Read Online THE SUBWAY COLLECTION-A Box Set of 8 Dark Stories to Read on the Go by Billie Sue Mosiman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Billie Sue Mosiman
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crimes from negligence to murder, from sadistic thoughts to monstrous actions. Frank was shown to himself as heinous and unconscionable. He wept and begged and denied, but he knew better than to ask for mercy from shapes of darkness and a master who had no forgiveness in them.
#
Abaddon relished his role and in that way was no different from Frank Nesbeth, but then he was not human and never had been. His was the way of the dark, his minions the displaced and ruined souls, his business to take in the humans who were engaged in something that just did not fit the plan. Oh, there was a plan. The whole universe operated under a spectacular, choreographed program that could not be changed or interrupted. Now and again along came a human who would ruin everything and throw all creation into chaos. A man or woman of that sort had to be stopped. Frank was one of those people. Once he grew in power, he would have affected thousands upon thousands of lives, setting into motion events that changed the entire world. He seemed to be nothing, a nobody, a man like many others who had committed some evil, but his future held much more than that, so much more. That was not to be countenanced. It never had been and never would be. Humans had free will, but when that will came between creation and plan, then Abaddon was instructed, and given the freedom, to step in.
Abaddon ruminated on his role as the shadows came and went, shifted and formed and blew away into nothing. It had all come from a spark, the first sparkle in space, what people call the Big Bang, but was really nothing more than the first sparkle in the creator's eye. Every atom, proton, electron, quark, lepon, every string, every membrane in every universe depended on how well Abaddon performed his duty. It was almost holy.
He made a motion now, standing back from the rack holding Frank's body, and the gears began to grind, the levers slipped into place, the rack moved with a jerk, then smoothly worked to pull the man apart. It was an ancient torture, but a truly dark and deadly man-made and man-conceived weapon of destruction. Abaddon could have used fire or water, air or earth. He could have used napalm or plutonium or acid--a million things, a million weapons. And some of those things he had employed before, but none pleased him more than the Medieval rack. So personal. So intimate. So...destructive to flesh and bone.
Frank screamed like a siren, his scream filled the dungeon until it dripped from the walls and puddled on the floor. He screamed until his neck was stretched so far his larynx snapped and he could scream no more. His neck muscles split and snapped like rubber bands. His flesh was rent, blood was spilled, blood spurted into high red arcs, blood pooled on the damp brick floor, and then his head came clean off his body.
Abaddon grinned, the shadows shifted closer. One of them picked up Frank's head and put it back on the neck. Instantly it was fused and whole and Frank was screaming, screaming, his eyes bulging, spittle flying from his lips.
Again, Abaddon gestured and the gears began to grind, the levers clanged, the wood timbers groaned, and Frank screamed while again he was torn asunder, only to be made whole over and over again, to be torn asunder time after time after time into eternity.
#
Abaddon--the Abaddon not busy with Frank Nesbeth (for there were legions of him)--heard the phone ring and picked up the receiver from the table next to him before the hearth. The Stonyhart Bed and Breakfast was no longer in Connecticut, but in California along the coast of Big Sur. He took the reservation and hung up. The couple would be
#
Abaddon relished his role and in that way was no different from Frank Nesbeth, but then he was not human and never had been. His was the way of the dark, his minions the displaced and ruined souls, his business to take in the humans who were engaged in something that just did not fit the plan. Oh, there was a plan. The whole universe operated under a spectacular, choreographed program that could not be changed or interrupted. Now and again along came a human who would ruin everything and throw all creation into chaos. A man or woman of that sort had to be stopped. Frank was one of those people. Once he grew in power, he would have affected thousands upon thousands of lives, setting into motion events that changed the entire world. He seemed to be nothing, a nobody, a man like many others who had committed some evil, but his future held much more than that, so much more. That was not to be countenanced. It never had been and never would be. Humans had free will, but when that will came between creation and plan, then Abaddon was instructed, and given the freedom, to step in.
Abaddon ruminated on his role as the shadows came and went, shifted and formed and blew away into nothing. It had all come from a spark, the first sparkle in space, what people call the Big Bang, but was really nothing more than the first sparkle in the creator's eye. Every atom, proton, electron, quark, lepon, every string, every membrane in every universe depended on how well Abaddon performed his duty. It was almost holy.
He made a motion now, standing back from the rack holding Frank's body, and the gears began to grind, the levers slipped into place, the rack moved with a jerk, then smoothly worked to pull the man apart. It was an ancient torture, but a truly dark and deadly man-made and man-conceived weapon of destruction. Abaddon could have used fire or water, air or earth. He could have used napalm or plutonium or acid--a million things, a million weapons. And some of those things he had employed before, but none pleased him more than the Medieval rack. So personal. So intimate. So...destructive to flesh and bone.
Frank screamed like a siren, his scream filled the dungeon until it dripped from the walls and puddled on the floor. He screamed until his neck was stretched so far his larynx snapped and he could scream no more. His neck muscles split and snapped like rubber bands. His flesh was rent, blood was spilled, blood spurted into high red arcs, blood pooled on the damp brick floor, and then his head came clean off his body.
Abaddon grinned, the shadows shifted closer. One of them picked up Frank's head and put it back on the neck. Instantly it was fused and whole and Frank was screaming, screaming, his eyes bulging, spittle flying from his lips.
Again, Abaddon gestured and the gears began to grind, the levers clanged, the wood timbers groaned, and Frank screamed while again he was torn asunder, only to be made whole over and over again, to be torn asunder time after time after time into eternity.
#
Abaddon--the Abaddon not busy with Frank Nesbeth (for there were legions of him)--heard the phone ring and picked up the receiver from the table next to him before the hearth. The Stonyhart Bed and Breakfast was no longer in Connecticut, but in California along the coast of Big Sur. He took the reservation and hung up. The couple would be
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