A Thousand Fiendish Angels: Stories Inspired By Dante's Inferno by J.F. Penn Page A

denizens of Hell streaming out of the maw of Hades and died of terror to look upon them. A thin stiletto knife and a mirror lay next to him on the bed, as if they had fallen from his hands. It looked like he had been trying to carve more words into his forehead, perhaps even as he died. I could barely read the disfigured flesh but it looked like the beginnings of a prayer for deliverance. As I examined him more closely, I could see that strips of flesh had been torn from his limbs, leaving weeping open wounds that now crawled with maggots. It looked as if he had died in the middle of being tortured by some perverse criminal. But what could anyone want of this man other than his vast wealth, yet there were no signs of forced entry and, according to the housekeeper, nothing had been taken.  
    I glanced around the room, the opulence a reflection of the rest of this grand property, dominated by the occult fetishes of his apparent obsession. The dying sun flooded through a pair of large bay windows, suffusing the room with a ruby glow and a touch of flame. Outside, it was darkening now and I could see thick purple clouds gathering like blood blisters across the sky, the beginnings of an unseasonal storm evident in the rain that pattered against the window. A wide wooden desk looked out towards a small church that squatted on the edge of a wood, perhaps Faerwald's personal chapel, since it lay within his vast estate out here on the edges of civilization. Apparently he had purchased this place before he rose to the heights of popular success and bought luxury properties around the world. Personally, I'd rather be on the beaches of Monaco than holed up here to die in obscurity, but he had been obsessed with the place.  
    To the right of the desk, one whole wall was devoted to erotic images, with gorgeous art morphing into pornography, and I couldn't help but look closer. Sandstone carvings from the Hindu temple of Khajuraho depicted orgies of debauchery, with bodies entwined in yogic poses as they thrust and writhed together. A set of art-house black and white photographs revealed scenes from a dungeon, as scarred and whipped bodies were soothed by gentle tongues.  
    Amongst the frenzied sensory overload, a small print caught my eye, portraying naked human figures swept into a hellish vortex, embracing each other with desire even as they were sucked into oblivion. William Blake's Circle of the Lustful, I read in the text below, and I couldn't help but glance back at the obscene figure spread-eagled on the bed, pushing away the repugnant image of this bloated man engaged in carnal acts. But beneath the mound of flesh, fattened from years of gluttony and excess, Faerwald's bones were aristocratic. He was now a shade of the handsome man he had once been, a magnet for beautiful women, and envied by men for his success.  
    I picked up a Hollywood-style photo frame from the desk, the picture within showing him in a slim-fit white tuxedo dancing a waltz, his strong arms wrapped around a stunning young woman, who smiled up at him with cornflower-blue eyes. I imagined them together, her shining blonde hair a veil that hid her eyes as they darkened with wanton pleasure. Envy surged within me and the need to drink almost drove me back to the car, desperate to tip even the tiniest dribble into my mouth. I pushed down the cravings and turned to examine the desk, using my pen to flick open a leather diary that sat in pride of place. On the final page, Faerwald's last words stared up at me, written in the same dark red ink, diseased now with tinges of purple and rusty clots that stained the thick ivory paper.  

    She comes tonight to claim what I promised in exchange so long ago.  
    I didn't believe her words back then, didn't think at all, but what she offered has come to pass and yet still I struggle to believe my soul can be so taken from me. I know I must pay the price for my sin, but if I can, I will prevent another from falling as far as