Keeping my footsteps quiet, I made my way through a doorway into the chapel. More decorations spilled into this room, trimming the rows of pews on either side of the space. Straight down the aisle, I could make out a large gold cross hanging on the wall above where a casket would go.
My eyes scanned the room and my mind wandered. It felt weird being here. The place reeked of death, yet had all the vibes of a church. Funny, how a place in Hell’s jurisdiction was littered with crosses and bibles. What would these people say if they knew the god who watched over them was a demon who wore sin like a fine suit?
I’d never been to church in my life. The closest I’d ever gotten was on my knees, begging for mercy from my Lord as I moaned around his cock. It had felt like a hallowed prayer at the time.
That probably didn’t count.
I made my way into the belly of the funeral home. The halls were lined with polished, identical doors, and the overwhelming smell of formaldehyde clung to the air, sticking in my lungs. I knew where I was headed without knowing exactly where to go. The basement was where the monster was—in the morgue.
To anyone else, it looked like an innocuous funeral home. Simple, intimate, peaceful.
It was a lie.
I knew the vile sin that lurked within, what was hidden beneath these bricks.
A waft of cool air wrapped around me as I pulled open the door leading to the basement, and I carefully made my way downstairs, my steps light and my resolve hard as steel.
I’d be damned if I was going to lose the element of surprise over this fucker. I wanted to see the flash of utter terror in his eyes when he saw me, just before he met his end. The thought brought a satisfied smile to my lips.
When I reached the last step, I froze. I was face to face with another door, this one metal with a tiny pane of glass peeking into the room beyond. However, it wasn’t the door that stopped me short, but the sound that was seeping through the walls.
A low, rhythmic thwacking hit my ears, dull and steady—like flesh slapping against flesh.
My stomach turned, and I braced myself for what was waiting just out of sight. With another deep breath, I reached for the door handle and pushed. The metal groaned like a warning with the movement, and I swallowed hard as the room beyond bloomed into view.
Unlike the cozy interior of the rooms upstairs, this place was cold. Sterile. The walls and floor were stark white, silver equipment gleaming in the fluorescent lights.
In the center of the room was a prep table, on which currently laid the funeral home’s newest tenant: Marlene Jacobs, a twenty-three year old college student who’d died in a tragic car accident.
On top of her, naked from the waist down, was a portly Mr. Christenson, the funeral director. He was rutting into the cradle of her pale, slender thighs, his animalistic grunts accompanying the slap of his sopping skin.
How was everything so—ech—wet?
Bile scorched the back of my throat when the large tub of vaseline on the rolling cart beside the table came into view.
Pure unadulterated disgust hooked beneath my gut, and for a moment I thought I might vomit. Then, rage possessed me like a demon.
I could have killed him then and there, could have snapped my fingers and shattered his skull or twisted his spine into a pretzel. It took all my will not to react yet.
Belial had taught me to be calculating and intentional with my Judgement.
Taking a few extra moments to determine my next move could mean more pain for him and more satisfaction for me.
Marlene, and all the poor souls who came before her, deserved justice. My mission was ensuring that she got it.
I’d make this bastardsuffer.
Stepping further into the room, I cleared my throat, and the man’s thrusts stuttered. When he looked over, all the blood instantly drained from his face, his sweat-soaked complexion turning chalk white.
“Who are you?” His frantic words ran together as he clamored off the table and shuffled for his pants a few feet away.
“Well, I sure as shit am not Santa Claus.” I forced a caustic grin. Reaching into my back pocket, I brandished a piece of parchment—a list of dangerous human souls to receive Judgement before their natural clock ran dry—and gave it a wave. “But you’re on my naughty list, and it’s more than coal you’ve bought yourself.”
“It’s not what it looks like… Y–you’re not supposed to be in here!”
“And you’re not supposed to be inthere.” I jerked my chin toward the dead woman on the table. Now that he was off her, the woman looked even smaller, frailer. Vulnerable, exposed.
Even in death, women couldn’t escape being treated as objects.
