Shadows of Helvete

Chapter 8

Back to 1991

Six months had passed since Pelle's death, and though time had dulled the initial shock, Emilie's grief was still raw, festering beneath the surface of every quiet moment. She'd thought she could outrun the memories by leaving the house, leaving Mayhem, and by moving to Oslo. But I guess she couldn't escape it.

She hadn't planned to step foot inside Helvete ever again after that encounter. The record store Euronymous had always dreamed about. It had appeared like a ghost from the past, looming at the end of the street corner, just a few blocks from her tiny apartment.

She didn't know why she didn't leave the second she saw him behind that counter. Curiosity? Maybe. Or perhaps something darker. Maybe I wanted to see if he's really moved on, she thought. To see if Euronymous had succeeded in turning death into an enterprise, into another piece of his grand vision for black metal. She half-expected to see something grotesque, a shrine to Pelle, or some twisted display of the photos Euronymous had taken of his corpse.

But the store was... normal. Almost disappointingly so. Walls lined with vinyl records, dim lighting, and posters of metal bands—most of which she recognized—plastered haphazardly on the walls. It was almost cosy, in a grim way.

And then she saw him, standing behind the counter. Euronymous. His long, greasy black hair hung down over his shoulders, and his face—though gaunt as ever—seemed more composed than she remembered. Like the chaos of the past was now under his control.

Their eyes met, and for a second, Emilie froze. She could feel her heart slam against her ribs, anger bubbling up, mingled with something else. Something like shame.

I shouldn't be here, she thought. Not after everything. But it was too late. He saw her, and a slow, cold smile crept across his face.

"Emilie," he said, his voice low and smooth, as though they had seen each other only yesterday. "It's been a while. Didn't think I'd ever see you again."

She wanted to walk out right then and there, but her feet wouldn't move. Something about the way he looked at her—the casual way he addressed her, like they had no unfinished business like Pelle hadn't died and ripped her heart apart—made her blood boil. But she swallowed her anger, turned on her heel, and left without a word.

That night, Emilie laid awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling of her tiny, cramped studio apartment. She could hear the city noises outside—the hum of distant traffic, the occasional shout from a late-night pedestrian—but her mind was far away.

Helvete.

The image of Euronymous standing there, so casual, so... unbothered, played over and over in her mind. How could he act like nothing had happened? Like Pelle's death was just a footnote in their history?

She turned over in bed, pressing her face into the pillow, trying to banish the thoughts. "I'll never go back there," she whispered fiercely to herself. "Never again."

The next day, Emilie was back at work. It was a small, dingy bar in the less-than-glamorous part of Oslo. It paid her bills—or at least, it was supposed to.

She was wiping down the counter when she heard the bell above the door ring, signalling a new customer. She didn't look up at first, not until she heard that voice. That voice she'd hoped she'd never have to hear again.

"Well, this is a surprise."

Her grip on the rag tightened as she looked up, and there he was. Euronymous, standing in the doorway of the bar, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. He looked almost amused, like he found the entire situation funny.