Hell of a Mistake

The stench hit Henry like a punch: sulfur, burnt hair, and, disturbingly, the chili his Uncle Mikey was infamous for. His eyes snapped open. Before him stretched a nightmare: jagged black obsidian, rivers of molten lava, and a cacophony of screams that made rush hour sound like a lullaby. Still sitting on the scorched ground, Henry had no idea what had just happened.

“Welcome to the Ninth Circle, fresh meat!”

The voice boomed, Henry froze. A massive shadow fell across him, and then the owner appeared: a hulking, red, horned, winged beast that looked every bit the poster child for eternal torment.

“You can call me Quorith,” the monster rumbled. “I’m your personal escort to everlasting damnation. Time to get you processed. Let’s go.”

Henry, still glued to the ground, stammered, “Processed?” His voice cracked. “There’s been… some kind of mistake.”

Quorith’s chuckle was like boulders grinding together. “A mistake, huh? Son, mistakes are the reason everyone ends up here. One or a thousand, doesn’t matter. There are no mistakes in Hell. Now get up. Let’s get you into your standard-issue burlap uniform. Heads up, it’s scratchy, but you’ll have eternity to get used to it.”

Terrified by the gigantic beast, Henry scrambled to his feet and made the first step in his unforeseen career in the underworld.

  They entered a looming, fortress-like building and started down a corridor. Henry glanced at the names carved into the doors: Scourge Sergeant General. The Flay Master Supreme. The Grand Hook Bearer.

“This is the command structure of your battalion,” Quorith explained.

Farther along, the titles grew even more grotesque: The Pain Archivist. Auditor of Agony. Senior Agony Facilitator. Director of Regret Amplification.

“I hate freaking bureaucrats,” Quorith hissed. “But apparently they’re important. At least, that’s what Lucifer claims. Once training’s over, you’ll head to the Office of the Head of Eternal Compliance to sign your contract.”

Henry nodded weakly, bewildered. They turned another corner, and the titles grew worse. Master of the Rack. Intestine Weaver. Sin Extractor First Class. Major of Rupture and Bone Grinding. Henry’s throat tightened as he read them.

“These,” Quorith said with something like pride, “are the true masters of their craft. Prove yourself, and you might even earn a rank among them. They all rose from the ashes. So could you…”

Henry shivered. Finally, Quorith stopped at what looked like a cave mouth. The stench of sulfur mixed with scorched leather drifted out. Inside, Henry saw massive shelves stacked high with uniforms.

“Logistics,” Quorith announced.

A clerk with too many teeth shoved a bundle at Henry. He changed right there in the hallway, slipping into a dark tunic stamped with his soul’s serial number, heavy trousers, and steel-toed boots. Nothing about him looked remarkable anymore. The clerk wasn’t finished. He handed Henry a thin belt of human leather, along with a kit of basic tools. As he named each one, he checked it off a list.

“Rib spreader, sternal saw, flesh hook, tongue cutter and vocal cord remover. I suggest you learn how to use that one first. The screamers are really annoying, but once you rip the vocal cords out, the agony in their eyes is mesmerizing. Peeling knife for flaying. Bone saw for limbs. Vertebra spreader, nerve extractor, spine crusher. Eye gouger. High-temp rod for burning holes in the flesh. Soul drainer. And a choker necklace as my personal favorite. The more they scream, the more spikes drive deeper into their throats. All clear?”

Henry swallowed hard and nodded.

“Good. Sign here.” The clerk slid over a document crafted from human skin. “Once you finish training, return all the prompts to collect your job-specific equipment.”

Quorith clapped his claws. “All right, Davies. Training facility next. Time to begin your classes.”

Henry’s first class was Fundamental Torture. The lesson: Basic Intimidation. The instructor, Yskarn, was a demon with the demeanor of a therapist and the patience of a drill sergeant. His curriculum focused on two things: materializing from thin air and human-to-demon transformations meant to terrify mortals.

Henry failed spectacularly at both. His “menacing glare” made him look more like a sad clown. His classmates howled with laughter. His shapeshifting attempts ended in disaster, one of them embedding him halfway inside an obsidian wall. That little fiasco earned him a private conference with Yskarn.

“Listen, kid,” Yskarn sighed, rubbing his temples with long claws. “You’re about as intimidating as a hummingbird. You sure this is the right place for you?”

Henry leapt at the chance to explain. “I definitely don’t belong here, sir! I told Quorith it was a mistake, but he laughed it off. The worst sin I ever committed was using a paperclip instead of a stapler. I was an accountant, for Christ’s sake!”

Yskarn’s eyes narrowed. “First, we don’t mention that clown’s name down here. Second, if that’s the truth, we need to check what went wrong during your transport.”

With a flick of his wrist, a shimmering screen and keyboard appeared in the air. Henry gawked at the sight of advanced tech in Hell.

“You have computers in Hell?” Henry was appalled.

“Who do you think invented the AI, son?” Yskarn grunted, and started typing. His claws were surprisingly nimble, and Henry admired Yskarn’s typing speed and precision. The silence stretched, filled only by the eternal screams outside and the rhythmic tapping of keys.

Finally, Yskarn remained speechless. His eyes widened.

“Sweet damnation… you’re right. Henry Davies. Born October 23rd, 1980. Deceased June 7th, 2024. Cause of death: drowning. You were supposed to go to Upper Purgatory, Filing Department Annex B. Wrong floor.”

Henry blinked. “What? Then who took my place?”

Yskarn typed again, then cursed. “For the love of the Dark Lord… another Henry Davies. Same birthday, same death date. Same time, too, but this one…” He turned the screen for Henry to see. “A gunshot to the head. He was a serial killer who tortured his victims and carved maps into their skin before raping and killing them. Known as The Mapper."

Henry’s stomach turned.

“Your name’s not exactly rare,” Yskarn continued. “That’s how the mix-up happened. Those lackeys in Heaven will be thrilled when they realize they’re babysitting a serial killer.” Yskarn let out a gravelly laugh.

Relief surged through Henry, almost strong enough to blot out the lava and screams. “Then I can leave, and, I don’t know, go back to Purgatory, or something?”

Yskarn shrugged. “Sure. But not immediately. Transfers only open once a month. You’ll need to wait. And…” He leaned forward. “To qualify, you’ll need a clean record.”

Henry threw up his hands. “That’s not a problem. I already have a clean record!”

“Not anymore, kid,” Yskarn said flatly. “You’re a demon now. Down here, even stepping on a hellhound’s paw counts as cruelty, and guess what – you’re rewarded for it. Every tiny act earns you points… The more points, the less chance you have to ever leave.”

Henry gulped.

“So here’s the deal,” Yskarn continued. “Keep a low profile. No killing. No physical harm. Nothing that stains your soul before the transfer window. You survive a month clean, you’re free to go.”

A shaky smile spread across Henry’s face. “I hope I can do that! Thank you so much.”

“Yeah…” Yskarn muttered. “We don’t say that word here, either.”

“Yes, sir.”

Their conversation, unfortunately, hadn’t gone unnoticed. Outside Yskarn’s office, another trainee lurked. It was Varkazuul, a hulking demon with jagged horns and a soldier’s precision. He had been a military interrogator in life, infamous for the merciless ways he “extracted” confessions from rebels. In Hell, his ambition was the same: climb the ranks, prove himself indispensable, and crush anyone who stood in his way. Now he had overheard everything and considered Henry's accidental appearance a profound breach of both protocol and natural order. A human mistakenly dropped into Hell? Allowed to leave clean in a month? To Varkazuul, that was unthinkable. Every soul belonged here, every sinner deserved agony, and if this Henry Davies somehow slipped through the cracks, it would make a mockery of the system he worshiped. A cruel grin spread across his scarred face. “A whole month, huh? That’s more than enough time to make sure our little accountant racks up a record. By the end of it, he’ll be just another permanent resident.”

The next morning, Henry’s “reputation” took an unexpected turn. Somewhere in Hell’s and Heaven’s massive bureaucratic machine, the confusion between the two Henry Davieses deepened when files overlapped and records merged. A clerical error transformed him, at least on paper, into someone else entirely: Henry Davies, a.k.a. The Mapper.

In life, The Mapper had carved maps into his victims’ flesh, leaving grisly clues for the police to track him down. Now, thanks to the error, Henry the Accountant was officially tagged with the killer’s legacy. The fallout was immediate. Instead of the standard torture track, Henry was “fast-tracked” into the Advanced Placement Program for Aspiring Tormentors. It was a twisted version of higher education with fewer safety nets, harsher tests, and only two outcomes: success or eternal torment in the general population.

Henry stared at his new schedule in horror: Practical intimidation. Poetry Appreciation. Torture Music Theory. Infernal Literature. Soul Negotiation. IPA—Infernal Physical Activity. Flaying and Slaying.

He felt like a freshman who had accidentally enrolled in a PhD program for sadism. But what he didn’t know was that somewhere in the shadows, Varkazuul was watching. Waiting.

Following Yskarn's practical class came a theoretical one: Poetry Appreciation. The class focused not on Keats or Byron, but on the lyrical genius of Cannibal Corpse.

The professor Yskarn, surprisingly adept at literary analysis, adjusted his spectacles and began, with utter seriousness, to read aloud the verses of their masterwork:

“You will never live again, Soon your life will end 

I'll see you die at my feet, eternally I smash your face 

Facial bones collapse as I crack your skull in half 

Crushing, cranial, contents 

Draining the snot, 

I rip out the eyes 

Squeezing them in my hands nerves are incised 

Peeling the flesh off the bottom of my weapon 

Involuntarily pulpifying facial region 

Suffer, and then you die 

Torture, pulverized,”

Henry fought nausea; the words landed in his stomach with the force of a baseball bat. The students leaned forward, pens scratching, analyzing cadence where Henry felt only bile piling up in his esophagus.

When the professor finished reading, he launched into his analysis with the tone of a scholar explaining a Shakespeare sonnet. “The song briefly yet intensely conveys violent intent and action. Its beauty lies in the absence of a conventional narrative, plot, or characters. The language highlights the speaker's deeds and the victim's implied anguish. The violence overshadows any deeper understanding of the characters' individual personalities, backgrounds, or motivations. The violence is directed at the victim, who is literally and figuratively dismembered, preventing their development as a complex character. They are notable for their powerlessness and the pain they experience. They're only there to take the speaker's anger. The astonishing violence depicts a breathtaking power dynamic between attacker and victim; wouldn't you concur, Davies?”

Henry nodded, saying nothing. His playlists did not prepare him for this class.

Next up: The Torture Music Theory class was held in a room resembling a music studio, filled with guitars, amps and other musical equipment. Growler, the demon instructor, was massive and spoke like a collapsing mountain, as if each sentence could topple a cathedral.

“Music is weaponry,” he intoned. “Tremolo picking, blast beats — they rip the psyche like claws. Dave Suzuki’s solo in Dechristianize by Vital Remains, for example, is ideal for torturing pedophile priests. The 250 beats-per-minute double-bass of Belphegor’s Lucifer Incestus ruptures eardrums in seconds. That one is our Master's favorite. Now your assignment: compose a piece meant to drive either an ICE agent or a repo man insane; it's your call.”

He spoke with evangelical glee about technique and timing, as though he taught tempo rather than torment. Henry, musically inept, picked up a guitar and produced a sound closer to a malfunctioning clothes dryer full of cutlery than anything resembling music. His classmates covered their ears. Growler sniffed disdainfully.

“Pathetic,” he grunted. “But it hurts to listen to. That counts. Well done, Davies.”

Then came Infernal Literature. The reading list was eclectic and unsettling: Aleister Crowley's collected works for manipulating the human will, sat beside Helena Blavatsky's esoteric theories and grimoires bound in suspicious hides. Cordum, the professor, a wiry, intellectual demon, delighted in highlighting passages on ritualistic sacrifice and loopholes to exploit in the cosmic order.

Henry tried not to glaze over until he saw the Bible listed as mandatory reading. He raised his hand. “Excuse me, Professor,” he asked. “Why is the Bible on the list?”

Cordum smiled thinly. “You’ve got to know your enemy, greenhorn. Demons can’t be killed, but they can be banished or exorcised, so knowing scripture is a strategic workaround. Also, for torture: reading passages from the Bible is agonizing for atheists and agnostics. The amount of sanctimonious nonsense in it is perfect for their misery.”

“Won’t they eventually get used to it?” Henry asked.

“Lucifer thought of everything,” Cordum said with relish. “The damned cannot die. They bleed and feel pain, but they wake the next day with memories erased. The desperation of first arrival repeats forever. It’s an eternal déjà vu. You will be bored unless you learn new methods, so we rotate techniques and readings. Change keeps cruelty fresh.”

Henry didn't ask him any other questions that day.

Despite the difficulties of his earlier classes, he eventually found himself in Soul Negotiation, taught by the ethically questionable Professor Belagor, Yskarn’s good friend.

Once a philosophy professor devoted to reason and ethics, Belagor’s life had shattered when his son’s killer received a lenient sentence. Consumed by grief and vengeance, he followed the man after his acquittal and gunned him down in front of his own family, who awaited his return outside their home. That single act earned him his place in Hell. Now, his sharp intellect was twisted into a tool for others’ misery.

Belagor’s gravelly voice rumbled through the lecture hall. “The secret to persuasion lies in understanding what people want. What do humans truly crave? Achieving success? Finding a soulmate? Experiencing true love? Power, maybe? Let them have a taste, just a brief glimpse, and they’ll willingly give up forever for it.”

His claws tapped against the desk as he continued. “Throughout human history, many have made deals with the Devil in exchange for power, skill, or whatever they desired. Due to high demand, Lucifer himself can’t handle them all. That’s why he delegated the work to demons who are specialized in that line of work.”

He began pacing, sharpening his voice. “You’ve all heard of Mephistopheles, who struck a deal with Faust and was later immortalized by our agent on Earth, Goethe. Then the succubus Meridiana, who tricked Pope Sylvester II into a forbidden affair before making a pact with him. He was a fool. Asked only for knowledge of math and science. Meridiana even manipulated him into becoming pope, and that was a golden age for us. We pulled his strings constantly. She tried to pull the same trick again with Urbain Grandier, but the humans burned him at the stake. Damn humans...” He coughed, then continued. “And then musicians Niccolò Paganini and Robert Johnson sold their souls for fame. If you’d like to see them live, they perform at the Inferno Club every day. Two sweet deals. We’re still waiting for Keith Richards, but that bastard seems determined to live forever.”

Once more, Henry raised a hand. “So why are we studying this skill if there are demons already specialized in soul negotiations?”

Belagor stopped pacing and fixed Henry with a grin. “Great question, Davies. When the torture is at its worst, they’ll often offer a deal to make it stop. They’ll even offer their children’s lives to end their own suffering. That’s the real Catch 22. You can bargain with them for their soul—but suggesting it yourself is forbidden. Think of Morgan Spurlock in Super Size Me. He couldn’t request a supersized meal; he had to wait for the McDonald’s employee to offer it. Same principle.”

The second day of Henry’s dreadful schooling began with the bloodcurdling screams of the damned echoing down the black corridors. That served as Hell’s wake up alarm.

Today’s fun activity: IPA.

Remembering the acronym on a beer bottle, Henry had expected a drinking class. He was sorely mistaken. IPA here stood for Infernal Physical Activity. The class assembled at a flimsy bridge stretching across a churning river of molten lava. Their instructor, Curon, towered above them. His fiery wings spread wide, muscles bulging, eyes lit with manic energy.

“Attention, recruits!” Curon boomed, gesturing toward the glowing river. “This liquid is molten lava. The temperature ranges from fifteen hundred to twenty-five hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Anyone unfortunate enough to fall will endure unimaginable pain. Skin burns. Muscles melt. The body is destroyed by heat alone!”

Too close to the edge, Henry shuffled back nervously. Varkazuul, seeing his chance, “accidentally” bumped him. The shove sent Henry tumbling over the side. Gasps and a few chuckles rippled through the class. Henry plunged downward, with face twisted in terror, bracing for agony. Instead, he felt… warmth. Not searing pain, but soothing heat, like a hot bath after a long day decoding death-metal lyrics. Blinking in disbelief, he surfaced completely unharmed.

On the bridge, Curon snarled. “No one said to jump in, Davies, you masochistic idiot! During torture training, your bodies are enhanced to withstand extreme temperatures. That prevents job-related accidents. The lava poses no threat to you!” His frown twisted into a grin. “So let’s spice things up. One-hundred-meter lava swim. First across wins bragging rights!”

Before Henry could protest, his classmates dove into the molten river. Still stunned, he began paddling instinctively. To his surprise, he cut through the thick liquid with ease, gliding as though it were water. The sensation stirred something buried, something forgotten.

He was back on a fishing boat, feeling the roll of waves beneath his feet, the vast moonlit ocean stretching forever. Then—BAM! A massive wave slammed into the hull, throwing him into the freezing black water. He remembered the panic, the icy bite, the darkness closing in. He remembered how he had died.

Drowning.

The memory vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the roar of lava around him. Ahead, the opposite bank loomed. Beside him, Varkazuul flailed furiously. His face twisted in rage when Henry pulled ahead. With a final burst, Henry hauled himself onto the bank, sputtering, lungs burning—but alive.

Curon clapped his clawed hands together. “Outstanding work, Davies!”

From the lava, a dripping, furious Varkazuul emerged, sneering. “Beginner’s luck.”

Henry coughed, still shaking, but a tiny smile tugged at his lips. For once, he had won.

However, Henry’s chances of returning to Purgatory almost went up in smoke later that day. The class was brought to observe a practical demonstration: the interrogation of a recalcitrant demon. The prisoner was Zolla, a Demogorgon, once an arrogant Italian chef, now in charge of nourishment in Hell. Bored by his duties and disappointed by the constant under-appreciation of his skills, he had recently discovered a hidden portal to Earth and had been sneaking through, possessing humans and driving them into bizarre, non-lethal insanity. When he found out about Zolla’s little field trips, Lucifer was enraged. Souls driven mad but spared from suicide went to Heaven, not Hell, cheating him of his due. Now Zolla sat chained to a grill, enduring every standard torture without cracking.

Varkazuul, impatient, smirked. “Professor, why doesn’t Henry ‘The Mapper’ show us some of his techniques? After all, his earthly skills qualified him for advanced placement. Maybe his understanding of human suffering will loosen Zolla’s tongue.”

Hexvarg, the professor of Flaying and Slaying, nodded. “An excellent idea. Davies—show us what you’ve got.”

Henry froze. He remembered Yskarn’s words that any physical torture would damn him permanently. He racked his brain for an alternative. Then, inspiration struck.

“Could I get a few things?” he asked an assistant.

The demon vanished, then reappeared with Henry’s bizarre order. The class whispered, confused.

Soon, a small fire pit stood before Zolla. Henry set a pot of water on it, then pulled out a bag of cheap, mass-produced pasta.

Zolla narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing, idiot? Torture me, don’t bore me with your cooking!”

Henry said nothing. He dumped the dry pasta into the pot before the water even boiled, then stirred aimlessly.

The Demogorgon’s face contorted. “Do not stir pasta before the water boils, you ignorant scum!”

Fifteen minutes crawled by. The pasta turned into a sticky, gluey mess. Henry dumped in an avalanche of Carolina Reaper powder.

Zolla shuddered. “That… that is an abomination.”

Completely ignoring him, Henry signaled for the next container. The assistant reappeared with a frozen pizza dough, limp and depressing. With deliberate slowness, Henry squirted ketchup all over it. Then a lot more, over overcooked pasta.

Zolla screamed, straining against his chains. “Stop it! Defile humans, not food!”

The class stared in disbelief. Henry pressed on. He spooned the overcooked, ketchup-soaked pasta onto a plate and shoved it under Zolla’s nose. With grim precision, he layered unsalted ricotta on the dough, then opened a can of pineapple and scattered the chunks across the pizza.

The Demogorgon broke. Tears streamed down his monstrous face. His body convulsed. “I’ll tell you! Please, just stop! You’ll find the portal in the alley behind Hell’s Kitchen, in New York!”

The students gawked. Varkazuul’s jaw dropped.

Hexvarg roared, “By the nine circles of Hell, Davies! You’ve invented a new torture method. Simple, yet devastating. Ingenious!”

Chewing a forkful of the sticky pasta with forced calm, Henry smiled faintly. “Glad to be of service.”

While Henry was busy “cooking,” Yskarn caught a broadcast on Hell TV.

The announcer’s voice crackled: “Henry Davies, who disappeared two days ago while on a fishing trip, is still missing. Authorities are searching for his body, but rough seas are making conditions extremely difficult. Hopes of finding Mr. Davies alive are fading rapidly.”

Yskarn froze. A chilling dread crawled over him.

“Oh, no…” he whispered. He leapt to his shelf, yanked down a thick tome, and flipped furiously through the pages. His claws stopped at a passage. His eyes widened. “Damn.”

Without another thought, he sprinted from his quarters. Moments later, he intercepted Henry just as he was leaving the torture chamber.

“Hello, Yskarn,” Henry said nervously. “What brings you here?”

“We need to talk. Urgently!” Yskarn hissed, grabbing Henry’s arm and pulling him away.

Varkazuul, lurking nearby, spotted them slipping off together. His eyes narrowed. He followed them silently.

Back in Yskarn’s study, the demon slammed the tome open on the desk. “You’re in big trouble, kid. Your plan to wait for Purgatory opening may not work.”

Henry was surprised. “Why?”

Yskarn stabbed a claw at the page. “The Book of Infernal Laws. Article Nine, Paragraph Six: Souls of the deceased whose corporeal remains remain undiscovered in the mortal realm for more than seventy-two hours shall be deemed irrevocably forfeit to Hell.”

Henry’s blood ran cold.

Yskarn continued grimly, “And there’s more. Should the error remain unreported during the claiming period of 24 earthly hours, resulting in grievous injury to an innocent party, Heaven shall claim the salvation of that soul, plus ten other condemned souls, as restitution. Lucifer loathes losing souls to his Father.”

“But—but I reported it! To Quorith!” Henry stammered.

Yskarn shook his head. “Quorith isn’t a bureaucrat. He doesn’t care.”

“I reported it to you, too...”

  “You did, kid, and I bear all the guilt for that one.”

The truth struck like a blade. Henry had less than twenty-four hours left. One day to escape or be damned forever. Fear flooded in, basic and instinctive. His mind raced through possibilities, crashing against walls of despair, until one thought crystallized. The portal. Zolla’s portal was his only chance.

“I need to talk to the Demogorgon again,” Henry muttered aloud. “He said where the portal led, but not where it is on this side.”

Yskarn’s expression darkened. “Do not count on it, son. Traitors in Hell endure punishments beyond imagination. Zolla’s body is either already dismembered, buried, or kept alive to suffer for a thousand years. He won’t be talking again. That’s certain.”

Henry cursed under his breath. Then he looked Yskarn in the eye. “Then I need help. I need to know where Zolla found that portal.”

  Yskarn nodded grimly. “Then we’ll find Belagor. He knows more about the portals.”

Henry followed Yskarn through twisted corridors until they found Belagor reading, leaning casually against a wall.

“Well, well,” Belagor drawled. “You look like hell, Davies, no pun intended.”

Henry shot him a sarcastic look. “Very funny, professor.”

Yskarn wasted no time and told Belagor the entire story. “So, now he needs your help to return to Earth. The portal Zolla found behind Hell’s Kitchen is his only chance.”

Belagor’s grin faded into something sharper. “Dangerous ground. The portal lies through the Corridor of Sorrow. That’s why no one except for that idiot was using it.”

Henry frowned. “What’s that?”

Belagor’s eyes gleamed. “An ancient labyrinth. Built from the souls of the damned, twisted together into walls of despair. Every step whispers your failures, magnifies your regrets. Few who enter make it out with their sanity intact. I hav eno idea how that stupid cook passed it.”

Henry’s stomach turned. “Sounds… welcoming.”

“Still want to go?” Belagor asked.

Henry nodded, jaw tight. “I’ve got less than a day to make it back, and I don’t want to waste any time.”

Yskarn gave Belagor a pointed look. “Guide him.” Yskarn told Belagor. “You know the labyrinth better than anyone.”

“I know where it is and what it is, but I’ve never entered it.”

“Can you at least take him to it?”

Belagor smirked again. “Fine. But if he breaks down sobbing halfway through, I’m not carrying him back.”

They escorted Henry to the very beginning of the long, mysterious corridors.

“This is as far as we can go. Find the way to the chamber that contains the arch.” Belagor told him. “Keep your eyes and ears open. It'll lead you to the next clue—you'll have to find it yourself.”

         “What about you? Will you have any problems for helping me?” Henry asked.

         “It would be a bigger problem if you stayed here and something happened to you,” Yskarn answered. “The lawyers would make our lives living hell.” Belagor started laughing at his own remark.

         “Don’t worry about us, Henry. Good luck!” Yskarn said.

         “Thank you for everything,” Henry said and embraced his companions.

         Belagor lit a torch with a snap of his claws, and Henry ventured into the darkness of the tunnels.

The Corridor of Sorrow yawned before him like a throat into darkness. Its walls writhed, faces pressed outward, mouths opening in silent screams, eyes rolling endlessly. Each step Henry took echoed back in whispers: failure… coward… mistake…

His chest tightened, but he forced himself to keep walking. There was no going back now. At one point, a voice hissed from the walls: Your own mother wanted to abort you. You have been a failure all your life...

Henry's vision blurred. He was back in the storm, waves crashing, slipping beneath the surface, his brother’s hands grasping but too slow...

“Davies!” Belagor’s voice snapped, shaking him hard. “Don’t listen. They feed on guilt and fear. Keep moving!”

Henry turned and realized that he had barely moved a few steps from the entrance. He saw Belagor and Yskarn looking at him. Henry swallowed, sweat dripping down his face. He nodded and pushed forward. The whispers grew louder, a cacophony of every mistake he had ever made. His knees buckled, but Belagor’s advice shoved him onward. He kept repeating through the noise: “Focus on why you’re here! Think of what awaits if you fail!”

Henry forced his mind and, step by step, he dragged himself through. Finally, after what felt like hours, the corridor spat him out into a chamber pulsing with red light. At the heart of it was a doorway: a shimmering, unstable arch made of twisted fire.

“The portal,” he whispered.

Relief flooded him, quickly chased by dread. He could almost feel the clock ticking down to nothing.

Henry staggered toward the shimmering arch, dragging as though the whispers of the corridor still clung to his legs. Freedom was just ahead, so close he could almost taste air that wasn’t scorched with sulfur.

And then...

“Going somewhere, Davies?” The voice oozed from the shadows. Varkazuul grabbed Henry’s neck and pulled him back, then stepped forward, blocking the archway. His horns were gleaming, teeth bared in a grin, sharp as broken glass. “Did you actually believe escaping me would be so simple?”

Henry was petrified. “Get out of my way.”

Varkazuul laughed low. “Do you think Lucifer would allow you to walk back to the living world? You’re a mistake, Davies. And mistakes get corrected.” Malevolent glee burned in the demon's eyes as his clawed hand rose to strike, crackling with hellfire.

“I should’ve guessed you’d follow me,” Henry muttered.

Then, Henry saw his reflection in the dark, polished wall. Although he believed he still looked human, the truth was the opposite. He was every bit the demon, with the appearance to match–the complete package: horns, claws, and teeth. Henry remembered he still had all the powers he had been given before the training. He stood before Varkazuul, summoning fire into his hand.

Steel claws clashed, shaking the chamber. Sparks rained. Every strike echoed like a hammer on an anvil, and the portal pulsed, growing unstable from the energy released by two demons. Henry dodged Varkazuul's claws and gave him a forceful slap that sent him crashing into the wall. The portal was about to explode and trap Henry to forever dwell in the depths of Hell. He stood motionless before the burning portal, his limbs leaden and uncooperative.

“Run, Davies!” Belagor’s voice suddenly roared in Henry’s mind.

He hesitated until Yskarn’s voice joined. “Now, boy! You have seconds left!”

Henry sprinted. The portal pulsed, flickering violently, as if it too resisted him.

Behind him, Varkazuul snarled and leaped up, hurling a bolt of fire straight at Henry’s back.

Henry dove.

The fire grazed his side, but hit the portal. Searing agony ripped through him as he hurled himself into the blinding light. The portal ruptured with a blinding flash, shoving him forward, into the screaming light. The last thing he heard was Varkazuul’s howl of rage, echoing across the chamber.

Then silence.

Darkness swallowed Henry for a split second, then came the impact. He slammed onto something solid, wet, and cold. For several seconds, Henry couldn’t breathe. Air, sweet, choking, blessed air, burned into his lungs as he rolled onto his back. Gone were the obsidian walls, the corridors of suffering, the chorus of screams. Instead, a filthy alley stretched around him, brick walls dripping with grime, green trash cans overflowing, a flickering yellow streetlight buzzing overhead.

Henry lay still, chest heaving, eyes darting wildly.

And smiling...

It was Earth. New York, if Demogorgon’s words had been true. He could hear distant traffic, a honking horn, a drunken laugh of a passerby.

The beautiful, unappreciated sounds of his freedom.

But as he tried to sit up, tremors wracked his body. The pull of Hell still clung to him, like chains sunk deep in his marrow. He staggered out of the alley, dazed, naked, face smeared with soot and blood. Hours passed in a blur. He wandered aimlessly through unfamiliar streets. People were staring but avoiding him, muttering about a stark naked homeless man.

Finally, he stumbled into the glow of a police station. Inside, he collapsed onto a bench. Officers rushed forward.

“My name…” Henry croaked, throat raw. “My name is Henry Davies. I...I think I drowned. I don’t know how I got here…”

The detectives exchanged uneasy looks. His story sounded insane, but a missing-person bulletin had circulated only two days earlier: Henry Davies, Tampa resident, vanished at sea during a fishing trip. The timeline matched.

Hours later, after a flurry of phone calls, his parents arrived from Florida. His mother burst into tears the moment she saw him, clinging to him as though she’d never let go. His father, stoic, skeptical, simply gripped his son’s shoulder, eyes bright with disbelief.

They asked questions Henry couldn’t answer. What happened after the fall from the boat? Where had he been?

He lied. “I don’t know. I remember falling overboard, dark water. Then… nothing.” He rubbed his temple as if trying to chase away the fog. “I must’ve blacked out or something until I woke up here.”

It was the only story they could accept. The truth, that he’d spent days in Hell, training as a torturer, bargaining with demons, stumbling through the Corridor of Sorrow, was not one they would ever believe.

Back home in Tampa, Henry tried to settle into normalcy. The humdrum safety of his beige office, the quiet drone of spreadsheets and staplers, once unbearable, now felt like fragile salvation. Yet peace was impossible.

The smell of sulfur lingered at odd moments: in the hiss of his morning coffee, in the exhaust of a passing bus, in the smoke curling off a backyard grill. He startled at shadows, convinced Varkazuul lurked just beyond sight.

One night, sleep dragged him back. Henry jolted awake, choking on the acrid stench of brimstone. The walls of his bedroom melted into jagged obsidian, and towering above him stood Varkazuul, claws raised, eyes burning with triumph.

“There’s no escape from hell, Mapper!!!” The demon hissed.

Henry screamed, yet the sound died in his throat. His limbs wouldn’t move. The claws descended...

And then it was gone.

The obsidian, the fire, the demon, all vanished, replaced by his bedroom wallpaper and the steady ticking of his alarm clock. Henry lay trembling, drenched in cold sweat, wondering if it was a dream, a nightmare, or something far worse.

The days blended into weeks. He returned to his routines, pretending at normality, but the normal world had shifted for him. Office chatter felt hollow. Sunsets seemed tinged with ash. And one evening, while tending the roses in his backyard, Henry became immobilized with fear.

Near the base of the bushes, the soil was scorched black, hardened like volcanic glass. He could smell the faintest trace of sulfur in the air. He knelt, hand trembling as he brushed the charred earth. The smell clung stubbornly to his skin.

Was it real? Or a hallucination? Had Varkazuul followed him across the broken portal?

Henry never knew, but every gust of wind that carried the faint sting of sulfur reminded him: escape was never certain. Perhaps he had brought Hell with him. Perhaps he had never truly left.

And perhaps the endless fear, the knowledge that a demon’s shadow might strike at any moment, was his true, eternal punishment.