Hellraiser Ficlets

1: Who are you?

I am a servant of the reconfigured flesh, my only Lord is Leviathan.

I am what is considered to be a Cenobite, a minion of darkness, blood and lust.

Call out for me only when you are certain you want what I am offering you. Pain so exquisite that your flesh will peel itself from your bones to reach out for it, pleasure so intense, your mind will shatter into a myriad of fragments leaving behind a vast void of eternal fire and damnation.

I will be there to reassemble you. To reconfigure your flesh in the image of our lord, Leviathan.

There is a price.

Your soul will forever be bound to Leviathan and there is no escape.

Ahhhh...I have such sights to show you, such pleasures to bestow, sensations and delights you have sought futively everywhere else.

I have tasted your disappointment when you failed once again, smelled your anger, seen your lust, felt your pain, heard your screams...

For more...

And down the dark decades of your pain, this will seem like a memory of Heaven.

I am nameless.


2: What makes me laugh

Arrogance. The arrogance in your eyes as you solve the final puzzle and face us, your servants of the flesh.

Confusion. The confusion in your eyes as you see your flesh slowly revealed, layer after layer peeled off to bring forth your true counternance.

Screams. Screams that ring through the darkness, telling the truth of your desires... that they really did not include the pleasures you have found.

Begging. The way you beg to be spared, restored, returned, recreated and finally to be turned over to the hands of Death... but there is no death, there is only the flesh.

Fear. Fear in your eyes as you realise there is no way back from your personal hell, that your soul and body are forever bound to Leviethan, eternally lost in the bowels of purgatory, the final betrayal of your lust.

Pain. Pain sliding through me, curling around my nervenedings in a neverending dance of reconfiguration, old wounds reopened and rekindled with the sharp edges of my Lords tools, lovingly recreating past pleasures, gently coaxing my laughter with the subtle humour of blood and decay.


3: Interlude.

Ahh... the suffering, the sweet suffering.

A slow caress of a sharp blade, so exquisite in it's work as your flesh yields to it. Your screams sing to me, a soft lullaby of longing and passion for the extreme.

Scream for me and I shall give you more than you ever dreamed about.


4: A new beginning.

The Pyramid Gallery had a far more prestigeous name than exterior. The windows were small and had room for only minor displays. And more often than not, in this neighbourhood, the windowpanes were decorated with obscene spray painted words and images. But what could be seen from the outside, was not very inviting for the mere passers-by.

Not often had anyone in this neighbourhood seen the actual owners of the Gallery, and it seemed closed more often than not. Of course, the Pyramid Gallery was not a truly commercial business. Its trade was less commonplace, for the acquired taste... a taste into the macabre, the twisted and the infamous.

Even more seldom, the connosieurs of this 'art', this taste, were seen visiting the gallery. Some times huddled figures, curled in upon themselves as if fearful of theft or being seen. Other times arriving in large cars proudly flashing the wealth of the owner, who only touched the sidewalks of this damned part of New York briefly, to stride into the Gallery. But they all had one thing in common. They sought what could not be found elsewhere.

Today, on the first day of the new year, the shop was nearly dark, but yet open to customers. The artwork on display was even darker yet, apart from one item. Situated at the very centre of the display room, on a simple stone piedestal, sat a box. Handcrafted from the finest materials ever to touch the hands of an artist, it gleamed invitingly, instantly and inevitably catching the eyes of anybody entering the shop.

Temptation for the bored, promises for the seeking, pleasures for the lusting... it would whisper to you, beckon you to touch, to solve the puzzle and find release. Heaven for some, Hell for others... It was a new year, and time for renewal?

Reconfiguration?

The world was a playground and the children were once again itching to be let out.

"What is 'your' pleasure?"


5: One of those days.

The vibrant energy of Frank's ultimate pain still surges through Pinhead, electrifying and strong. The smile on his pale lips is hungry, greedy for more of this pleasure.

And there is more to be had. The woman was nothing, a pale imitation of life, a mockery of pleasure. Empty and devoid of screams far too soon.

The girl however... the girl who called them with her hands if not her desires, is in the house. Sweet lovely Kirsty, running, crying... with nowhere to go.

Feeble attempts to escape their clutches amuses him, and he laughs at her desperation, her cries for mercy. Her pleas for understanding.

There is no mercy and no understanding. There is only flesh and he can almost feel hers, quivering in anticipation beneath his fingers as he watches her run from his promises.

But she has the configuration and she knows.

The darkness in Pinhead's dead eyes intensifies as anger replaces his thirst.

Anger is replaced with disbelief. This cannot happen! No one escapes!

Frank eluded us A whisper, taunting and vile. But Frank is in his own hell now, with no escape possible. Bound to his desires for eternity, tormented by their elusive beauty and lusty moans.

Kirsty will be bound too. And ohh... there she is, mere inches from his cold grasp.

But it is not her, who cries out in the end, as the box without mercy takes back the evil it let loose in this damned house.

It is one of those days, where Hell lost...

For now.


6: The home of my dreams.

The endless hallways of the labyrinth disappeared in the ghostlike mist of distance, as Pinhead scanned his realm, his home.

It was not his of course, the towering shape of his Lord was an ovewhelming proof of that. And also the screams and moans of those forever lost in the bowels of hell, reminded him this was not only his.

But it dwelt forever in his dreams, glittering with the memories of pleasure he had encountered and given here. Slick and hot with the blood of devotees and heretics, of sadists and masochists, of slaves and masters, of artists and murderers, of virgins and whores, of the beggars and the princes, of the dead ... and the living.

Home and the sharp dreams that sliced through his subconscious mind held only that, when he allowed his body the rest he did not truly need.

Pinhead smiled, and closed his eyes in reverence as the black gaze of Leviathan slid over him and revealed the deepest and darkest of his desires. Ah yes ... it was good. It was home.


7: Fortune.

Stretching his arms as if blessing this slaughterhouse, this alter of the Order of the Gash, Pinhead rolled his head back with a low moan of delight, eyes falling shut as he relished the stickiness on his splayed fingers. Red and potent, a sign of the life slowly ebbing out of the tormented and tattered body at his feet.

No more laughter of wonder, no more cries would sound from the slashed throat, no more pleasure nor pain would be cherished by the bloody remains of what had once been a fine elegant man. Straight in stature, wealthy in fortune, brave in the face of mystery and now finally humbled and abandoned by the same fortune and bravery. The once so elegant features, that had made the soft skinned and soft-minded virgins swoon, lay no longer on fine bones, the skin separated from aristocratic flesh, and displayed as a splendid offering to the one and only God there was.

Leviathan would be pleased.

The soft moans sounding deep in the man's throat were intelligible, almost like the distant murmurs of lovers, snuggled together in post coital bliss. Pinhead tilted his head forward once more, black eyes resting on his victim, soft smile playing on his lips.

"Where is your fortune now ... your beauty and your brave heart?" Pinhead tutted kindly at the feeble attempt to reach for his foot. He kneeled down and stroked an almost gently finger across the bloodied exposed flesh of the man's forehead.

"Ah, but begging will not return it to you, my dear sir. You wished for this, didn't you?" His hand slid sensuously down over cheek, jaw, and neck and came to rest over the still beating heart. Like a frantic bird fluttering in a bony cage, fighting to make do with the leftovers from this wonderful banquet of agony.

"Begged with your eager and clever fingers as you played, sought ... 'desired'. And I came." A whimper sounded from the man, choked and wet, and Pinhead smiled.

"You were in luck... there are so many calling out for my attention, and yet ... I answered you."

With a swish of leathery robes, he rose again, picking up the small cube that was in its final configuration.

"Or were it the others, the desperate others who I ignored in favour of you, who were the fortunate ones?" Pinhead murmured, more focused on the puzzle in his hands.

"You have eternity to learn the truth ..." With a light touch, the puzzle slid through it's 8 configurations and as the last click sounded, the room stilled, the sunlight once more filtering in through light silken curtains.

It was over.


8: Perceptions.

Pinhead's fingers closed around thin air as the woman slipped away once more, her eyes wide with fear, her chest heaving in panted breaths. Cuts from the sharp metal of the hooks marred the beautiful features and yet ... she had never been as gorgeous as she was now, in the final hour of her mortal life.

He laughed softly, enjoying the play and the sight.

"Let me go!" Her voice held a quaver that betrayed her command. A woman used to getting her way, in life, in court, in ... love.

"Why, my sweet?" He asked kindly, sliding a leather covered finger along the edge of the table. "I have such sights to show you yet."

"I don't want to see any fucking sights, you ... you ..." words failed her, the vision in front of her defied her imagination. What kind of mad man would do this to himself? And how had he gained entry to her flat... and what about those hooks? What was going on? Her confused brain staggered under the load of input and unanswered questions, everything going against what she knew of the world. What she was used to.

She had just been puzzling with that box... She had done NOTHING wrong, even if it was evidence in a case. Fingerprints had been taken and it wouldn't harm to handle it... touch it.

"Ah ... what to call me? Angel to some ... demon to others. What am I to you, Angeline?" Pinhead stepped closer, his voice the low croon of a lover.

"Freak!" She shrieked, more afraid of the jolt of reaction that ... rotten voice had stirred within her. Waking desires she couldn't, no wouldn't think of anymore. That wasn't who she was! She backed further away, ignoring the scrape of the raw wall against her back.

Pinhead laughed, delighted. Oh, if only all were as entertaining as this.

"Mm... the pins confuse you?" He raised a hand to the sharp pins at his forehead and closed his eyes as his fingers stroked over and between them.

"So many hours of pain, so much pleasure, each embedded with such care and such cruel love, it made me weep with joy." His voice turned deep, lusty, at the memory, and he opened his eyes again to look at the woman.

Her face was contorted with disgust, as she momentarily forgot her own peril, focusing on the perverted and demented mental image of nail after nail being pushed into his skin, flesh and skull. A whimper sounded from her as she realised what she was facing. This was not some lunatic who would crumble into a sobbing mess once he'd ranted out. This wasn't a hungry drug addict who simply wanted your money for the next fix. This wasn't the car thief who'd shoot you if you didn't get your arse out of the car quickly enough, or even the sociopath murderer who looked like the guy next door and wanted to kill you...

This looked, sounded and reeked of Death, and the black eyes fixed on her promised what only true demons could give.

A glint of metal caught her eyes and she froze against the wall, as Pinhead raised the razor sharp sickle to admire the tainted blade.

"Demon," she whispered, suddenly remembering all the prayers her mommy tried to teach her, all the saints the nuns had told about, all the sins her priest had absolved her of with a few Ave Marias... She shuddered with a small whimper and turned her face away as Pinhead's cold hand slid up to cup her cheek.

"You will weep too, I promise," he whispered with a smile and stroked his thumb over her dry lips. He hoped not all the fight had gone out of her. But it mostly did, when they finally realised who they were facing...

Such a pity.


9: Mother (extra warnings here. Do absolutely NOT read this if you're easily offended, and/or not familiar and comfortable with all aspects of Clive Barker's worlds and creatures, and their acts)

he power of creation was intoxicating, dizzying in its purity. He understood the urge women felt for reproduction, envied them their pains as they gave birth, laughed at their efforts with raising children into adults, knowing some of them would stand before him some day. And they would beg him for more, for sensations, for change...

Was he not the mother, the father and the midwife of their reconfiguration then? Was he not the one who drew a desperate soul out of the dreary pit of life and into a magnificent rebirth? With knives, hooks and chains, was he so different from the doctor pulling a reluctant baby into the world?

Did they not all scream in that hour, adult and baby both, blood staining their soft wrinkled skin, limbs flailing in an attempt to ward you off, to make sense, to touch and feel?

And did he not feel their pain, lived it, cherished and relished it? Bathed in its potent energy and vigour, as he bathed in their blood? Did he not care? Wipe away their tears? Soothe their fears?

He 'was' Mother.

He 'was' Father.

He was the only true way into the reconfiguration, and then into death when truth overwhelmed your senses and tore you apart, body and soul.

And when they cried out for their mother, 'she' was there with them, loving and stroking their shivering frames, telling them it would be all right. Eyes dark as night, skin pale as ashes, breath as sweet as rotten fruit and vanilla... the mother of their death.


10: Retreat.

The darkness folded around his body, a comfortable and familiar black. Here, in his home, the real world retreated to a dim well of whispers, in his mind and his ears.

Pinhead smiled, unseen in the dark, and stroked his fingers along the wellknown lines of his robe. A gesture not unlike that of smoothing out wrinkles. But these robes would never wrinkle, never grow ... old. They were part of him now, connected almost as closely to his body, his flesh, as they had once been to others'.

A low chuckle sounded as he remembered their sacrifice and the wonderful hours he'd spent relishing it.

"What amuses you, my love," Merkova's husky voice sounded near his right ear. He felt a cool finger ghost over his lips, as if sensing his smile instead of seeing it.

"Sacrifices, my sweet lady," he answered, knowing nobody would hear it. Only here she would come to him, a wisp of cool sensuality, spiritied cruelty, deadly beauty. Only here he would remember pleasures long gone, lost to foolish humans, following a foolish Goddess on a crusade of mistaken salvation.

Only here ... in Hell.


11: If...

"If you could just forget this little ... mistake, I'll never inconvenience you again..." The man's steady blue gaze and calm polite voice was new to Pinhead. None of those who had called him, had ever behaved like that, when faced with his countenance.

"But what makes you think this is an inconvenience for me?" His voice was smooth, chilling, as he glided closer, as a bird of prey circling above the tasty rabbit in the grass.

The man blinked, as this mirage of impossibility persisted in existing. Surely it was his own mind deceiving him, although it had never done so before. But perhaps the box had been coated in some strange hallucinogenic substance? Because that creature in front of him couldn't be real. If it was ... no, it couldn't be! He put down the box on the small glass table. Although, it wasn't truly a box anymore. More like a jagged shape of twisted geometry. Perhaps he'd cut himself?

He shrugged, having convinced himself he simply needed to go lie down for a while. In the mean time he would humour his addled brain.

"Anyway. I'll be off then. I'll just leave that box here for you, shall I?" Why was he asking a figment of his imagination that? Why was he even talking out loud? He chose to disregard that question as another effect of the drug that surely must've entered his system. With a polite smile, he turned away and made for the bedroom.

"Off? No, I don't think so." Pinhead said with a touch of amusement. How could anybody play so close to the gates of Hell, and not realise what they were faced with?

The man turned again and looked at the creature that simply would not go away.

*What if it's real?* He thought.

"If?" The thought had been so clear to Pinhead, he couldn't resist responding to it.

"There are no 'if's'." As if cued by his voice, sharp hooks sprang from the box on long thin chains, without mercy embedding themselves in flesh and cloth. The screams didn't come at once, deep disbelief preventing the man from even realising his true situation, his true pain, before it was too late.

But Pinhead didn't mind. He was sure there were enough screams to last them a very, very long time.

He began.