Howls From Hell

by Grady Hendrix

  There was a line there, in the skin, beneath the sparse curls of his chest hair. I returned his smile.

  “Bon appétit,” I said as I walked away.

  QUINN FERN lives near Birmingham, Alabama, with her beloved dog and two cats. She has a BA in English literature and is a lifelong lover of reading, writing, and all things horror. She can be found on Twitter @QuinnFernAuthor.

  * * *

  Illustration by Joe Radkins.

  All I wanted was a hat. That damned pigeon promised me a stupendous hat—one better than my dad’s. A demon crafted that old bowler from the leather of someone damned to Hell for apathy and adorned it with a black harpy feather. Such a fine hat signifies the support of the infernal house of Azazel, General of Pandemonium’s Armies. There were only three such hats in the Seattle area. My father gained respect because of it, and he always made sure I knew it was his and not mine. Never would be mine neither. That bastard.

  I should’ve known better when the pigeon wouldn’t tell me which house he represented.

  “Pay no mind,” the pigeon said in a tiny Goodfellas voice. “You’ll get what you’re after. You just gotta kill this guy first. That’s all. Easy-peasy.”

  The possessed bird then shit on the ground and flew away, leaving me to my new assignment. I finished the final bite of my microwaved gas-station burrito before starting the search for Hank Havoline, my mark.

  It wasn’t long before I found him. They called him Hank the Hole, as I later learned. I knew nothing about the guy at the time. When I spotted him, he was gorging himself at some Chinese buffet in the industrial district. Huge dude. Six hundred pounds, easy. The mousy manager running the place didn’t lift a finger when I pulled a knife and slit Hank’s throat ear to ear, ending his reign of terror on the chicken fried rice and seafood casserole. The corners of the manager's pointed mustache lifted in a slight smile; I swear he was fighting the urge to cheer when I brought Hank down.

  “Give me a five-minute start, then you can call the Five-O,” I told the manager as I wiped my knife on a tacky, red velvet curtain hanging near the front door. I flipped the sign to closed on my way out. I didn’t need some excitable soccer mom stepping in and going into a hissy panic before I got away.

  This whole Hell-adjacent underground thing goes way back—even before the ancient Sumerians. Those must’ve been some interesting times before Yahweh took over upstairs. Since then, all other worthy entities have fought over everything outside the Pearly Gates. Us humans—the lesser playthings of said entities—infected the world like rampant lice, leaving very little room in the mortal plane. So, all the other powers—gods, demons, whatever you want to call them—fight for control of the only remaining space: Hell.

  I haven’t been there myself, but I’ve had a few buddies go down for one reason or another. My friend Bubz went down as a mule six or seven times before he ran out of luck.

  A semi-powerful demon from one of the minor infernal houses—he never told me which one—had hired him to filch some totem from a higher house of Pandemonium in exchange for a token hat of representation. The Twinkle Twins ended up getting ahold of him. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill demons. They’re the most feared and elite tormentors in the underworld, and they work for Lord Baal himself. No one really knows why they’re called the Twinkle Twins. Not many survive to describe their appearance. There are rumors that the air around them has a glittery effervescence, as if it’s breaking down in their presence.

  They fed Bubz to a swarm of bile imps after working him over. I’ve seen one of those disgusting, diminutive filth-demons in person outside a sewage plant east of Jersey. Poor Bubz. What a shitty way to go. Too bad he didn’t get the hat ahead of time; it may have afforded him a touch of protection.

  The best, most lusted-after Hell-hat was a fez made from the hollowed-out skull of a bucket-headed demon only found in the hunting grounds owned by Pandemonium’s ruling power: House Baal. They painted the bone with the blood of a sacrificed lamb and hot glued a decorative tassel to the top.

  There is only one of these beauties on the mortal plane. Lyle Wayworth, the mayor of Seattle, guards it well.

  I once knew a guy who tried to steal it. Over the next year, pieces of him were found all over Seattle, from White Center to Lynnwood. A couple toes and his head haven’t turned up yet. I hear the bookies are still taking bets on where they might pop up.

  My dad, Boss Robb, is a bookie for the bulk of bets with souls on the line in the Seattle area. That’s how he built his status—helping the willing to damn themselves.

  Me? I was nothing, a nobody trying to find a way to make a name for myself. I’ve always been good at sneaking into places and stealing things. Over the years, my name slowly shifted from Junior to Little Robber Robb, or Rob-Robb for short. Even when I raked in major bank after pilfering the only known copy of The Demonicus Grammatica in the U.S., Dad said nothing. His poker buddies laughed me out of the house. “Oh, look, Rob-Robb did something. Daddy, look what I did!” Those smug assholes, they’ll get what’s comin’ to ‘em.

  On my walk home, after offing Hank Havoline, I daydreamed of the different possible hats coming my way. I knew it wouldn’t be an Azazel. But an Asmodian rib-boned top hat? That would really be something. People would respect me then. At least people who mattered. Especially if it was one with human rib bones and not one of them pig-rib knockoffs.

  It was well after dark by the time I made it back to my ground-floor apartment next to the railyards. I stopped at the door. I could hear my television blasting some spaghetti-western shootout on the other side. I didn’t leave it on when I’d left that morning. I readied my knife.

  I opened the door only slightly, trying to keep it from creaking and announcing my arrival to any possible murderous fuckers inside.

  The stench hit me first. It was like the taste of orange juice after toothpaste mixed with a tinge of burnt hair. Brimstone. Had to be brimstone. Dad always told me the smell was different for everyone. It’s supposed to be a preview of the little room waiting for you down in Hell. The real shocker came when I opened the door to find Hank the Hole mowing through my supply of potato chips.

  He sat on my couch in nothing but a pair of dingy tighty-whities, leaving none of his hairy corpulence to the imagination. He shoved handfuls of chips into a toothy maw freshly formed in the wound I’d inflicted across his throat an hour before. Sheets of blood in various states of coagulation covered his hairy belly. His thin-lipped human mouth remained closed. Light from the old black-and-white TV illuminated the room in a way that only made the blood—still drooling from his slit throat—more vivid. That damned bird didn’t tell me Hank was a fucking demon! I promptly leaned over and retched up the gas station burrito I’d had for lunch. The brimstone odor easily overpowered any trace of vomit.

  “Little Robber Robb, we need to have a conversation,” The Queen’s English rasped from Hank’s open bloody throat. “You’re lucky I know your father. He’s a greedy shit, but I like him. I’ve a cornucopia of jagged cleavers and rusted corkscrews waiting for him down in Hell.” A tongue slithered free, hanging from Hank’s opened throat like a raw New York strip steak. It flapped between rows of oversized shark teeth, moistening the ragged edges of his throat-lips with fresh blood. “Do come in. Have a seat. This is your home after all.”

  I wanted to resist. I wanted to turn and beat pavement. I was fine with never seeing any of my stuff again. I could always get more. But demons have powers, and one of them is influence. Hank had dosed his command with a considerable amount. There was nothing I could do but let my legs carry me into my apartment.

  I plopped myself down in the beat-up recliner next to the couch. I felt the fake leather upholstery strain as I sunk into the worn cushion.

  “Let’s get down to business, Mr. Robb. I’m assuming you did not know who I was when you so rudely interrupted my dinner. Also, since I’m fond of your father and do not wish to upset House Azazel, I won’t rip you limb from limb. Inst
ead, I will give you a chance to explain your folly, then we will go from there. Please begin.” The couch frame popped and groaned as Hank leaned back, waiting for me to speak.

  “Well . . .” I fully expected to become an original Jackson Pollock splattered across my walls.

  Hank sat up and glared in disappointment. “Spit it out, boy! I don’t have time for your sniveling bullshit.”

  I jumped from sputtering idiot to pleading idiot.

  “Oh god! Please don’t kill me. It was this pigeon . . .” Hank raised a finger to his throat as if in thought. I continued, “He told me to do it.”

  I was ready to confess anything that would save my ass. My mind was reeling but still digging for some juicy sin to divulge. Demons get off on that shit. I stole a gold watch from some cancer-patient teen on his make-a-wish trip to the Space Needle a few weeks back. Nah, not horrid enough. I dropped bricks off an overpass bridge with Bubz when we were sixteen. We sent at least one car careening off the freeway and into a ditch. No real carnage. No blood or anything.

  “Damn it, boy! What pigeon?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me his name, or what infernal house he represented. He promised me a hat. One better than my dad’s.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “That’s it. That’s all I know. He wanted me to kill you.”

  “So, you followed the instructions of a pigeon possessed by who-the-fuck-knows for a hat of which you know nothing about? What would Daddy think?”

  “Not much,” I let out a defeated breath. “He doesn’t give two shits what I do.”

  Hank went quiet for a moment. Somehow his throat wound expressed pity.

  “Well, fuck him, then. I have an idea who this pigeon may be.” He paused to shove another wad of chips into his throat-maw. “Tell you what, you do this little thing for me, I let you live. And, I’ll throw in a hat from my house. The House of the Fly is no power to trifle with.”

  The House of the Fly! I’d heard of them but hadn’t come across anyone with a hat signifying that great Hell-house. Most infernal-assassin work is their doing. No one sees them, only the aftermath.

  “Your daddy will piss blood if he sees that hat on you.” Hank’s gut bounced as a boisterous laugh boomed from his chip-filled throat.

  I added my own uncomfortable laugh to Hank’s guttural guffaw.

  “Piss blood!” Hank said again.

  Restating his hilarity further fueled his full-bodied laughter. Chip crumbs loosened from his shark teeth and sprayed over his belly.

  I continued to laugh with him as my hands numbed from a white-knuckled grip on the armrests of my shitty recliner.

  Finally, Hank’s laughter subsided, a cue to halt my own.

  “I haven’t looked forward to something so much since I convinced Jenny to write her damned book to kick off the anti-vaxxers! The Horsemen and I still get a kick out of the reemergence of smallpox.”

  “Uh . . . funny stuff.”

  The mood was changing for the better. Less tense. Less murdery. I no longer feared my immediate ruin.

  “Ah. Good times.” Hank leaned forward. He closed his toothy new throat-maw and opened his human mouth. From this came a prissy voice—in contrast to his guttural demon voice, “That pigeon? Most likely Squeak, of House Lilter. Thinks he’s hot shit ever since Baal himself granted him a small duchy near the headwaters of the River Styx. He’s been overstepping his social position as of late, and with the big election coming up ‘down under,’ he’s looking to make some sort of power play.”

  The novelty of having a bleeding demon in tighty-whities on my couch was wearing off. I didn’t give a shit about politics, not even the politics of Hell. I said, “What’s all this got to do with me?”

  “What’s this got to do with you!? Everything, at the moment. Do shut up and listen, will you? Or I’ll renege on our arrangement and paint your walls crimson!” Hank shuddered in annoyance before continuing, “I want you to aid me in reminding Squeak of his place. The little pip only has a handful of supplicants. Bloody hell, his altar piece is stolen from a defunct squirrel cult. You bring me the altar piece from his pathetic shrine, and I’ll let you live. The leader of his tiny cult works at the furniture warehouse store down in Renton. I’m sure you’ll find the shrine somewhere nearby.”

  I wasn’t surprised by this revelation. There’s all kinds of weird shit in that part of town.

  “Get it to me by midnight tomorrow and I won’t dine on your viscera. That’s the deal. Got it?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good. See you soon Little Rob-Robb.” Hank lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. His body disappeared in a burst of blue flame, leaving behind a charred depression in the couch.

  I should’ve taken it all more seriously. My double encounter with Hank Havoline had left me exhausted. After dragging the fouled couch out to the curb, I fell into bed and didn’t stir again until noon the next day. The sound of someone hauling away that damned couch woke me from a dreamless sleep.

  After the memory of Hank in his skivvies assaulted my thoughts, I decided to skip breakfast. I grabbed my messenger bag and left in search of a bus to take me toward Renton and the Cult of Squeak.

  The busses were fairly sparse between the industrial district and Renton. Usually, I have to avoid a few due to rival factions. Officially, I’m not a member of any faction; many of them actively hate me. I’ve stolen priceless relics and tomes from most. The young Paimon faction beat the shit out of me last month at a bus stop near Gas Works Park. I’d stolen their prized golden camel medallion. I melted it down and sold the gold across every obscure market I could find. My rent is now paid through next year. I had enough left over to cover the medical bills from the beating—plus a stockpile of codeine.

  I spotted a few younger members of the local Asmodian faction toward the front of the bus, but they didn’t recognize me. They like to show off the stupid Goetic tattoo on their left wrists—a little too close to outright outing the whole Hell-adjacent culture.

  The ride was uneventful. The wheels seemed to find every pothole in the city as I went through my bag, making sure I was prepared for whatever trouble came my way. Everything seemed in order: a couple switch blades, some brass knuckles with inverted crosses etched into the nubs, and my ultimate get-outta-anything card—the Treasure Troll. This particular Troll doll had glittery purple hair, matted with dried-out bubble gum.

  Queen Regina, the baddest voodoo priestess of New Orleans, had put a curse on this thing. Here’s how it went down: Once there was a teenage girl on a school trip to the French Quarter. This girl made the mistake of laughing at Queen Regina, who was asleep on a park bench beneath a blanket of shopping bags. The Queen spotted the brat’s bright-haired Troll doll clipped to the back of her school bag and uttered a foul curse.

  The following Christmas, after throwing a hissy fit about not getting a purple Discman, the girl began to tear the hair out of the Troll doll. She explosively combusted into meaty bits all over the affluent family’s Christmas tree.

  The doll eventually made it to my hands, still very much cursed even though it had already finished off its target. I was assured by the infernal shaman I’d bought it from that it had become a massive curse grenade.

  I’d never been to Über Furniture Warehouse, but I had no trouble finding it. The parking lot is massive, taking up at least five city blocks. Even with this vast plane of pavement, there still isn’t enough parking for all of these yuppies hungry for basic build-it-yourself furniture. To help with this, there is a parking garage at each of the four corners of the property, like guard towers standing watch over a domain of minimalist decor.

  In search of Squeak’s shrine, I entered the store and left the flow of corralled consumers. I took a shortcut to the cafeteria. Yes. You heard me. There is a fucking cafeteria in the furniture store, and it’s famous for its schnitzel. Like I said, I’d never been to the place, but everyone knows about the schnitzel. Über Furniture itself isn’t under the
auspices of any specific Hell-house, but the meat supplier is controlled by the House of Gluttony, led by a demon named Barnaby the Voracious. The schnitzel is straight-up Soylent Green.

  I didn’t want any human schnitzel, but surely they would have an untainted bag of chips. What can I say? I really like chips, and Hank ate all of mine.

  The cafeteria wasn’t busy—too early for the lunch rush. Only a handful of homeless populated the tables, enjoying the shelter from the sun before being run off by management to make room for paying patrons.

  I grabbed a bag of Lays and slipped into the bedroom department. I kept my eyes peeled for anyone who looked like a cult leader. They have a bit of a pompous look to them. Even the leader of the minuscule Cult of Squeak had to be completely full of himself.

  I slunk to the side amidst the Bobby Bookcases and the Ocho Ottomans. It was a good spot, next to a tall display of bowling ball bags—another odd product for a furniture store. The salty chips were a welcome relief to my empty stomach as distracted shoppers moved past me along the winding path through staged furniture displays.

  Across the aisle a couple employees in blue vests slipped out from behind a hanging cloth poster of a woman far too happy about her bedroom set. An odd place for a door, even if it was for employees only. Compared to all the other employees and shoppers, these were, by far, the biggest contenders for cultists. One had long, unwashed hair and wore a braided gold chain draped from his neck. Much too flashy for a warehouse worker. The other guy? He looked like my cousin Reynold. He had to be involved in some weirdo cult, that’s the only way to get that skeezy-looking—short and bald with only a few strands of hair greased to his scalp and freaky, bugged-out eyes. There was a good chance he wasn’t human. But I’ve seen fuckers more strange that still managed to be human.