around. He drifted off to sleep.

It hadn’t been long, or had it been hours, when the dream began. Dark, maze-like hallways that seemed to go on forever, screams, and laughter. Harold could smell blood, and a thousand other scents that seemed to fill what little air there was in the maze. Suddenly he stood before a mirror, no, a hall of mirrors, and he could see himself as a younger boy, maybe twelve, being forced by his mother to receive an enema for a fever he was suffering from. He stood there, revolted as he watched; it played out on the mirrors, all of them, in succession. Over and over again, and the humiliation of it was unendurable.

He closed his eyes in the dream, and it still played out behind them, his wailing tears and Mother’s shouts of shut it and to be a man. He fled the room, not caring where he was going, down the dark, dank hallways, the screams becoming louder and somehow, familiar. Another room was opened, and more of his past was revealed.

His first time. Sarah Ann Marcus, his first girlfriend, the one who had shown him there was more to fucking than just sticking it in. Oh no, there was a lot to learn under Sarah’s tutelage. She’d first shown him the toys, held up a raised eyebrow in invitation to join her in ‘something different’.

And it had been different, that much was sure. He’d gone home that night exhausted and welted, but somehow, happier. Happy that he had been shown this, like a missing piece of the puzzle had finally been retrieved. It might have ended happily for him had he not been at a stag party for one of his friends and seen the films.

The one she’d starred in. Showing him everything she was perfectly willing to do for the right amount of cash. And cash was all that mattered. He’d been enraged of course, more so for his chum’s laughter at his embarrassment than his finding out. He didn’t care that she was a whore; he’d been to a few before actually having a relationship, but his friends’ knowledge and their mocking had been too much.

He’d crashed into her flat that night and accused her of what he’d seen. She threw it back in his face that she liked what they’d done and where did you think I learned it? Logic with that much truth was not something he was used to, and he left, the echoes of her excoriation of him fresh in his ears. He knew from then on in what he needed, and how to achieve it. Never would he trust a woman again, unless they were paid to follow his instructions. And so his lifelong affair with sadomasochism was started.

“How sentimental.” The voice behind him said flatly. It was a voice devoid of pity, or morality, only gnawing, raw, hunger. Harold spun around, and what he saw staggered his mind.

The hooks, spikes, chains, all pulling aside or impaling the glistening meat of its flesh, the face, dusted down with ash, the tools that hung on a cord strung through its skin. It was nightmarish, appalling, and he wanted to wake up desperately. Even middle aged, he was still afraid of monsters such as this in his dreams, and yet he was sure he’d never seen something so horrifying in his life. He stood there and gaped, while it folded its hands and smiled at him.

“What...in god’s name?”

“We are a long, long way from that name, and anything involved in it.” The creature said in return. “We are an Order that you seek, a response to the chaos you humans make upon the earth.” It cocked its head only slightly, and the smile went wider, mocking. “You own something that should not be yours.”

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harold tried to make the denial ring true, but the creature did not take the bait.

A chain sang through the air, ending in a hook, and Harold screamed as it dug itself into his flesh, the hook now wet with his own blood. He yelped as his hand was pulled away from him, he could not see the end of the chain, or where it had come from. He was panicking; sweat broke out on his forehead, drenching his eyes suddenly, and he raised his free hand to wipe his face.

A second chain answered instead, and now Harold was bound. The creature walked toward him. Slowly, as if savoring the very fear Harold was experiencing itself. Closer now, closer, and Harold could see the black depths of its eyes, smell the vanilla it wore to mask its true stench, feel its breath upon him.

“You know what I speak of, Harold.” Inquisitor replied raising a hand to caress his victim’s face. He grasped it between his thumb and forefinger, and Harold screamed as a burning sensation began in his face, his eyes growing wide with shock as the creatures touch started to melt the fat in his cheeks to an almost boiling liquid.

He screamed higher, as the monster’s second hand found another purpose; it drove a hook into his testicles, carving up into the body cavity, twirling it into his intestines. The pain was excruciating, blood flowed down his bare legs as his bowels spilled out onto the ground.

“The Flagellum Iniquitatus.” Inquisitor announced with pure civility, as if this was a lesson in a classroom. “You possess it, but it does not belong to you. Some trinket for a whore, Harold?”

“No, NO!” Harold screamed in anguish. Why wasn’t he waking up, surely if you die in your dreams-?

“What makes you think you’re dreaming, Harold?” the creature asked, knowing the though before the human in his grasp could even voice it. “I can make this infinitely worse, human, but somehow, I think you’re enjoying it. Is that it, Harold, am I right?” Another twist of the hook, and the man screamed in pure unbridled terror, “Tell me, won’t you.” Inquisitor asked, dragging the hook through Harold’s liver, and the rest of his lower organs followed his guts. Harold felt his eyes roll back into his head. This couldn’t go on, there had to be an end.

“But you don’t want it to end, not really, do you Harold?” Inquisitor toyed. And Harold knew in a sick realization that it was right, he did enjoy this, somehow, monstrously…a brief laugh escape his lips.

“Demons to some, “ Inquisitor said by way of response, and it dug its hand up farther, into his chest, and Harold screamed anew as the thing pulled his beating heart from his chest and held it in front of him. The creature raised it to its nose, inhaled with appreciation, and took a bite from it. “Angels to others” it finished the sentence, chewing with obvious relish.

Inquisitor dropped the remains of its meal to the ground. “That gift to your whore? You won’t be delivering it soon, I hope?”

Harold shook his head. “She…she won’t see me.“

Inquisitor regarded the pitiful excuse for a man with disdain. “You’re that much a weakling you can’t even get a whore to take a call?” It sighed. “Pathetic.” Remembering his past diversions with Kirsty, the Cenobite grabbed a handful of Harold’s hair, pulled his slackening head upwards to face him. “You will call her, offer her whatever she wishes, to get her to see you, Slave.” Inquisitor used the commands he knew would get the best results. “And when she responds, no demanding, no arrogance, total humility will be your key. Tell her you have the answer to her dreams.”

Harold’s eyes met the Cenobite’s, a look of pure lost hope in them. “She’ll see me if I say that?”

“I am sure.” It answered. “But you must be the proper supplicant, like I instruct you. Any arrogance and she’ll run from you, Harold.”

The chains suddenly vanished, and Harold dropped to his knees amidst his own entrails. The stench nauseated him, and he fought back the rising gorge of his vomit. The Cenobite regarded him a moment.

“All the pleasures of Hell are yours for the asking.” It intoned. “But you must give her the prize, and before, it must be steeped in blood, human blood. You’re, ah…powerful, Harold.” It said this with a chuckle. “Certainly you can get a little blood, if you can possess the Flagellum.”

Harold looked up helplessly at the thing; its mouth smeared with his own blood, and nodded his head weakly. “I’ll do it, Master. I’ll get the…blood.”

Inquisitor smiled down on its charge, humans were such easy prey. “Get the blood, steep it for six hours, and then allow it to return to normal. This should take a day. Then it can be used.” As it spoke, the Cenobite circled the man, dealing out further instruction. “No self abuse, no seed can be spilled until it is used, Harold, or all your deepest dreams won’t come true. And hers as well.” He looked at the human writing on the floor sternly. “Nothing in the way of pleasure must you experience. You must be clean for it to work. As clean as a pitiful worm like you can be, anyway.”

“I…understand.” Harold replied weakly.” No pleasure.”

“When you give it to her, tell her it will open doors to her desires, that what she truly wants will be granted. She will know what this means.“ The Cenobite looked upwards, and a vision of the Flagellum appeared before Harold’s eyes. The figures carved on the handle began to writhe, thrust, and lick their partners. It swirled around like an orgy, Harold could not take his eyes off it. His near-eviscerated cock began to ache with lust, hardening even with the loss of his balls.

“When you see this happen, then the flogging can begin. “ Inquisitor continued his tutoring. “Sixty-six strokes, no less, must be achieved…after that,” the Cenobite sighed with satisfaction. “Paradise.”

“Sixty-six?” Harold asked, the flesh from his bones would be gone with that many. “How can I stand that, it would kill me?”

“And deliver you to delights..To pleasures beyond the scope of your mind. Endless pleasures.” Inquisitor promised. “And isn’t that what you truly want, Harold?..To be free to enjoy, explore, engage every spasm of desire your mind can conceive?” Inquisitor chuckled. “There are so many ways..Things to experience. And in the end, it is what you really want, Harold.”

The Cenobite turned and began its slow walk down the hallway, intoning last, “You gift to your Goddess, and all of her pleasure for you, awaits you. Be worthy of it.”

The room went black, then a white flash appeared, and Harold woke in bed, drenched in sweat, and something else. He peeled back the sheets, expecting to see the bottom half of his torso carved out, instead he saw he’d merely spunked in his sheets, and all over himself.

Cursing, he got up and headed for the shower, to clean himself off. He must remain clean, no pleasure, the thing had instructed him, and though he still wasn’t sure what it was, he knew one thing desperately.

He’d dare not cross it. There could be no cheating with an abomination like that.
He turned on the cold water, bracing himself as the icy jets hit him square in the chest and face, and he began to lather up. Something felt odd in his palm. He looked down at it.
A scar was there, red with newness, right where he’d been hooked in his dream. He stared at it in shock.

“What makes you think you’re dreaming?” the specter’s words came back to haunt his mind. He checked, and his other hand bore the marks as well. Feeling downwards, he sighed with relief as he found his balls, exactly where he wanted them to be. But the realization hit him that this was real, had happened, there was no denying that.

And he knew he would not sleep again that night, no matter what.