The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore

by Garrett, Wade H.

  About an hour later he started coming around, and as he opened his eyes, he looked extremely distraught as he stared with uncertainty and confusion. While he looked upon the ghastly sight that was in front of him, he rolled and blinked his eyes a few times as he strained to focus in on the image—he was still a little dazed from the tranquilizer. Suddenly, he let out a gurgling moan when his eyes finally focused in on the horrifying image. He was staring at the reflection of his nude body in a large, antique mirror that I had rolled in front of the rack. When he looked around the chamber, fear overcame him as he stared at all the horrifying images that even his worst imagination of hell couldn’t conjure up. As he hung helplessly, he was forced to smell the foul odor of misery and death that he would dreadfully become part of. From across the room, hidden by the dark, I could see he was shaking with fear and uncertainty as he didn’t know what his destiny would be. I could see the fright in his eyes as he knew he would probably join the ranks of the others that had come before him. After I let him look around for about five minutes, I discreetly walked over to the entry of the room and turned off the lights, then headed down the tunnel leaving him with his fear in total darkness.

  Four days later when I came back into the chamber, I found the doctor unconscious. It appeared he had banged his head against the planks in some attempt to end his life. The days and nights must have run together making it seem like an eternity as he hung helplessly on the planks in total darkness with only the images of the horrific sights he had seen around him. The long duration of having to bear the sounds of torment and the unknown must have rattled his mind with anxiety. He was in a very deep state of unconsciousness and my basic attempts to revive him failed, so I jabbed a long needle into his heart and dosed him with adrenaline. A few seconds later he started to come around, and as he stared at the syringe that I had left sticking out of his chest, he began talking to himself as if he had gone mad. It was a while before he finally saw me, and as he began to tremble, I could see the blood leave his face as if he had seen a ghost. I did something special for him. Instead of dressing in my normal disguise, I took considerable time and flawlessly applied all the tricks of the trade using layers of latex and makeup to create rotting flesh over my face and neck. I dressed in some raggedy clothes stained in blood, and I wore a long dirty wig. My disguise gave me the appearance of a homeless person from hell, or a homeless zombie. I really didn’t give a shit either way, as long as it terrified him.

  He gasped and tried to speak as I walked up, but he was only able to get out a faint, “Oh… Oh…”

  I remained silent as I stood next to him.

  He wanted to speak, but his fear and uncertainty of what was going to happen to him would only allow him to mumble quietly to himself as if he was insane.

  I started cleaning some surgical instruments with alcohol. He could only hang helplessly as he watched in horror. He continued to mumble for a few more minutes, then he blurted out, “Am I in hell?”

  I continued to look down while cleaning the instruments. “Not yet.”

  He started mumbling again to himself, and after thirty seconds or so he asked, “Then, where am I?”

  I looked up at him. “On the way to hell.”

  He let out a deep moan. “What are you going to do to me?”

  I pushed the stainless-steel table close to the rack. “Take back all that you stole before you go to hell.”

  He had a confused look on his face. “What did I steal?”

  After I showed him a couple of pages that were highlighted in an old medical book, he understood what I meant and started crying and begging for his life.”

  Seth walked over to the bars. He tossed the old book on the floor next to Dicky’s feet. “Check it out.”

  He opened the old book and noticed it had pictures and procedures explaining how to do different types of surgery. The book was probably over a hundred and fifty years old and was extremely inaccurate compared to today’s technology.

  “I wanted to mess with him. I wanted him to think I was absolutely clueless.”

  “You’re definitely good at fucking with people.”

  “What?”

  Jimmy grunted as he looked at Dicky. His dick was getting hard.

  Dicky quickly looked up. “Oh shit! Did I say that out loud?”

  Seth laughed. “No. I can read your mind.”

  Dicky looked at Seth with a strange facial expression. “Huh?”

  Jimmy was getting antsy as he sat with a full erection, staring at Seth, then Dicky, then back at Seth and so on.

  Seth tossed Jimmy a key. “Later when I’m gone.”

  Jimmy smiled as he stuck the key on the top of his ear for safe keeping.

  Dicky stood to his feet. “No! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to slip out.”

  Seth walked back over to the rack and sat down. “Blackwell cried and begged as I asked him which procedure he wanted to start with. I asked him what he would do first since he was a doctor and he knew best.”

  Seth noticed Dicky was still standing with a worried look. “I have a suggestion for you.”

  He walked next to the bars. “I’ll do anything.” He looked down at Jimmy as he was staring back at him, smiling, with an erect penis. He looked back at Seth. “Please tell me how I can fix it.”

  “The big guy there likes shoulder massages as much as playing hide the snake with older white dudes.”

  Dicky took a deep breath, then went and sat behind Jimmy. He reached through the bars and started rubbing his shoulders.

  Jimmy closed his eyes as he held his head down.

  Seth laughed. “Anyway, Blackburn didn’t have any suggestions on which procedure I should start with, so I decided I would start off by learning how to stitch up a wound correctly. I figured I would start simple, especially since I was in no hurry, and the doctor and I had nothing else better to do anyway. He screamed out like a little bitch as I sliced his arm open from his elbow to his wrist with a scalpel—he apparently had a low tolerance for pain, which was unfortunate for him. The wound was lying wide open and gushing with blood as I began stitching it. After the third or fourth stitch, I gave up because he was making it very difficult due to his jerking around and hollering. I temporarily covered the gash with gauze. “I will make a deal with you. I will connect you to a homemade intravenous PCA system if you will instruct me in the medical procedures that I plan on doing to you, starting with proper suturing techniques.”

  “I will do whatever you ask if you stop hurting me.”

  I removed a PCA system from a corpse that was tied to a wall. After I cleaned and sanitized it, I connected it to Blackwell, and when I handed him the remote, he didn’t hesitate to push the button, which immediately caused his facial expression to go from a jack rabbit caught in the head lights look to as if he had smoked a rock. After about three minutes he was feeling very relaxed, so I started back on my previous job of sewing the gash in his arm. When I had stitched up half his arm, I asked him if he thought I was doing it correctly, and when he didn’t respond I looked up and noticed had fallen asleep. The sorry bastard must have pressed the button so many times that the overdose of analgesia knocked him unconscious. The homemade PCA system had a broken overdose safety switch, which allowed him to pump his body full of morphine. A large dosage could be fatal, so I covered his wound, then took immediate action. I got on the Internet and researched the options for a morphine overdose. Most of the Internet sites I reviewed suggested an intravenous bolus of Naloxone, which I didn’t have. I didn’t want him to die, so I had to quickly give him a blood transfusion that night, which was another option. The transfusion was fairly simple. I used a set of winged infusion kits to run a plastic tube from the black guy in the Gibbet to the doctor’s right arm. I inserted an infusion needle in the doctor’s left arm to let his contaminated blood drain out onto the floor. Luckily for me, and unfortunately for him, I know everyone’s blood type, and I have a cooler full of blood, and a cabinet full of infusion an
d blood type kits just for such an emergency. I was out of type B-positive, and fortunately for the guy in the Gibbet, he was the only one in here with that blood type and now he’s dead.”

  Dicky looked confused. He stopped rubbing Jimmy’s shoulders. “You meant unfortunately?”

  “You’ll understand what I meant later.”

  Jimmy jerked his shoulders around and made a grunting noise.

  Dicky took a deep breath and continued rubbing.

  Seth slouched in his chair to get comfortable. “Back to the doctor. The next morning, Mr. Sneaky-pants was wide-awake and staring at me with disbelief—I think he had planned on overdosing. The look on his face also told me he still wasn’t sure about his situation—he still hadn’t figured out if he was in hell or if I was just a psychopath. When I started cleaning my surgical tools with alcohol he asked, “Can I not die?”

  “Sure you can, but hopefully not anytime soon.”

  With his last question, I now knew he had attempted to kill himself with an overdose of morphine; probably in hopes to save his mind and body the unbearable pain that laid ahead, but I spoiled his plan. He had a worried look on his face as I rolled the cart close to him. He stayed silent as he stared in horror at the shiny and sharp instruments. I picked up two scalpels. “Should I gash your flesh with a convex or pointed tip blade?”

  “Please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry for everything.”

  “I will accept your apology and set you free right after the black guy in the Gibbet accepts your apology.”

  He looked over towards the black man and noticed the plastic tubing hanging from the man’s arm.

  “Yeah, because of you, your buddy got off easy, and now you’re going to have to fill in for him every other morning when I burn him with a torch for murdering his wife.”

  He didn’t respond, so I sat down next to his thigh, and as I held the scalpel next to his skin, he began fighting at his restraints and yelling for me not to hurt him. He freaked out when I started rubbing alcohol on his leg, and he really began freaking out and screaming as if someone had stolen his nut sack when I rubbed the alcohol from his hip to his knee. He must have thought if he acted like a bitch that I would just go away, but instead, I slowly sliced a deep gash from his crotch to his knee, which literally took about two full minutes. He had pushed the PCA button a whole bunch of times, but quickly realized instead of it injecting morphine into him, it was now injecting him with sodium, which was severely burning his veins. I didn’t wait for him to stop screaming as I started stitching his wound, but just like with his arm, his jerking around from every poke made it very difficult to sew. After several more minutes of listening to his weird howling sounds and dealing with his jerking leg, I set the needle and thread down and went and grabbed a propane torch. I lit the torch head and looked at him. “I don’t mind the screaming and howling, but if you don’t stop jerking around, I’m going to give you something to really freak out about.”

  As soon as I picked up the needle he started fighting his restraints again, so I grabbed the torch and burned him across the chest until his skin looked like charcoal. I waited about fifteen minutes for him to stop screaming and crying before I attempted to stitch again, and before the needle penetrated his skin he shouted out, “Oh shit! Please don’t do this to me! I can’t take the pain! I will do anything you want if you will stop! Please, I beg you for some analgesia! I beg you for anything! If you give me some painkiller I promise I will do whatever you ask.”

  “Your next few doses of morphine are lying on the floor mixed in with your blood, and I don’t believe in wasting things.”

  As soon as the needle poked his skin, he started jerking around and screamed worse than the first time. I became so irritated that I grabbed the torch and started burning his only foot. I held the torch on it for so long that the rancid fumes of burning flesh engulfed the chamber. He finally passed out when his flesh started dripping onto the floor. It was nice to practice stitching without him moving around so much, but that really defeated the purpose of why he was in here. After I finished, I stood back to admire my work, and I thought to myself I would try something different tomorrow.

  The next morning I found the doctor in a severe state of pain. His foot was grossly discolored and swollen, and as I examined it he sarcastically popped off, “Good job Einstein. The infection will definitely end this very soon, dumb ass.”

  I started laughing as a cigarette hung out of my mouth. “You’re awful cocky and chipper this morning for a man who’s about to have his foot amputated.”

  He seemed different this morning. He wasn’t his usual sissy girl self, crying and begging; he actually told me I could go fuck myself. I’ve seen this type of reaction before in some of the other ones when they realize they’re going to die. They become angry because of the fact they have no control over what is happening to them. While I laid out everything that I would need on the stainless-steel table, he cursed, threatened and spit at me. As soon as I was done, I took a hammer and knocked out his front teeth. He hung silently and cried as I prepared for the procedure by cleaning the area around his ankle with alcohol. To prevent a large amount of blood loss, I tied a tourniquet around his thigh. When I started cutting through his ankle with a hacksaw, he took the pain quite well; he only bitched about my secondhand smoke and how I was a sack of shit. Every muscle in his body was tight, and the veins in his neck were sticking out as he ferociously fought to hide the pain. I knew he was desperately fighting the urge to scream so I wouldn’t get the satisfaction of his suffering, and as he looked down at me as I was sawing away he said, “You will not get off on me begging anymore, you worthless fuck.”

  “I’m not trying to make you beg. I’m saving your life, you ungrateful bastard.”

  A few more strokes and his foot fell to the floor, and as blood gushed from his leg, I quickly used a torch and cauterized the stump. He stared at me with anger as I stood up and cleaned his blood from my hands and arms, and as he was still pumped up with adrenaline he glared at me with a chicken shit grin. “Look, no tears. Disappointed I didn’t scream?”

  He was smiling like a possum eating shit, so I made a hand gesture that implied what the fuck. “Why would you scream? I numbed your leg with anesthetic. What, you didn’t notice?”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “I promise begging will come later when I cut you into pieces at every joint without the painkiller.”

  I reached down and picked up his foot. “Nice souvenir.”

  “You can shove that up your ass!”

  I nailed his foot on the planks next to his head so he could see it, then started cleaning my surgical tools.

  He glared at me, then his foot, then back at me. “You son of a bitch! I wish you would fucking die! You’re a fucki ……”

  I took the syringe that I had used to numb his leg and jabbed the needle into his left eye. Before I walked out the door for the night, I turned around and faced him. “Tomorrow I’m going to see what a pancreas, optical nerve, and a knee cap look like. What do you think about that, pal?”

  He wanted to look in my direction, but the needle had poked all the way through his eyeball and into the tissue behind it, so all he could do was look straight ahead. “Get it out! Please get it out. It’s fucking killing me!”

  I laughed as I walked out of the chamber for the night.

  Cancer Sticks

  The next morning when I came in to check on Blackwell, I noticed he had somehow un-lodged the needle from his eye. He didn’t speak, but only stared at me with hate as I stood next to him while getting some surgical stuff ready on the table. When I lit a cigarette, he popped off, “Get that nasty cancer stick away from me, you cocksucker.”

  I blew smoke into his face. “What? You think secondhand smoke is going to kill ya?”

  He gritted his teeth. “I hope your rotten lungs are full of cancer.”

  That comment made me very curious about the effects of cigarettes on the lungs. Of course, I knew they ca
used lung cancer and all other kinds of health problems, but I was curious if the example of black lungs used to scare the shit out of people were from actual smokers. A few years ago, I remembered seeing on television how some researchers installed a clear portal in a cow stomach so they could observe its nutritional elements. I couldn’t find one of these devices on the Internet that would work for my situation, so I built something from scratch. It was going to be a delicate procedure and I couldn’t have the doctor jumping around and screaming, so I put him in a state of unconsciousness. This was going to be a very complicated surgery with a high rate of infection and complications, so I rolled the doctor into my operating room where I would have a higher chance of success. The first thing I did was open his chest, and unlike the normal procedure that you would receive at a hospital, I removed the ribs on his left side and threw them in the trash—he wouldn’t need them anyway. The device I built was made from two-inch flexible tubing, kind of like plastic dryer vent, and on each end I had installed two-piece flanges. One of the flanges had to be installed on his lung, which was going to be risky. His lung was inflating and deflating as I quickly cut out a two-inch hole in the side of it. Time was crucial, so I had to move fast while I tried my best to reduce contaminates. The flange had a ring that was inserted on the inside of his lung and it was secured to the outer ring with stainless steel screws. The flexible tubing attached to the outside of the flange with a plastic strap. I then installed another two-piece flange on the left side of his outer body and secured the tubing from his lung to it. After I washed out his chest cavity and sewed him closed, I removed a baffle from the inside of the first flange, then secured a clear lens on the outer one. Everything seemed to be working fine, and if an infection didn’t set in the procedure would be a success.