Hysterical Hell

Into the Inferno

"She lied," he murmured in his sleep. "I... believed her." He shook his head frenziedly, but still residing within his nightmarish state of unconsciousness. It's all wrong, he thought to himself, everything's wrong.

He found himself standing in a dim bakery. Eleanor Lovett's bakery. His daunted eyes took a quick glimpse out the dingy windows. The moon was high in the sky, but offered very little light for the world below it. Yellow candles lit the bakery, but it wasn't much light.

Sweeney Todd appeared to be alone in the bakery; just standing in the silence and isolation. His eyes fell downwards to see he appeared to be wearing his once everyday attire. A fitting black vest and white under shirt. However though it was indeed his white under shirt, it wasn't white. It was a dark burgundy that not only gave out a putrid and piercing aroma, but also was so fresh and damp that his shirt clung to his skin.

Todd, familiar with the coppery scent and warm, slick consistency, knew the blood was fresh. As in, just happened a few minutes ago, fresh. He wore a puzzled expression as he observed the bakery. There was a decent amount of blood staining his clothes and hands and with that much, there must be a limp, wounded body lying not too far. With that notion, he crept into the parlor to find the fireplace going but not a soul in sight. What truly caught his attention was the flipped over vanity and the sofa was pushed way out of place. Todd's attention to every detail increased and he became much more observant. A book was strewn onto the floor along with crumpled pages from it. Some kind of struggle must've occurred.

He decided to move his attention to the back rooms. He first peeked his head into the baker's bedroom. The only thing out of place were the bed sheets and comforter. They were spread out; the ends of them sagging off the bed and pillows tossed onto the floor. Todd had a hunch, but kept it to himself. Seeing the untidy bed just triggered the memory of the baker supposedly courting a mysterious J.H.

After surveying the bedroom, he veered off into Toby's bedroom. Just as the other rooms, the bedroom was a bit of a disaster. The chair to his desk was flipped over and the dresser was pushed as if he were trying to barricade the door, but failed to do so. Todd knew, some how some way, he was the perpetrator. After all, the blood was indeed on him.

If not the bakery, the parlor, the baker's room, the adopted son's room, then it had to be Todd's tonsorial parlor. He made his way out the side door, the bell at the top of the door crying out a ring and piercing the silent air. He turned his head towards the old, wooden stairs that led up to what many would refer to as hell. With his heightened senses, his eyes picked up on faint yet obvious claw marks that followed all the way up the railing. The nail marks looked like a desperate attempt at freedom. He ventured up his stairs; placing his blood tainted palms on the railings and feeling the fresh, deep grooves that the hopeless nails left behind.

Each step groaned below him; all emitting a sound he hadn't heard in months. After the trek, he at last reached his terrace and turned back to face the empty street before putting his attention on the door. The bricked lane was dark; light posts were sparse and the small flames within each just weren't enough to light the street. No one walked along the road and no coaches strolled by. Not a drunkard staggered by or a prostitute pranced about. The street was utterly vacant.