Give Me Your Soul… Please (pt. 3)

The third and final part of my homage to Give Me Your Soul… Please, by King Diamond. The album tells a story of a haunted house, below is my take on the fantastic album. With an ending adjusted to fit the medium.

My deepest apologies for the break between my last update and this, I’ve been unable to write for a little while but now I should be able to jump back into it.

If you’re interested in following my posts for this challenge you can find more here. If Cyberpunk is more your thing check out this story. Otherwise I have two Fantasy series you can start here or here.

Hope you enjoy it,
– Zairron

The bloody veil shrouding the picture is torn asunder, revealing a merry tableau of two children playing; a girl and boy in a bright and lively room that is otherwise much alike in form to the one the man had been spirited from. Their innocent joy is clear at a glance. Their light hair shines like the sun and grants them a cherubic air of heavenly grace. In the air of this cold, dead place, his breath mists and hangs still in front of his face. The man is struck by the starkness of the happy scene against the terrible surrounding darkness.
Behind him the loud slam of a door opening violently prompts him to spin. Another larger picture hangs in the air, still wreathed in bloody red, the happy lighting in the room has been replaced with ominous shadows. Framed within the light of an open door the silhouette of Daddy intercepts the light entering the room, an axe visibly held in his hand as the children cower in the fore. A brutal yell explodes the stillness of the image. The picture becomes a slice of life performed in front of the mans awe struck eyes, the deep red of the pictures frame seeming to become deeply sanguine curtains.
Daddy steps into the silhouette, becoming his shadow. Dark eyed and tired, spittle flies from his mouth as he continues the insensible tirade that had broken the image. Cold eyes devoid of the fire in his words, within their dark pits only madness resides. In a swift, ugly motion, the axe is brought down and buried in the skull of the boy.

“No!” a young boys shrill voice cries out behind the man, continuing as he turns face their source, “It’s a mistake!”

The boy is knelt in the centre of the room, lit within a circle of light, before him in the glowing red shadows loom thirteen ephemeral judges. In perfect haunting unison they chant, “Suicide is what you are, you’re going down to Hell”

The young girls scream spins him back to face the previous scene. The scream is cut abruptly short as Daddy wraps his rough hands around her tiny throat. The bloody mess left by brother death covers her face as it changes from pale to blue. The curtains of blood are drawing in upon the scene.
Abandons her body as he stands, Daddy turns his back on the horrified observer. Barely visible the moment before the curtains close, a quiet click can be heard before the back of his skull explodes in bloody gore.

Flinching and hiding his eyes from the sudden explosion, when he opens his eyes the man finds himself back on the floor in the hall.
Scrambling to his feet, he looks himself over. No blood. Looking behind him, the cellar door is closed. His candle is lit by his feet, hadn’t he lost that fleeing the cellar? Could it all have been some kind of dream? I cannot stand this darkness,  he thinks, If candles are all I have I shall light them everywhere.
From room to room he works, spreading candles through the house to banish evil darkness. The furnace like heat that had plagued him in his flight through the house before now gone. Cold as the grave, shivering and exhausted he climbs the stairs. Filling his room with candles he seeks the refuge of his bed, drawing blankets thickly around him in a futile effort to ward off the cold he can feel his breathing grow shallow and weak. The temperature should be impossible, for it is summer time. All around him the shadows dance seemingly independent of the dictates of the light. As if afforded life of their own.
As the teeth of the cold sink into his heart through the blankets, he closes his eyes and drifts into sleep. What nightmares plague his waking mind can be no worse in sleep.

If I am to die, the thought ignites like a flame in his mind filling him with the sharp warmth of fatal conviction, I shall face my fate with my eyes open.

Fighting to his feet, casting off the blankets and lighting his last candle from the dying remains of one of the few that had survived the demonic shadows dance. Lifting black hat to his head and cane in hand, he strides with purpose from the room he had hidden himself within to confront the spectre as it assails him.
He finds her within the attic, staring from the window at the full moon. Turning her tragic dead face towards him, shadowed with the light behind her she stares at him expectantly.

“Do not be afraid there won’t be any pain, I… Need your soul”

Understanding now. The Judges of the afterlife had somehow mistaken her brother’s murder and their daddy’s suicide. Found falsely guilty of the mortal sin of suicide, the boy was damned to hell. Without another soul to take his place, he would be consigned to eternal torment.
The man feels deeply for the girl. His heart is not of stone, but with this new knowledge he now knows the futility of her request. Kneeling before the spectre girl, he takes he hand in his, feeling the dampness of brothers blood upon them.

“No, no, no…” he whispers, eyes distant as he remembers a life well lived, “My soul is no good. All I have done… My soul is full of sin!”

The girls searching eyes fix him, he can feel them peering deep through him, into him; settling on his soul they see the truth in his words. Black as devils words, unfit for salvation the mans soul cannot save her brother now.
Despair takes wicked root in the heart of the ghost child. Having come so far, from beyond the veil of death for her brother only to fail here. Thick, salty, tears form in her eyes and run down her cheek to fall and crash around her as she sobs, “I’ve let my brother down, down to hell he must go.”

From deep within the silent depths of the house, the steady ticking of the clock can be heard.

“No,” the sin filled man whispers, “How did you find me here?”

In confusion her tears stalls, as she stares at him curiously she answers, “This house is where we were killed. You touched our story so I could come to you.”

“Touched your story?” he muses, a wicked glimmer of an idea glints in his eye, “Would hearing your story count?”

With a timid nod she confirms his plan. We thank you for touching the story of a poor damned child. There is only one more thing to ask of you, Give me your soul… Please?

Author: Zairron

I'm writing to build a habit, practice, and be creative.

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