The short story i'm delighted someone else didn't write for me!

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And the gates of Hell slowly creaked open. The dark rust was mellow and hued in a rather foreboding shade of vermillion. It appeared as if every particle of the rust was an entire coat of crystallized blood—latent and frozen, waiting to flow again.

The wind this side of this addled impasse reeked of flesh, freshly lacerated from seas of bodies, with the clinical precision of a surgeon. Hell’s own Son, Lucifer, performed this massive orgy of surgical masturbation as mounds and mounds of offal offerings piled on the craggy hills and inside the craters.

The skies were emblazoned with logos and insignias of the various sects and tribes of Hell, the deranged amber and the coal-black clouds showered a monstrous kaleidoscope around the grounds. However, it was where Lucifer stood, right atop a hillock of severed heads—towering above his kingdom—where a family of dervishes were incinerating around him, as if they were creating a portal…

And that they were…

Subhash woke up with a fright. The isotonic salts in the sweat were creating a foul odour around his armpits; his powder-blue shirt was already soiled after days of misuse. Of course, there was also the constancy of the punches and kicks that the shirt and his fraying beige trousers took on a daily basis. Subhash Dawda was a freak, and in Wilson’s College—they made sure you paid of it. His patchy chemotherapy-suffering hair, the horn-rimmed wooden glasses, the severe bout of acne, his kwashiorkor-esque stomach and of course—the fits, everything contributed to his image of resident freak.

The fits were most interesting and piquing, they could occur anytime of the day. When they did, all hell would break loose. The normally placid and docile demeanour of this misunderstood boy—would transform demonically. He attained unnatural amounts of energy and lose all control over sanity. His violence could not be leashed and he had been reported several times to have lifted entire benches and hurled them at fellow classmates. The class which he had seen come and pass for a small aeon by now. He repeatedly failed to clear his third year of arts—eight years in a row.

Of course, mostly—he was quite the deer. And that is when students who had felt aggrieved took their chances, and made sure they inflicted maximum pain on him. He never retorted or complained. But bore the brunt of his uncontrollable madness with the grim silence of a bag of bones.

It was never clear why a reputed college such as Wilson, with all its 175 years of grandeur and Victorian magnificence in both stature and appearance—had never even mentioned of rusticating such a queer case.

Subhash Dawda was Wilson College’s best kept secret. The moment you passed through the narrow gate after being screened by the security guards, you knew of the draconian code of conduct. The freak does not exist. For if he does, you do not.

He lived in the southern most room of the Mackichan Hall, the hostel, with all fives rooms next to him—permanently vacant. Nobody knew and nobody questioned. The rule of silence was golden, and it lingered in the atmosphere like an ever-swinging guillotine on everyone’s necks. The moment you took a wrong step—the swish of massive blade would decapitate you before you could say mistake.

Today however, he was in an extremely restless mood. The nightmares had begun to cause an avalanche of palpitation and feeling of an Unnamed Evil, lurking behind the shadows, perhaps within his own shadow.

He couldn’t remember when the dreams had begun to take shape in his mind. It was always the same. But recently, they had begun to develop a certain polychromatic realness to them, as the chasm between dream and hallucination had slowly passed. His greatest fear being witness to the horrid acts of what he believed was the Devil himself.

How he figured in the scheme of things was a question even he could not answer.

Subhash trudged across Laburnum Road and entered his room as surreptitiously as possible. He grabbed his pillow and covered his sweaty head with it, the blazing sun outside granted no favours as the room boiled up, in a slow and simmering rise of temperature; almost brewing him and all his energy.

Hours passed by, and the sun finally set on the Marine Drive, the temperature slowly reducing, and the fatigue and mental exhaustion coupled up to induce a troubled yet long bout of sleep, as Subhash slowly sunk back into his land of nightmares…

The dervishes began to swing into a full-bodied cyclone, potent and cataclysmic, as it swirled the mass of flesh, bone and sinew around the highest hillock of heads. Upon which Lucifer sat; his massive horns pricked up like the ears of a deer under threat, his obsidian-black blazer billowing like a mini-cloud, the human eyes on his shoes began to rotate and shimmy in their shoe-sockets.

Every minion and demon from the vast confines of Hell’s underbelly and beyond had come to witness and partake this humongous inquisition. The chasm of life and death—one sealed by the aeon-long activity of Heaven, rupturing within the hours of the most brutal and insidious mass sacrifice, the three worlds had ever witnessed.

One by one, each minion brought forth scythe and scimitar, rapier and broadsword—as they awaited the message from within the crimson-red cyclone, and whence it came—a volcano of stale blood and degraded muscle spewed from every body, as steel and nerve clashed. Every cell of the undead, vanquished and pulverized under the onslaught of suicidal bliss. Time had halted and the carnage lay in pornographic detail for the Dark Lord himself to view and verify. His entire grotto of the grotesque—lay in suspended animation. Like an aerial maelstrom of gore.

And like a message from the Lord Himself, an electric blue ray surged forward from a nice gap in the ocean of smoky clouds and struck the centre of Lucifer’s massive and ghastly face. It pierced through him, and brought forth a pain so great, that Hell itself was dislodged from its pseudo-celestial abode, as it swung out of orbit, crashing in a wide arc—directly into the heart of Earth…

Subhash sprang from his sleep, his breathing forced and disjointed, he gasped for air, as if his lungs had been punctured. He got up in a spark, and looked around him—the entire building was in ruins, burning in an inexplicable fire. He jumped from his bed and he surveyed the environment around him, every single building was burning, the college as well. He could only see a wall that remained on the far side of Wilson, next to the basketball court, where the Hall was…there was something strange about it. All four walls of the Hall were seemingly intact, which he saw has he crossed the road, the tar almost lava-like because of the heat.

His breathing began to normalize and he paced quickly into the college and stood before the door of the Hall. His heartbeat quickened up like that of a rabbit as his veins went into overdrive mode, blood gushing through every one of them in streamlined precision.

He finally mustered the courage and pushed the door opened….the entire Hall lay in a pool of blue and amber flames, but they did not harm him. He strode in silently, waiting for the inevitable…and as he swung his head to where the stage once used to be, he saw a large beast. Man-beast.

Horns, blazer, shoes, everything was as vivid as his dream. However, what he noticed last was most disturbing. Those violet eyes of the Devil, gleaming as if a torch lay inside both of them—directly pierced through Subhash’s own skull.

His mind stopped working. His heart stopped beating. And at once. The world was a slush of blackness. Pure unadulterated blackness.

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“What do you think Professor?” said the man in the labcoat, the insignia on the white cotton said OCERN. “I think the subject is highly unstable, but the readings on the meter are oscillating to perfection—just the way it was mentioned in the Latin scripture.”

“Indeed, Mortimer, the oscillations are harmonizing perfectly and the subject’s hallucinatory activities are slowly and steadily reaching conclusive evidence to our tests,” said another one to the Professor.

“I see, what is the status on the Celestial Protoplasmic Portal?” asked the Professor.

“On track, Professor, once the hallucinatory activity is stored into the mainframe, we can commence using the subject as soon as we can stop the upload of the video stream of his college life.”

“Very well, Mortimer, I wish to see it happen as soon as possible, if the scriptures have held true to this moment, I see no reason why we at the Occultist Arm of CERN cannot synchronize the Lifestream between Heaven, Hell and Earth. This subject’s uplink has been verified with that off what we believe could be Hell, Professor…”

“Beautiful,” the Professor sighed. “Stop the upload at once and I wish to see the subject go into the phase 3 as soon as possible, I want to see Hell before that bastard up there comes here…”