The House Of Hellfire

Prologue - For Whom Whe Bell Tolls

Death

Noun;

The act of dying; The total and permanent cessation of all the vital functions of an organism.
The end of life; The state of no longer being alive; The state of being dead.

That was the very definition of death, according to the dictionary, written by people who have never experienced it.

He, on the other hand, was well acquainted with death.

The funny thing about death and being dead, was the fact that it wasn't as bad as people thought it was. He found himself in an endless black void. Now whether it was his consciousness, or his soul,he couldn't tell. Nor did he care really.
The only thing that he truly noticed was the fact that he couldn't feel anything.

There was no pain; no anxiety. No fear; no yearning. He felt neither cold, nor hot. Nor even warm. He would almost describe it as feeling comfortably numb. Except that numb was still a feeling, and he was not capable of feeling anything at the moment.

No wonder people describe death as peaceful.

Dying, however, hurt like a son of a bitch.

Especially when you're desperately trying to choke air back into your lungs, that was rapidly filling with your own blood, whilst having the flesh rended from your body in multiple places.

He found it almost funny, looking back at the very moment of his death. Funny that an event, that to the best of his recollection literally just happened, could already start to fade and become like a distant memory from his childhood. Small details about the event escaped him. The only thing that he could truly remember, was that he died in excruciating pain. And that the pain eventually gave way to the peaceful darkness he now found himself in.

He almost wished he could pull more details from his memories about the event, or even the events leading up to it. But it's not like it mattered now anyway.

Which is why he was confused when he was pulled from his thoughts by a feeling.

A feeling so small, one might call it a stirring. But a feeling nonetheless.
He realized that it was coming from his own body. A body he didn't think he even still owned.
The feeling became a tingling. He felt his back hit a flat surface, and a pressure held him there; as if gravity itself kept him lying down.
The tingling quickly gave way to searing pain across his lacerated body.

Oh how quickly he remembered what pain was.

The dark void began to slowly lighten into a blackened navy sky, accentuated by constant streaks of red lightning and roaring peals of thunder.

No. He thought to himself, Not again. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.....

Had there been air in his burning lungs, he would have cried a guttural scream when the realization hit him of where he was, and what was happening.

He begins to think that maybe all of the people that told him he was going to hell were right. Because why else would he be lying there going through the horrendous pain of dying all over again?

Through his tear blurred eyes, he vaguely makes out the shape of a shadowed figure standing
near his feet, with their arm outstretched, hand pointed directly at him. The pain in the open wounds scattered across his body shifted from agonizing to unbearable torment, when he felt something within them begin to move. The pressure holding him in place was now gone.
Not that it mattered. He could not begin to pull himself up enough to crawl away, let alone run.

The figure moved its hand up, towards his head. A shockwave of blinding pain coursed through his brain, causing him to lift his arms up and clutch his head, in a desperate attempt to shield himself from his tormentor. He screwed his eyes shut, and tried in vain to scream out. The only sound coming from him was a wet gurgling noise, as the sticky crimson liquid was expelled from his lungs. God how he wished he could go back to the dark void. Anything would be better than the hell he found himself in.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, the pain began to subside. He questioned that maybe some eldritch deity heard the pleas in his mind and took sympathy upon him, ending his misery once again. Either way, he said a silent thank you to not be in the agonizing hell that he was in.
With his eyes still closed, lying on his back trembling,he drew in a shuddering breath.
His first, since breathing his last. It was almost foreign to him now.

Very slowly, he attempted to open his eyes, only to be met with blinding light. He quickly snapped them shut again, and raised a hand in front of his face. Trying again, with his hand blocking the light, he opened his eyes fully. After a moment his eyes began to focus and adjust. He found himself staring up at what appeared to be green tree tops, against an early evening sky.

No dark void.
No hellscape.

He desperately searched his brain for an explanation as to how he was here right now, and where he was.

Then, like a floodgate opening, it all came back to him at once.

His life before.
His friends who became his found family.
His enemies who hunted him.
The other world that lies just beneath the surface of his hometown.
And his own death.
A martyr, helping to save an ungrateful town that would have burnt him at the stake.

His heart began to pound, and his breath quickened at the onslaught of memories. He shot up into a sitting position, quickly grabbing his head as the searing pain came back. He fell back onto his back again with a groan, still holding his head.

Eddie Munson has had his fair share of hangovers in his time. But by far absolutely none compared to this.