Status Updates From Hellbound Hearts

“Jeremy, what are you talking about?” Candy screams. She knows but does not want to know. But already the Cenobites are pulling Jeremy and Candy toward them with invisible strings. The female Cenobite opens her arms toward Candy like a dancer awaiting her partner. Candy’s screams become ear piercing and bone chilling; you are certain those screams will reverberate within you until your dying day.

She assists her leader in his work; they are a perfect team. They even finish each other’s threats to those who dare call upon them, and take turns flaying those unfortunates who thought they knew what they were doing when they opened the Box. The silence from above no longer greets her words, but screams for mercy. They pray to Sister Cilice now. They are her supplicants, not the other way around.

A voice beside his ear purred, “How far do you want to go?” Elliott tried not to flinch. “All the way,” he said. The throaty chuckle of the unseen speaker seemed to echo around him. “Are you quite certain of that?” Sweat dribbled into Elliott’s eye, stinging, making him blink. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Well, then,” said the voice, and a light came on.

The company of others did nothing but confuse him, annoy him, disgust and discomfort him. As far as he was concerned, there were only two things that made human existence worthwhile, only two experiences that elevated life above the numbing mire of the everyday: Sex and pain. Pain and sex. The exquisite agony. The unendurable rapture.

Hell has its dominions. Nor Man’s Desire or Demon’s Design, may extend its bounds. Apart from the prescribed portals and summonings in the hearts of humankind. Philip Lemarchand.

Mechanisms - Christopher Golden & Mike Mignola (Illustrations by Mike Mignola) ☆☆☆

Every Wrong Turn - Tim Lebbon ☆☆☆☆

The Collector - Kelley Armstrong ☆☆☆☆☆

Bulimia Richard - Christian Matheson ☆☆

Orfeo the Damned - Nancy Holder ☆☆☆☆☆

She jerked and backed away. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.” “You summoned us,” said the man. He raised a hand and pointed to the box gripped in her hand. Blood was running down her forearm and dripping off her elbow. “We came. Now you belong to us.”

Then a man stepped out of the icy blue light. His skin was dead white and his eyes were two wounds; his eyelids and lips were wrenched back by hooks. He wore a black robe, like some kind of monk, as the light swirled around him like mist.

I walked over and picked up the puzzle box. I turned it over in my hands, the wood so velvety smooth, so inviting, that it took all my willpower not to start turning the final pieces. “A Lemarchand’s Configuration, I presume?” She blinked. “You know it?” I lifted it to eye level, peering into its dark cracks. “It’s a legendary collection of pieces. Every enthusiast has heard the story.”

Dramatically, at the top of the eleventh hour, the e-mail arrived. My prize? An invitation to try for the grand prize: five thousand dollars. The catch? I had to go to the publisher’s office and solve the same wooden puzzle that was rotating on their splash page.

Prisoners of the Inferno - Peter Atkins ☆☆☆

The Cold - Conrad Williams ☆☆☆

The Confessor’s Tale - Sarah Pinborough ☆☆☆☆☆

Hellbound Hollywood - Mick Garris ☆☆☆☆☆

With a wide lens—perhaps a 14mm, or maybe even a 10—looking up this impressive if weathered stairway, I might be able to capture its growing sense of dread. Especially if I placed the camera right on the floor as it looked up to the next storey, and crept it forward ever so slowly. Yes, this actually might not be such a bad place to shoot, after all. We could spill some blood here . . .

“I found this hidden at the bottom of the cupboard. I think it belonged to your mother.” She shrugged. “It has her name scratched on the lid anyway.” His eyes fell to the box. “I think it is some kind of game. Perhaps a puzzle of sorts.” She shook it, and Arkady heard the pieces rattle inside. “Anyway, it seems poorly made and can have no value, so it is yours if you want it.”

The source of the noise found, it tore Arkady’s tongue free from his screaming mouth before disappearing out into the summer night, leaving only a bloody trail of silence. When Arkady’s mother ran into the bedroom and found her mutilated baby, she couldn’t bear the weight of her own guilt at leaving him to cry. She stood by the crib and hacked at her wrists with the pin from her hair until she bled to death.

“She’s sweet,” Johns said. “She could be yours, if you want her. She wants you.” Gravier stared at him. “What? What are you talking about?” “Girl of your dreams, Detective Inspector.”