The shop reeked of patchouli and lavender. Karl curled his lip up as he, for the sixth time since entering, fought the urge to cough so loud in protest of the overpowering stink he’d deposit a lung onto the creaking wooden floorboards.
   The tiny occult shop in Crouch End, London, had been difficult to find, as had they all. It seemed the yellow pages directory had something against advertising the whereabouts of occult stores. If this place, with its nauseating stench of incense and dreary new age music was anything to go by, he knew why.
   Certainly, the store looked the part. A bearded man that reminded him of Merlin had welcomed him with watchful eyes as he’d entered, the chimes hanging above the door ringing a tuneless jingle. Stocks of candles of various sizes and shapes filled a battered cabinet at the front of the shop, alongside various bizarre looking objects the function of which Karl could only guess at. Isles of dog-eared books that lined the walls in masses covered every magical subject a magician (or did they call themselves mages nowadays?) could wish to study: palmistry, the tarot, candle magic, sex magic, all tastes were catered for, no subject deemed taboo. Save for the topic he sought.
   So far, none of the overpriced tomes in any of the shops Karl had visited had offered anything to aid him in his quest.
He knew little of the subject this shop catered for, had never so much as made a wish, not even when he’d been a child and had snuffed the life from candles adorning birthday cakes. But he knew what he sought, and he knew he would find it, even if it meant trekking to every back street bookshop in the land.

Turning down another of the shop’s isles, he fingered the spines of a further dozen or so hardbacks, the titles failing to stir his soul, doing nothing to dull the desperation he felt gnawing away at his body like a virus.
   He hadn’t slept properly in weeks, food was forgotten, any respite from his search thrown aside as the heat within his guts roared to be extinguished. Revenge. Revenge was his mistress and he obeyed her instructions, followed her commands like an obedient hound, searching book after book for something that would help him cool her fire.
   His fingers paused on the torn spine of a slim volume of poetry: Blake. Beth loved Blake - No, Beth had loved Blake.    He’d never been turned on by the man’s style himself, but the way Beth had felt in his arms as she’d scanned the pages of his work, the sensation of her body as she breathed against his chest had been worth every dreary second of the man’s prose. Grief shot through him and he groaned. She was dead. Taken from him – stolen – but he would have his revenge.
   That was why he was here, that was why, for the last seven days, he’d scoured bookshop after bookshop in the hope of finding something that would give him the power he needed: to ensure the bastard responsible for murdering her suffered a deservedly painful death.
   He couldn’t wait for the law to sort its act out - the courts had so far been a joke - so he’d do it himself. If another week of searching for an occult solution proved fruitless, he’d buy a gun and do the man in himself. Sod the consequences – there was no price he wasn’t prepared to pay.

   “Can I perhaps help you with something, sir? One can get quite lost amongst these old books.”
It was Merlin. He stepped from behind one of the shelves, a whiff of incense trailing behind him in a thin fog, managing a smile that reeked of sarcasm as much as the old man himself reeked of patchouli.
   “I’m…just looking, thanks.” Karl sighed, snapping from his revere of the girl he’d wanted to marry - would’ve married if it hadn’t been for that drunk.
   “Indeed, and perhaps I can help you find what it is you’re looking for, sir.”
   Karl scanned the shop. It was empty; as devoid of life as his lover’s eyes had been when he’d cried into them at the chapel of rest. No one would hear their conversation; perhaps the old man could assist him. After all, this was an occult bookstore, they had books on Satan for Christ’s sake, how offended could the man get at his request?
   He decided to sod it all and ask the man straight out.
   His question, in spite of everything, came as a whisper. “Revenge magic. Do you have any books on revenge magic, death curses and the like?”
   The man was silent for a moment, and then, with a small nod of his head, motioned to a book a few paces from their position; ‘The Grand Book of Curses and Hexes’.
   “Perhaps this would be to sir’s liking?”
   Karl scanned the thick book’s pages. Fancy words, ridiculous rhymes: ineffective nonsense. He’d seen a hundred books like this in the last few days. No, it would not do. It didn’t feel…powerful enough.
   He told the man as such. “No, that’s no good. I’m not interested in nursery rhymes and stupid voodoo dolls. I need something powerful, something real, fast and effective.”
   “Magic does not work like that, sir. It takes many years of dedicated study to master even the simplest of conjurations. If I might suggest this book on candle magic and –
   “Fuck your candle magic! I want revenge, now, not in three years time! If I could wait that long, I’d let the courts play their stupid games. Give me something strong, something true.”
   Merlin inhaled and held the breath for longer than Karl thought possible, the silence a burden to his wavering, caffeine fuelled, nerves.
   After a long while, the man spoke again. This time, the pleasant mannerisms of a shopkeeper eager to sell his wares was gone, replaced by a grave seriousness that bit at Karl’s temper.
   “Young lad, this shop is a reputable outlet. We do not cater for such subjects here. If I were you, I’d get some rest, have a decent meal, and –
   “Well you’re not fucking me, are you?” Insomnia-ringed eyes burned with a torture only sorrow can deliver. “He stole her from me, killed her, that drunk bastard, and I’m gonna see him burn for that! You sell shit for Satan worshipping kiddie fiddlers and freaky sex losers, but you won’t sell me anything for revenge. Screw you, old man. Fuck you and your stinking incense!”
   Merlin staggered back and raised his hands in defence. He began to retreat, slowly, to the counter. “I’m going to ask you to leave. Only once, and then I’m calling the police. Do you understand?”
   Karl was instantly repentant. He wasn’t like this. He was a gentle, hardworking lad, one who’d loved his girlfriend and shrugged his shoulders at weird subjects like magic and the supernatural. ‘As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone, let them do what they want’, he’d said to those about him who’d scowled at such subjects. ‘As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone…’ how long ago was that, who was that man? Dead, buried alongside the girl of his dreams. Even so, his uncharacteristic outburst made him flinch.
   “I’m sorry, really I am. My girlfriend, she was killed. She…died…he crashed his car into her. They think he’ll get off with a fine…a fucking fine. She’s dead…”
   A tear, and then another. Soon he was crouched on the floor, his head in his hands, tears flowing freely as they hadn’t done since her funeral six weeks ago. How long would this grief burn?

The shopkeeper cautiously helped him to his feet. “I’m so sorry, my lad, truthfully I am. But there really is nothing I can do for you. Perhaps you should buy a few pale candles, a little incense, say a prayer and think of all the good times you shared together. Time will heal, the pain is part of the –
   “Healing process, yes, I’ve heard it all before.” The grief burned in him once more, seizing his civility and cremating it.    “I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll go elsewhere.”
   The man made to touch Karl’s shoulder, but thought better of it. “Be careful what you wish for, young man. The path you seek is a dark one, one that comes at a great cost to those who walk it.”
   Karl stumbled to the door and snatched it open, one hand angrily smearing the tears across his face. “I don’t care about the price. I’ll go through Hell or high water to get what I want.”
   As the door slammed shut, the shopkeeper bowed his head in disappointment and whispered through a sigh, “I pray that’s not the case, lad…”

“Hell and high water – an interesting turn of phrase, that.”
   Karl had paced from the shop, his teeth grit, determined to reach at least one of the remaining shops on his list before the end of the day, when the voice had met his ears.
   A rough tone - a fifty cigarette a day man - came from the alley besides the door.
   Karl snapped his head towards the shadows there, half in surprise, half wanting someone to vent a slice of his numbing anger upon.
  “Can I help you?” he bit.
   The shadows revealed a shape. A man, how old Karl couldn’t guess - maybe late twenties, perhaps early forties - leant against the wall as if supporting the building. He was thin, dirty, and unshaven, with matted red hair and narrow eyes. He reminded Karl of a rat. With his ill-fitting clothes and stooped spine, he looked dangerous, and Karl turned to go on his way. He didn’t want to fight any smack-head drug addict.
   “Maybe I can help you, mate. Perhaps I’ve got just what you’re looking for.” the choked voice offered.
   “Well, I’m not looking for drugs, and I don’t want a fight, so I say get lost and stay lost.”
   The man tutted and sniggered, “Now, now, mate. Don’t get upset. I’m just trying to help you out that’s all. Couldn’t help hearing your conversation with the old man back there, maybe I got what you’re after. If the price is right.”
   Karl couldn’t speculate how this filthy man could have overheard the conversation he’d had with Merlin, and honestly didn’t see him having anything that could help him in his search. He moved to leave, hoping to be on his way before the man turned violent or asked for money.
   “I don’t have any change.”
   “And I,” barked the man, coming forward, and grabbing Karl’s arm in a vice like grip, “don’t want ya fucking cash. I heard you going on about revenge. That you’re searching for a way to put out that fire in ya guts…” He snapped a hand to Karl’s chest, gnarled fingers clawing into his skin, “Misery: it burns, don’t it? Gonna scald you, kill you if you don’t put out its flames soon.”
   “What…what do you want?” Karl managed. He was stunned by the man’s swiftness and the way his distant eyes burned into his skull.
   “To help a lost soul find what he needs.”
   “How…how can you help me?” Karl wanted to run but the man held him fast, the fingers now snaking over his chest like a lover’s.
   “I know what you need, know how to make that bastard pay for what he did to her, to your love.” He sniggered, an evil sound that had no place on the lips of any man.
   “Revenge, mate. Bloody, ruthless revenge the likes his worst nightmares couldn’t prepare him for. Do you want it, or do I let you on your way…?”
   The ratty man released his hold on Karl who stumbled back two steps…and then stopped. Karl nodded, “Yes, I want it.”
   A set of twisted, yellow teeth grinned.

Karl had followed the ratty man’s instructions to the letter. He’d made his way to Chinatown, Soho, and into the warren of twisting streets that ran behind the garish shop-faces that presented themselves to London’s multitude of tourists.
   Kicking through boxes of mouldy vegetables and avoiding the pools of dog piss, he once again stared down at the tiny scrap of yellowed paper that had cost him fifty pounds. He’d followed the directions exactly, yet there was no door to be seen in this alley.
   He’d been duped. The ratty man had promised him that his uncle, a Chinaman, though the dirty man obviously had less Chinese blood in his body than Karl had, would provide Karl with the solution to his problems – a box that would take his fire of revenge and turn it against his beloved’s killer with the fury of a pack of rabid wolves.
   The thought of the drunkard screaming in fear as revenge was lain upon him had seen Karl part with his cash, grief and desperation blinding him to the fact that rat-man was obviously a con artist out to cheat the weak and vulnerable. And Karl had bought his blag hook line and…
   He screwed the small piece of paper into a ball and, after spitting to the floor, chucked the expensive piece of paper away with a grunt.
   He turned to leave.
   “What’s your pleasure, sir?”
   The voice came from behind him unexpectedly, causing Karl to start. He snapped round, his hands half raised in defence should the owner prove to be a mugger.
   A small Chinese man stood in the alley, rows of blackened teeth smiling wickedly at him. He busied himself unfolding a small piece of paper – the very same ball Karl had just thrown away. “Ah, I see. The box. Excellent.”
   The man turned and gestured to a door that Karl was certain had not been there moments ago. “Step this way, sir.”    Then he was gone, walking through a beaded curtain and away.
   Karl pushed the greasy beads apart and followed.

The room he found himself in was small and swelteringly hot, a warm breeze gusting over his face as he entered. With the heat came a stink – a fisherman’s bait box on a summer’s day. Karl grunted and covered his nose, a gag of bile forcing itself into the world. He noisily swallowed the warm liquid down, and cast his watering eyes about him.
   The floors were stone and bare, save for large pools of fluid, filled with drops of water that dripped slowly from a dangerously warped ceiling. A table and two chairs were the room’s only decoration. These were placed in the centre of the small room, all old, all crawling with pregnant maggots. They massed and swarmed on the chipped surface of the table, rolling and curling in washes of yellowed fluid.
   “Maybe I’ve made a mistake…” Karl began. He now felt hopelessly out of his depth, this was getting too much for him.
   The Chinaman shook his head, “When fires of vengeance burn in your soul, extinguish them with the blood of your enemy, or be yourself consumed.” He eyed Karl – a shark sensing his prey. “This is exactly where you need to be, Karl.    This is where the fires of grief are challenged. Are you ready to call to them?”
   How did the man know his name? Karl shook his head, “I’m not sure what you mean…”
   The old man laughed and pulled one of the chairs from its place under the table. With a long, slow sweep of his hand, he cast the maggots aside and sat, nodding that Karl should do the same. Reluctantly, after tilting the chair and tapping two legs roughly against the floor to remove the life that crawled there, he did so.
   The table had one item upon its lid: a metal box.
   As the Chinaman took out a thick candle and lit it with a match, Karl could see that the box had bronze designs set upon its sides. They caught the small light of the candle and danced in flashes of promise.
   His guts twitched knowingly; they had found what they sought: power, the power of revenge sat before him.
   “And it is yours for the asking, sir.” the old man whispered, hearing Karl’s thoughts call out. “Simply take it up and ...summon them.”
   Karl was mesmerised by the box’s gleaming faces, it seemed to sing to him, whispering songs of violent justice.    “Who…who should I summon?” he asked, the man’s voice a million miles from his ears.
   “The Cenobites: the bringers of deliverance.”
   Karl’s heart beat in his ears, the din of pulsing ventricles akin to a church’s bell calling the righteous to prayer. “How much does it cost? I’ve got seventy pounds left, but I can get more…”
   But the old man waved a dismissive hand as Karl went for his wallet. “Do not insult me with money, sir: the cost cannot be measured with that. You must ask yourself, how much would you pay to know the one you lost has finally been avenged? To know that the man that wronged you is suffering in Hell for all times to come - what else is of true value to you?”
   Karl’s eyes narrowed. He saw the face of her killer as he’d stood in the dock; saw his eyes, still red with liquor, glaring and unrepentant. He wanted to see the man drown on suffering.
   He nodded, “Give it to me. Give me the box. Now.”
   The old Chinese man smiled and opened his hand, “Take it, sir. Let vengeance be yours.”


Karl knelt before the box and breathed deeply. With his eyes closed, he could see nothing but the candles he’d lit as they played across the thin skin of his eyelids, their red shapes glowing as they flickered this way and that in the small breeze of his apartment.
   “Concentrate on the grief, raise her memories from the past, remember what she was, imagine what she could have been, what he has taken away from you. Think hard of the loss and let it wash over your senses in a blanket of grief. Suffocate in stains of woe… and open the box.”
   These had been the Chinaman’s last words as he’d bid Karl farewell from the table. Karl had taken the box and ran, the sound of the man’s laughter stinging his ears as he’d fled through the beaded curtain and into the sanitary air of London’s city streets, away and home.
   Night had come, and now he sat naked and alone, stirring up thoughts of Beth.
   But with his memories came only pain. Her smile stabbed at him. Her lips cut. Where her eyes had once shone for him, now he saw only sorrow and abandonment. Her naked skin, her tongue, the sex: all were now home to suffering. He wept.
   On a cue only his unconscious mind could fathom, his hands found the cool metal of the box and began to dance over its grooves. His fingertips flicked across the furrows with a lover’s sensitivity. The sweaty swirls on his skin found ridges the eye could never detect and caressed them. His palms cupped the box like the most delicate of mounds, and pressed.    Sweat merged with tears – and this in turn fused with the dried blood of conjurers past.
   A tune, like a child’s toy, hauntingly familiar, completely forbidding, sounded out, filling the room with its mournful melody.

And then, like a lover, the box opened wide for him.

Cold played across flesh bringing skin to goosebumps, his nipples standing out against his chest, swollen and ripe. The air washed with the scent of ancient, stale, sanatoriums and the salty reek of sex and tears.
   The brick of the walls about Karl shimmered and separated, the mortar now becoming illumination brighter than a sun.    Mighty chimes sounded to echo louder than a bomb’s blast.
   A wall-mounted clock’s hands first span dementedly, then smashed free from their glass prison, shards exploding from the face. They spat at the room, but froze, captured in the air by time made incompetent at the approach of Hell.
   As Karl’s fingers felt the rise and fall of a central column upon the box, and a final sorrowful call of sound from its metal met his ears, the walls to his apartment parted like a stone curtain.
   It was only then that genuine Hell entered Karl’s life.

He sat in shock, not willing, not able to open his eyes. Though he could not see what now stood before him, his senses screamed of what they were – vengeance, sorrow, pain: all the world’s agonies twisted into human forms. The Cenobites. Hell’s bringers of dark reckoning.
   Over his ears sang the anthems of chains and barbed hooks, long blades sharpened with a surgeon’s care, of drills and saws as they bit greedily through flesh and marrow. His breath shuddered through a petrified chest.
   “P…please…” he started, but the rest was stolen by terror.
   The cold kiss of a razor stroked the skin of his neck, to run the length of his spine – not cutting, not grazing the skin, simply finding pleasure in the way the metal felt as it passed over sensitised flesh. Karl found himself gasping in awkward delight.
   “What is it that calls us here? Not pleasures of the flesh, not longings for dark desires. What then, boy? Speak, whilst your tongue is still yours.”
   The female’s voice was a whisper that tickled Karl’s guts. He panted hard, the tones sending washes of forbidden energy raging down his spine to the seat of his being, pulsing him into life. Cold fingers found him there.
  “Perhaps it is desire after all…”
   A male’s voice, cold, deep, booming – a mountain of authority spoke then. “We have no cause to dally. Come; bring him with us. He has forever to treasure your touch.”
Further hands grabbed him, dragging him roughly to his feet. A chattering sounded in his ears - snapping teeth, wet and sharp, eager to bite.
   Claws - long, terrifyingly sharp - shoved him with zero concern. Whispers of death drifted over his lobes.
   “Please…” Karl sobbed, though he dared not open his eyes.
   A breath as sharp and as cold as ice slapped across his cheek, “Speak then, boy. What song will you sing? A song of lust, or knowledge forbidden?” Her voice smelt of mortician’s wax, and honey over leather.
   “Revenge.” Karl snarled the word. He remembered Beth, how they’d met one autumn seven years ago. He recalled how they’d made love for the first time on the floor of his apartment, in this very room. His mind stabbed and ached with images of her body: her lips, her legs, her wetness as he’d kissed her sex and drank her like the finest of wines. Then he saw his face: that bastard, her murderer.
   “Revenge.” he spat again.
   “Revenge…” the male once more.
   “Revenge.”
   A harsh silence from the trio with only the wailing of a babe screaming out someplace in the vast corridors of Hell, and then the man spoke again. “So be it. Let punishment be done.”

Nicholas Cross sat slumped at the kitchen table in his apartment in Kensington, a half finished (ever the pessimist) bottle of Jack Daniels standing besides a three-quarters finished bottle of vodka. With shaking hands, he found the vodka, poured another three fingers worth into his glass, and swigged it down in one.
   Gasping at the taste, though surprised he could taste anything anymore, he slapped a cigarette from his soft pack and lit it with a dying lighter’s flame.
   “Time for one more, and then it’s off down the Town House for last orders.” he instructed himself. Truth be told, if he hadn’t fallen asleep on the kitchen floor after his afternoon session he’d have been sitting at his usual place at the bar right now, rather than slamming one back for the road.
   He grabbed the bottle of J. D., swigged down a long mouthful, and went for his coat. “Now, where’s them car keys…?”
   Sure, he was banned from driving; he’d been banned three times now. But so what, no one was gonna ruin what little fun he had in life. Besides, he drove with the window down, and no one could tell him his limit, certainly not no bloody copper with their soddin’ breathalyser, that was for sure.
   A thought slammed into his intoxicated brain, which found him flicking the cap from the bottle in one well-oiled motion. Oh, the girl? Well, if she hadn’t been walking about in the road at night he wouldn’t have bloody hit her. There was no way he could’ve missed her, sober or not. Nah, that wasn’t for him to worry about. Not even that snivelling boyfriend of hers as he stood wailing in court like some nipper on his first day of school would dent his desire to get lathered. Sod him, sod her and sod the fucking courts. He’d pay the fine. Then spend the change on a six-pack and a full tank of petrol.
Where were those bloody keys?
   He paced the hallway to the bottom of the stairs and felt inside the pockets of his other coat. Not there either.
   Cursing loudly, he turned and headed towards the living room.
   Had he left the television on? It was possible; he was already very pissed. The noises of some kid’s programme sounded out from the half-opened door, a set of disturbing musical chords that found him pausing with his hand on the knob. He felt his face crease in confusion: there was no reason for him to feel such unease. Yet, his heart began to beat double time, a thin layer of sweat now pushing out from alcohol-choked pores to dampen his body. What was this dread?
For a fleeting moment, he considered walking to the pub, just this once.
   Without warning, the door flung open. He fell to the floor where he landed like a beached whale and coughed as the air smashed out of his lungs.
   “What the Hell…?” he wheezed.
   Nicolas Cross looked up.
  Nicolas Cross screamed.
   The room was a dilapidated space, the walls shifting and wavering as beams of white light spat out behind the bricks.    They creaked and groaned as if an earthquake had torn the apartment’s foundations to pieces. His nostrils stung as the stink of iron, of freshly spilled blood, rushed across them, and he vomited.
   Hands found his mouth and clamped it shut – a steel vice was weaker, and the vomit filled his mouth causing him to choke it back. Wet lumps shot from his nostrils in thick blobs.
   Cold hands grabbed at him, dragging him to the slab that stood where his living room table ought to be. They ripped his clothes from him with flashes of steel that stung his skin, and little rivers of blood snaked across his body, the first tiny touches of a long and painful harvest.
   ‘Please. No.’ he’d wanted to beg, but the hands were passionate in their clamping and would not give.
   But now came the pain. It began with the binding. First, thick folds of barbed wire cloaked his body, pinning him to the slab. The jagged edges bit into his flesh and stuck fast in the muscle causing Cross to piss himself. Was that a wet gurgle of laughter he heard as his bladder failed him?
   The hands that had so far held his mouth closed, now reversed their tactic, snapping it wide open, almost tearing the ligaments there such was their vigour. Another set of cold fingers grabbed the tongue and pulled. A hook then pinned the fleshy matter onto his chin. His nose became blocked with some unseen substance that smelt and felt like hot wax.
Now Cross screamed. It did nothing but fuel their actions.
   Though his eyes had been open, wide with fear, the lids almost tearing under the force of his stare, he had not yet seen his attackers. Now they revealed themselves to him.
   A demon with no features, merely a mess of battered scar tissue, wet and dripping in gore, cruel teeth chattering against the restraints of razor wire braces, worked upon Cross’ mouth, holding it open with fingers clothed in wet strips of black leather, the sound of his jaws echoing close to Cross’ ears.
   Another figure stepped into view. This thing wore a mask that had been fastened to its face by long strips of razor wire clogged with dried blood. Upon its hands, it wore long, wicked claws – they flashed with a longing to cut.
   A half-naked woman: beautiful, dead, black cuts lining her pallid arms in an outlandish tapestry that resembled tattoos, tongue pierced beyond description, black eyes remorseless and cold loomed before him. She now brought forth a tube – thick, wet and covered in metal studs. She fed the pipe down his throat with all the remorse of a trainee torturer, her smile of twisted pleasure shining in the night.
   Cross tried to gag, but the effort brought him pain as the pipe jabbed into the soft substance of his windpipe. She smiled, licked her lips seductively, and rammed the tube home.
   Cross’ resulting scream was a spastic, soft sound like a drowning baby. Blood gurgled up the pipe and frothed from his mouth in thick red clouds to bubble and pop on his stubbled chin.
   “Drink, and be merry.” An unseen male’s voice boomed loud and merciless, coming from the deep shadows of the chamber Cross now found himself in.
   A large flood of fluid hit his stomach. Then came another – it burned. …Whisky…vodka…tequila…gin… The alcohol kept coming. …Brandy…schnapps…lager…wine…sake… He coughed and choked against the wash but still it came, gallons upon gallons gushing down his throat in an unending fiery river. His guts heaved as they became swollen with alcohol and Cross felt his stomach shiver and burst. His mind denied the anaesthetizing sensation of drunkenness, the pain was overpowering.
   After an age of suffering, the male voice rumbled again. “And in conclusion…champagne.”
   Cross tried to scream, but the female drew closer, and after lapping the grape- flavoured blood from his chin, whispered, “Only the best, dear: Crystal.”
   There was a pop as a bottle was uncorked, and the sparkling waters began to flow…
…They would never run dry.

“It is done. Now you will come with us.”
   The man with a face littered with nails spoke to Karl and waved an ashen hand towards the gaping breach in reality that led to Hell. In the darkness beyond his apartment, Karl could hear the screams of the tortured as damnation played its hymn across their souls.
   He nodded and stood, taking the hand of the female Cenobite as she urged him onwards.
   “For Beth.” Karl whispered.
   “No. Forever.” Pinhead assured him.