The Dog Returns to Hell

A journey to hell and back by an unlikely creature. So, what would it be like to go to hell for a day? Well, it'd sound less exciting if everything in there is out to kill or torture you. But, yeah go ahead and
join Caleb as he traverse the Otherside and back. But it won't be the journey you expect it would be...and Caleb knows why.


This is a One-shot sequel of my earlier work Infestation . Here's the link:http://www.movellas.com/story/201507110346092264-infestation-spear-1

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1. The Outsider, The Calling, The Exit

 

(Somewhere in the Outside plane, or the place otherwise called Hell)

In between planes, specifically in the roiling mass of chaos matter, a purple mist struggled to put out the fire that slowly engulfed his whole being. It had to move fast before the flower burned it out of existence. The gap between planes was like a train track; stay long enough and your bound to be smashed to bits. The turbulent waves made by the Others were making it more difficult for the purple smudge. Their shrieking and whining didn't help either.

[Blasted that woman with the fiery hair, the mist thought. She did this, insolent filth that she was!] The burning essence of the Arbutus flower lingered as the fire within him died down. The mist gave a tired sigh. Burned bits flowed away from it like wisps as it entered the Outside plane.

Leviathans passed and ignored it. The lumbering giants lazily swam in the ectoplasm filled realm like they owned everything. [Pompous elitist scums.] Their gargantuan bodies were segmented much like that of a giant centipede. Sightless they travelled using their olfactory slits. The mist scampered away as one of the beast snaked towards him. Unfortunately, the huge bulk of the leviathans didn't come with grace or finesse. [Imagine them rampaging in the mortal plane. Imagine the destruction of the places the humans called "cities." ]

"It would be a sight to behold," the mist said. The overpowering smell of brimstone in the atmosphere soothed the mist's aches. It scanned the foul plane and smiled or it thought it did because mists can't smile. It was good to be back home, it thought as it extended its gaseous body. [There's no place like home.] The rest of hell ignored him.

Staying with the filthy humans taxed him. If only he could stay here for another eternity. Ifs and Onlys. He feared the taint of humanity would stick with him forever if he kept on staying in the mortal plane. He sighed and he actually did, because mists can sigh. 

The idea of coming back in the mortal plane irked him. How he wished the 'master' would forget about him. How he wish he was free instead. But he was not and he'll never be. Because as they say when bad luck comes it's often there to stay.

Thousands upon thousands of Othersiders bustled in the line that wind outside the First Gate. Narrow, it only allowed one soul at a time. Like a dying snake in the middle of a desert road, the spirit procession seemed static and lifeless. [Well, what do you expect from Hell's gate?]

[People always get it wrong when they describe this place. Torture doesn't exclusively happen "inside." Nope. It actually starts long before you enter the place. The dread and the uncertainty as you wait are the most effective tools of torture ever utilised. It would be an insult if you compare a meager sword, axe or even a whip to it. The mist admired its efficiency at work. People have this kind of torture on the mortal plane too. They called it "Traffic". And it was a perfect tool here, blunt and boring.

The plane's inhabitants busied themselves welcoming the new arrivals with leering faces and sharp fangs. Sequestered and grouped according to sin they brought the greenhorns to the various regions of the plane. The mist remembered it when he used to haul those atrocious whining souls like cattle to slaughter. [Far simpler compared now. How he wish he could bring back time.]

He watched the red yellow horizon burning bright like molten magma. [Beautiful.] The mist spat in disgust. [Hell and Beauty didn't go well together. It will never go together.]

The mist flew as high as he could up in the stained horizon. He ignored everything and enjoyed the sights for what they were. It's been quite awhile since he'd been back, better enjoy it while it's there, he thought. He flew like a kite, like a free soul.

But without premonition, sign or any forewarning the mist fell like a rock, plunging down the airless atmosphere. He could've shouted as he fell but the abruptness of his downward trajectory kept him from doing something as embarrassing as that. And the fact that he didn't have a mouth because he's a MIST didn't aide him as well. Like an inkblot from a lecherous monk's quill, he splatted in the ground.

"Who art  thee?" A harsh voice said as the mist struggled to reform.

The mist recomposed himself and bowed down, careful not to displeasure the figure in front of him. "l am no one, oh Lord of Sloth, Prince of Gluttony, Duke of Terrene, lowest of low."

The hideous bufanoid beast ignored the mist as it returned to its skull throne and sat. His toga of human skin flapped as the rogue chaos winds of hell blew. 

"Thou must have known that thou art is beyond boundaries."  Belphegor the Duke of Hell's Terrene motioned his hands towards the wide expanse.

The mist followed the webbed hands of the Duke. The plateaus, canyons, and "unusual" rock formation famously known as Region Terrene jarred the mist's memory about the districts and regions of Hell. How could've one forget? The Terrene was no place for a Bound Hellion like him. He was simply out of limits. And in hell, they took limits seriously, especially that day because for seven thousand, seven hundred, seventy seventh time greater hell was under civil war.

"Mercy oh Duke, for this peasant is ignorant." The mist cursed silently. [How stupid to forget his place in hell. ]

"Ignorant? Perhaps not. Perhaps you are spying, looking for weakness to report to your master. Samael, would do something like this. Yes-Yes, he would."

"No Lord, I am telling the truth." The mist almost smacked his head with his own wispy hand. Truth? What was he thinking? A Hellion can never tell the truth.

Belphegor croaked."Truth? Ah, then you must be lying. For now, I shall hold thee as thine torturers come." He pointed his webbed hands towards the mist and black fire flew from his palm like monarch butterflies with clipped wings.

A cage made of Empyreal fire covered the mist. The hellion of the duke's retinue crowded at his cage mocking his predicament. Tortured and slandered, this will be like the usual, the mist thought.

The mist could've struggled, fought back against the cage or even maligned his captors but extinguishing the fire of the wretched arbutus flower took its toll on him. Weary, he curled his particulates in to a sphere. It's best to rest than think, he thought. But before he could start his hibernation something tugged him from the inside. Gradually it strengthened, lancing pain rained and wormed all over his body. He writhed inside the cage.

Someone in the mortal plane was calling him by his true name. The mist contorted, as his anguish heightened. The tugging became painful like being torn apart by giant hands bit by bit. He'd been called a thousand times but he'll never get use to it. Excruciating pain flowed through his body like bolts of lightning. If mists had hairs he would've torn his whole scalp off just to stop the sensation. 

[Blasted.] The master's mood must be so good right now.  A column of white light enveloped the cage, scattering the Others away from him. Then there was darkness. The darkness felt like an ocean swell, cold and ready to drown his very existence. And then he was gone...

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