Hall of Mirrors

Hall Of Mirrors: A Tale of Hellraiser and Candyman

By: Christopher Thompson

Based upon characters created by Clive Barker

This work is being offered at no charge as it is not affiliated with Clive Barker nor with any of the current license holders of the Hellraiser or Candyman film or literary properties.

Any assumed affiliation is the responsibility of the reader and should not be inferred or implied.

I

“Candyman.”

Nicole sat in the dead end hallway of the labyrinth of mirrors, surrounded on all sides by reflections of her own seated position. Her uncovered, chocolate skin gleamed under the pale lights hidden somewhere far above. Droplets of sweat slowly traversed from her forehead down, over her eyebrows to drop to her cheeks and travel beyond. A dark mess of thick, black hair streaked with purple ran amok atop her head.

Seated in the lotus position, Nicole held a small, ornate box, cradled gently in the palms of her soft hands. As she spoke, she twisted a part of the box that appeared previously to be of a solid mass, and unmovable. With the small twist of wood and metal, she felt a twinge of energy run up her arms, causing the fine hairs there to stand on end.

She shivered as a cool breeze brushed at her back where the thin material of her sun dress clung to her flesh, held in place by the sheen of sweat which had risen from her body at the first moment of contact with the strange puzzle box. She blinked against the salty drops falling across her eyes and glanced to her left and right. Twin reflections watched her every movement from the mirrors to either side. The only thing which caused one to stand out from the other was the way her discarded sandals lay in front of the mirror to her right.

“Candyman.”

A second calling, a second movement of the box. This one drew a section free of the whole. A piece of the ornate puzzle rose on its own, free of the rest of the cube. This newly released section shifted along the expanse of the puzzle until it came nearly in contact with Nicole’s fingers where they rested on the smooth surface. After a moment, the piece slid slowly back into place, and Nicole gently pushed it down.

A stronger tingle of energy, almost electric in its power, ran from the box up the girl’s arms. This time something felt different. Not the strange static discharge of the first movement, but a stronger, more powerful charge moving up her body and into her deepest nerve endings. Warmth grew suddenly between the girl’s legs as the charge traveled through her; sought out the deepest recesses of her body; taking what it wanted and leaving her with a pleasant after-glow which caused another involuntary shiver to pass through her.

She slowly turned the box over in her hands, feeling blindly for the next movement point as she stared at her own sweaty reflection in the mirror directly ahead.

“Candyman.”

The box seemed to turn itself about in her grasp; almost as though it was helping her to solve the intricate puzzle hidden within its solid mass.

Nicole stared deep into the mirror, looking past her reflection and into herself. How had things come to this point? At only eighteen years old, how had things gone so horribly wrong for her?

Everything seemed to lead back to Melanie’s birthday party last week.

II

There had been ten guests that night, all of them feeling a pleasant buzz that can only come from alcohol and revelry, a pleasant mix of boys and girls. Many of them had been together, in some form or another, since early childhood, as happened in suburban schools, and they had shared a lot of experiences which had bonded them quite strongly over the years. They had all been sitting in a circle in Melanie’s parents’ basement when the subject of conversation had suddenly shifted from who had made out with which other guest and which of the boys was the best kisser (giggles and red faces all around), to the strange world of urban legend and weird myth passed from generation to generation.

As conversation goes, this one flourished quite readily in their rabid teenage minds, and, as is known to happen at parties such as this, soon the challenge had arisen to face your fears of these myths and challenge their existence.

A tingle and a shift from the box distracted Nicole back to the task at hand, and she glanced down at the strange prize in her hands. Somehow her thumbs had found a previously hidden switch and were now moving slowly around a circular design in the center of the ornate image in the box’s surface. She felt something begin to turn and tore her eyes away from the box and back to the mirror.

“Candyman.”

Her voice had lost much of its previous certainty on this, the fourth of five incantations that would bring the killer into the world.

Melanie hadn’t believed a word of that tale.

An artist, a slave, Daniel Robitaille, hired by a rich landowner over 150 years ago to paint a portrait of his only daughter, the beautiful (and virginal) Caroline. During the process of the work, Caroline and Daniel had fallen in love, and had consecrated their relationship with the conception of a child. A girl who would be later named Isabel.

Of course, when Caroline’s father, the rich landowner, found out, he had Daniel chased down and torturously beaten and killed. An angry mob had been formed and, fueled by the rage of their peers, had chased poor Daniel through the fields until they’d caught him and cut of his right hand with a rusty saw. They had then soaked his body in fresh honey stolen from a beehive, and watched, and laughed, and cheered, as the enraged bees landed on and slowly stung the man to death.

It was later said that this sweet dousing in honey led the children who had followed the mob to call upon Daniel as “Candyman” while the bees did their gruesome work.

From there, the legend grew: call his name five times in the mirror, and he’d appear, a rusty hook replacing his amputated right hand. The last thing you’d ever see would be his reflection in the mirror as he split you in twain from groin to gullet with the hook.

Three times in recent history, someone had taken this legend to the extreme and killed in His name. The first, had been in a housing project in Chicago, then again several years later in New Orleans during the Mardi Gras celebrations, and finally in Los Angeles. Each time the papers would say it was the work of a person or persons who took the legend too seriously and wanted to use it to scare the area populace and commit these vicious crimes.

Melanie hadn’t believed the legend, and now, it was too late for her.

On the goading of her friends, she’d marched bravely into the bathroom, dragging all along for the ride, and called out to Daniel Robitaille in the mirror over her parents’ beautiful marble sink and counter. The next day, she was dead. Torn open from her waist to her throat.

The other party guests had soon followed in Melanie’s bloody footsteps. All except for Nicole, who had deemed it stupid to tempt these legends; to tempt fate in such a fashion.

“There’s a reason these stories grow,” she’d tried to explain. “Look at history. Look how everything starts from something. You think it’s a coincidence that these ‘urban legends’ are so well travelled?”

Her points had fallen on deaf or disinterested ears, and she’d chosen to remain in the basement while her friends had challenged fate for the last time. They’d called her a chicken and teased and mocked and ridiculed her for most of the rest of the night because of it.

Nicole felt the box shift suddenly in her hands, and was able to move a whole section of it straight up. A star like portion of the box, raised up at its center point, and pivoted in her hands. It seemed almost to do the work on its own, this strange box which was the source of yet another legend that had come out at the party.

III

An ornate puzzle box: made by a man named Philip De Lemarchand in France many years ago, and said to be the key to open a passage that allowed demons and monsters to walk the earth. It was said that these monsters, calling themselves Cenobites, served an evil god called Leviathan and were tasked with supplying new souls and new bodies for some unholy army of the damned.

There was a tale associated with this box, of a young girl, no older then Nicole was at the time of the party, who had been forced to face off against these creatures on two occasions, and that, while victorious against them, she’d disappeared nearly 20 years ago. Kirsty had been her name, and, after destroying a mental institution called the Channard Institute, she and another girl known only as Tiffany, had vanished without a trace.

The box had been easy enough to find. It turned out there was quite a market for these “Lemarchand Boxes” and she had stumbled across one called the Lament Configuration at an antiques show. The price was, coincidentally, exactly the amount of cash she’d had in her pocket.

The star shaped section of the box lowered itself into place, changing the full face of the box on all sides.

This was the last movement, and the final part of Nicole’s plan could now be put in motion.

Pale blue light and a warm, stagnant smelling wind began to emanate from somewhere outside the confines of the maze she had traveled into. A trap of mirrors chosen to hold the evil she was calling forth from two points at once.

It hadn’t been an easy decision to make, using one legend against the other to try and make amends for the deaths of her friends. But, this was the only possible way she could think of. Similar in theory to the old adage “fight fire with fire” why not destroy one legendary evil with what could only be described as another legendary evil?

When she was done here, two types of darkness would be after her body and soul, let them fight it out amongst themselves for the prize. Surely these Cenobites would destroy the spirit of Robitaille once he was made solid, and then her friends’ spirits could be freed and their deaths avenged.

The light grew in intensity, and the wind began to pick up, bringing with it the smell of what could only be death and rotting flesh.

The mirrors surrounding Nicole seemed to ripple for a second, at first almost unperceptively, then far more clearly before turning to an almost liquid state. Figures stepped out from those newly transformed surfaces, first appearing only in silhouette, as if from a great distance, then resolving into horrible clarity. Grotesquely disfigured by metal hooks, chains, wires, and any number of scars and gashes on their leather clad bodies, the figures could only be described as monsters.

On Nicole’s left, a gaunt female form, so thin as to be merely skin upon skeleton, stared at her with the dead, glassy expression of a heroin addict on that final high. Her dark gown hung loose upon her emaciated body and she carried what appeared to be a collection of tiny human forms on a wire around her waist. As Nicole stared in horror, the tiny forms came into clarity. A collection of human fetuses, in various states of development, hung from the woman creature’s waist, tied together by a long line of umbilical flesh which seemed to still be pumping nutrients from somewhere into these aborted children. As Nicole watched from her seated position on the floor, transfixed by the arrival of these strange, otherworldly figures, the tiny, incomplete embryonic creatures at the gaunt woman’s waist began to stir and move. One or two of them mewled and whined, sounds of pain and loss and confusion. How could they know what had become of them?

A thick smell of hospital disinfectants rose from the woman, and her face, while peaceful in its drugged out oblivion, held a great sadness. She made no sound as she stepped forward, through the rippling waves of mirror, and the soles of her skeletally thin feet came into contact with the dirty gray concrete floor of the hall of mirrors.

To Nicole’s right, a second creature, this one male, wearing a similarly long gown of black leather appeared and stepped gracefully forward. There was such an air of royalty about him that Nicole found herself immediately drawn to something, even as the sight of his disfigurements repulsed her. Upon his chest were twin slashes of folded flesh separated by an ornate panel of thick, dark leather armor, still bleeding thick blood and glistening in the pale blue light. His eyes were deep and black, thick pools of oil or tar from which no creature could ever find freedom. Symmetrically patterned all around his head were thick, shining, metal pins, hammered deep into the man’s skull.

The third creature, seen only in the reflection from the mirror directly in front of Nicole, was in heavy silhouette, the blue light of the mirror doorway behind it obscuring all features beyond that of its immense size and what appeared to be a large halo which seemed to surround its head, stood behind the girl. Completely immobile, it seemed to be waiting for a command from somewhere.

Nicole held down the involuntary urge to scream and run from this place. Sudden fear, no terror, enveloped the girl and for a second she forgot what it was she had set out to do. At least, until the creature with the pins spoke to her.

“Your fears are wasted here, girl. We have eternity to learn what makes you scream.” Its deep, powerful voice reverberated all around Nicole, echoed down the length of the mirror maze, and came back to her again, snapping her out of her frozen state.

She stared straight ahead again, into the mirror as it once again resolved into a solid surface, and into her reflection, watching herself be slowly surrounded by the three Cenobites, seeing the sweat pour down her face and over her body, soaking her until her dress stuck uncomfortably to her back and chest and she could see the darkness of her own sun-kissed skin through the light material. The blue light brought a sickly hue to her rich, dark flesh and she had a momentary taste of how she might look shortly after death.

Nicole shook the image off and smiled at herself in the mirror.

“Candyman.”

IV

The pale blue light winked out into a darkness so deep and powerful and all-encompassing that Nicole suddenly found herself gripped by stronger misgivings than at any other point during this little adventure she’d undertaken for herself. Somewhere within this sudden darkness, unseen and unheard, there lurked the three Cenobites. Their plans for her were known only to themselves, had been only hinted at in the stories that surrounded the Lament Configuration box. A box which had dropped from the previously strong grip Nicole had held it in. Gone now, to the darkness, the box was well beyond the forefront of the girl’s thoughts at that exact moment.

“What have I done?” she asked herself, her voice a low, weak whisper.

“Done, girl?” the voice of the Cenobite to her right pierced the silence that followed the disappearance of the lights and made the tiny hairs on the back of Nicole’s neck strain to be freed of the hold of her flesh. “What you’ve done is beyond words. You called us, we are here for you. For your pain, your pleasure. For the experiment that is your body. Oh, Nicole, what you’ve done is incalculable to your mind.” The Cenobite drew close in the darkness, so close that Nicole could feel what passed for breath as the creature spoke into her ear. It sent chills down her spine and her exposed flesh was instantly covered in tiny goosebumps. She shivered as the temperature around her dropped by a half dozen degrees merely by being in this near vicinity to the creature.

To her left, the gaunt female figure, the wearer of aborted fetuses, moved in close to Nicole as well, prepared to hold her in place should she decide to attempt any kind of movement away from her apparent master. She imagined dozens of tiny hands reaching and groping for her. Nicole did not know what had become of the third Cenobite, the one who had remained behind her and was now lost to the darkness there.

The third Cenobite, the one with what appeared to be a halo about its head, had, in fact, remained exactly in place, awaiting some silent message to move forward.

All that happened in only the time it took Nicole to breath a couple of fast, panicked breathes, when the light snapped back into place as instantly as it had vanished earlier causing the girl to blink rapidly in order to clear her vision of the brightly colored flares behind her eyes.

In the mirror before her, Nicole was now closely guarded by the Cenobites to her left and right. The one with the pins in its skull knelt down close to where the girl sat, its right hand holding a deadly looking blade, and poised just slightly above and behind the girl’s neck. The image of the third Cenobite was obscured, however, by the new player to enter this strange game the young girl had begun.

A tall, regal looking man with short cropped black hair and skin so dark as to be nearly the color of night, the guest of honor, the one for whom all this effort was put forth, stood towering over Nicole where she still sat on the cold cement floor.

Funny to realize right then that the floor was in fact cold through the thin cotton of the dress she wore. Why at that exact point, when she should have been afraid of how badly her body was about to be torn asunder, did she realize that the floor was cold?

V

Daniel Robitaille, the Candyman, stretched his long, thick arms wide apart, the nineteenth century long coat he wore hung loosely over his huge frame, thick fur collar and cuffs in dark gray accented the black wool coat and made the man’s skin appear even deeper and darker than ever before. True to the stories told at Melanie’s party, a large hook replaced the man’s right hand. It gleamed, wet with the blood of countless others who had challenged the existence of such a creature, in the blue light still emanating from all around.

A deep throated, nearly growling, rumble rose from somewhere deep within Robitaille’s chest, accented by what could only be described as the buzzing made by a hive of worker bees. If the stories were in fact true, the bees would be slowly feasting on the man’s exposed organs somewhere under the heavy woolen coat.

Poised, ready to strike, Robitaille turned his gaze toward Nicole’s reflection in the mirror, seeing the girl for the first time he smiled.

“One so young, and still you did not believe,” he spoke almost conversationally to the glass. “Do the tales of my life not scare children into bed? Does the existence of my tale not make girls shiver and boys hold tightly to their chests at night? Your story ends tonight, but will begin anew as part of my own, used outside to keep the young behaved; as fuel for lovers who wish to be held; as a warning to all who would challenge the tales told around the campfires of youth and old age alike. Be my victim. Join my tale.”

“Hold,” the kneeling Cenobite rose quickly, standing to its full height and bellowing out the demand.

The new member of this strange quartet of evil looked about, seeing the uninvited guests to this party for the first time.

“What is this?” Robitaille lowered his arms slightly, pulling them into himself in a more defensive posture than before. “This young one called to me, and I am here for her. You are not welcome, creatures.”

“Wrong, boy,” a single measured step placed the Cenobite in front of Nicole, blocking her view of the proceedings in the smooth surface of the mirror with its thick, black leather attire. “This girl is ours for the taking. Her flesh comes with us. We were summoned; we came. The reward is ours. So it has been for eternity; so it will be for an eternity to come.”

With only the slightest nod of its metal adorned head, the Cenobite seemed to call forth thick, black chains from the same source that the strange blue light emanated from. Each of the chains ended in a thin hook, splayed out in three long, barbed tips that ripped into the Candyman’s thick coat. Not a sound came from him as his arms were once again thrust apart from his body, this time by the force of these chains being pulled taut by whatever force controlled them. The man once known as Daniel Robitaille was held in a crucified position, arms splayed out to the sides, feet barely making contact with the smooth, cold floor.

“Now, we shall take the girl, and we shall leave with her, as is the way. You have not summoned us, we are not here for you. Once we have gone, you will be free to do as you wish. But mark me, boy, if you try to interfere with us again, we will not be so merciful.” The Cenobite turned the dark pools of its eyes down to Nicole, where she now sat looking up at its scarred features, and held out its left hand to her as if offering assistance. The right still held that wicked looking blade, nearly a foot and a half of sharp, serrated, steel, in a grip that was both tight and tender at once. “Come, young one, do not make us take you by force.”

As though on cue, the gaunt, burnt out female figure stepped closer to Nicole and nudged her ass with a hidden foot. The woman stank heavily of her own dreary existence. This one had only recently been added to the ranks of the Cenobites, and it showed both in her manner and her appearance. Tiny hands groped and tugged at Nicole’s hair as the mewling abortions came within reach. The girl on the floor turned her head sharply, wrenching herself free of the grasping, not quite fully formed fingers, and tried to see the emaciated figure behind her.

“Do not concern yourself with that one,” the pinheaded Cenobite spoke again, dragging Nicole’s eyes back to the front. “Her suffering continues in the corpses of the lives she wears about her waist. Each a life conceived in her own body; each a life destroyed of her own accord, throughout her own, aborted lifetime.”

VI

From behind Nicole came a deep, heavy ripping sound. The tearing of metal not only from cloth, but from the body beneath, as the Candyman hauled himself free of the chains which, up until that moment, seemed able to hold him forever. With a heavy thud he dropped back to the concrete floor, his own blood now running down both arms and mixing with that of countless others his hook had visited over the many years of stories and victims. Both Cenobites looked away from Nicole, their attentions taken by this amazingly powerful entity who seemed to want nothing more than to foil their plans for the girl. Their shift in attention, their distraction, gave Nicole a chance to slip out in the space vacated at her right side.

Sliding on her butt, Nicole pushed away, her skirt gliding smoothly across the floor as she scurried, crablike, bare feet sliding for purchase, until she pressed her back against the mirror from which the lead Cenobite had first appeared. It too was cold against her body, the sweat drenching her not helping the situation any.

Using the mirror at her back for support, and the wetness of her dress to ease the way, Nicole pulled her feet toward herself, pressing her bare knees against her chest, and pushed upward, rising smoothly to a her full height, an impression five and a half feet tall, then turning towards the entrance to the dead end hallway.

In her desire to escape, she had forgotten about the third Cenobite. The haloed figure still stood, stoically, at the end of the hallway, keeping sentry over the exit, holding the intended in her place.

“The girl is mine,” Candyman spoke again, this time directly to the lead Cenobite as it stood, still watching the large man in the hallway. “She called to me as well, and I am here. She did not believe the stories, so the stories come to her. Now, stand aside, demon, and leave her to me.”

“Oh, no,” the Cenobite shook its needled head slightly. “Not demons, boy. Far from demons, in fact. We are much more than a mere demon could ever be. We bring much more wealth than a demon can offer. Allow us to share with you what it is that we can supply.”

From behind, the third Cenobite slipped forward, extremely fast, extremely light, and clasped the Candyman about each arm with thick, heavy hands he size of Easter hams. The creature’s extremities were as white as snow and banded with thick, bright, metal strips across the palms and surrounding the bloodless backs. The Candyman let out a deep rumble as thick, deadly spikes of dark metal penetrated the wool coat’s sleeves and dug deep into his biceps where the Cenobite held tight to him.

Nicole could finally make out some details of this third creature. There was, as she had suspected, a halo surrounding the Cenobite’s bald head. Unlike those she had seen worn by the angels in church, this halo was constructed from loops of thick razor wire, held in a ring by a series of thick metal supports thrust into the creature’s skull at intervals surrounding the entire pale, white surface. Thin trickles of blood dripped down from each of the half-dozen entry points and seemed to collect, in pools, in the thick, black collar at the creature’s neck. Its face seemed incredibly calm, despite the obvious pain that these spikes would be causing it, and deceptively, almost pleasantly, appealing to behold. Its eyes were bright blue in a sea of clean white, its hawk nose was perfectly formed and balanced for the face, and the full lipped mouth below that nose looked soft and kissable. An incredibly handsome face under the amazing torture of razor wire and spikes.

Otherwise, the Cenobite was, like its companions, covered from throat to foot in thick, heavy black leather. Unlike its companions, this one wore tight fit leggings rather than a full skirt of the thick material. Across its chest was a thick gash running from the right shoulder diagonally down across its torso to its left hip. Sewn within the torn flesh, as though stitched by an amateur surgeon, was a thick leather thong hung heavily with several large, sharp metal surgeon’s tools. The weight of the tools pulled at the ragged tear in the thing’s flesh, leaving it red and enflamed where the dark strap was woven through.

With the third Cenobite now fully involved in the conflict, Nicole saw her chance to make an escape and let these things finish each other off. Slowly she slid across the mirror and moved away from the lead Cenobite, standing and facing the Candyman, a look of satisfaction on its pin covered face, and towards the end of the hallway and possible freedom beyond.

“Wait, girl,” she hadn’t made three steps when the Cenobite called out. Its deep, strong voice making her stop in her tracks. “You called for this, now watch and see what happens. The things we’ll do now will make for pleasant memories while we work your flesh for eternity.” Another pair of chains shot down from somewhere high above, these ones with thick metal clamps on their ends in place of the barbed hooks. It seemed this Cenobite could call forth whatever it wanted from somewhere outside of reality.

VII

The clamps at the ends of the newly generated chains grabbed tightly to Nicole’s shoulders and, not too gently, hauled her up about two feet off the floor where she hung against the mirror. Her feet kicked as she struggled against them, trying to reach the floor and make her escape. The heavy clamps squeezed, gripping her shoulders tighter and drawing blood where the sharp corners dug into her smooth, sweat-sheened flesh.

From her new position above the cool cement, Nicole swung gently back and forth, bumping periodically into the mirror behind her (a rather annoying situation) and was forced to watch that which she had wrought. She winced with pain as the black metal gripping her shoulders continued to dig into her, piercing and breaking the surface of her skin as they held her aloft.

The Candyman struggled in vain against the solid grip of the haloed Cenobite, his furtive movements only allowing the creature a stronger grip on his arms, the spikes on its palms tearing deeper into the thick wool and the dark flesh beneath. As he struggled, the front of his heavy coat came loose and fell open ever so slightly, casting the figure in an altogether new light.

As the stories had foretold, hidden deep within the covering of that heavy wool garment, dozens, possibly hundreds, of buzzing bees were in a frenzy all over, around, and within the exposed organs on the Candyman’s torso. Nicole tried to look away. She wanted so badly to be able to lock her eyelids shut, but something about the spectacle before her would not allow her to refuse to bear witness.

Bees buzzed, in a fever pitch, all around the two figures now, having been suddenly freed by the open coat, they flew in great waves from the open cavity of flesh and muscle, and searched for a new home; some new ground where the choice in sustenance was different from what they had been surviving upon for so many years. A source they found quite easily in the Cenobite holding their master tightly about the arms.

Having found this new place, the bees swarmed madly all around the creature’s halo, landed gently upon the shiny top of the bald head; crawled over the frayed flesh around the gash in its chest; buzzed around its eyes, nose, ears, mouth, trying to find some way to get themselves inside. Finally, giving up on subtlety, the bees began to sting at the exposed flesh of the Cenobite. Great waves of them would take turns landing upon the shorn skull and pressing their stingers deep into the dead flesh there. Others would do the same at the creature’s lips, around and within its ears, nostrils, and the edges of the still oozing wound on its chest. White flesh of hands was soon covered entirely by the furry black and yellow striped insects as they fought to not only free their master, but to find some way to feed themselves anew.

The Cenobite, despite being overwhelmed by the insatiable little beasts, did not release the hold it had on the Candyman. Instead, it began to slowly lumber backwards, trying to step clear of the buzzing cloud that had suddenly engulfed it, not realizing that the source was the very thing it held so strongly in its unbreakable, vise like grasp.

As the creature’s grip tightened, more bees began to slowly crawl out through the holes made in the thick sleeves. They instantly found purchase on the Cenobite’s fingers and began their own assault of sharp stings. Finally overrun, the Cenobite was forced to let go; its grip shattered by the constant torrent of life coming from somewhere within this man it held. As the pale creature continued to step away, dropping the Candyman to the floor, the bees continued their apparently unyielding assault. Now, with their master free and clear, they were able to get at all parts of the Cenobite, and soon it was covered from razor wire surrounded head to leather clad foot. Not an inch of its white flesh or the black leather it wore could be seen past the writhing mass of insects that had taken position there.

Not a sound rose from the Cenobite, aside from the constant droning of the swarm, as it took another several steps backward down the hall, towards the place it had stood before, retreating, Nicole thought, towards whatever mirror had sourced it. After a few moments, the creature stopped, suddenly immobile, and toppled to the floor. The bees began to pour over the Cenobite’s fallen form, and started to crawl into the wound across its back, twin to the one that ran down its chest, where they seemed to slowly disappear inside the creature’s body.

“What is this?” the one with the pins in its head seemed to have lost some of the earlier bravado of its deep tenor. “One of my army felled? It seems that, finally, there will be challenge in our task, my dear.” It turned toward the female, a smile parting its dry, white lips. “Perhaps this will be some fun after all. Enough of this game. Now comes the time to play by our rules.”

“The girl… Is mine,” the Candyman’s voice grew stronger as he rose from the crouched position the haloed Cenobite had left him in. “Return to wherever it is you have come from, and I will forget this interference ever occurred. Otherwise, your tales will be added to mine, your fears will be added to those who doubt. You will all be my victims.”

“Oh, I doubt that, child. We have been around for longer than this world can recall,” the leader’s voice grew in strength again. “We are forever, while you are just a footnote in our long, dark, history.” Within the narrow, mirrored hallway the thing’s voice echoed loudly, shaking the glass within each frame as it reverberated back upon itself. “Now it’s time to see what you’re really made of.”

Chains by the dozen flew from all around the hallway. The appeared from every direction, coming in so rapidly and so smoothly that Nicole quickly lost track of all of them, and plunged into the flesh of the Candyman where he stood. The thin, barbed hooks dug deeply into the man’s dark face; tore into the organs exposed beneath his coat; ripped into the muscle in his arms and legs, until, finally, there seemed to be no place left on the man’s body where they could possibly find purchase. Assault ended, the chains grew taut, hoisting the Candyman once again off the floor and pulling his arms and legs straight out from his body.

Hooks dug into his full, dark lips, pulling the man’s mouth into a rictus smile, his teeth flashing and blood starting to run where the metal met the flesh. Somewhere deep in the man’s throat, the buzzing of more bees, muted but growing stronger, could be heard. Tiny legs and wings poked out from the various places the hooks dug into his face and arms and legs.

“Now we’ll see what makes your flesh sing,” the pierced Cenobite stepped closer to its captive, reaching out gently, almost reverently, with the curved blade it still held in its right hand.

Nicole forced herself to turn away from the sight of such grotesque violence, only to find herself looking once more at the fallen form of the haloed Cenobite: or, at least where it should have been. In place of the horribly scarred creature, lay the body of a beautiful young man, maybe in his early twenties, with smooth, milky skin, and thick, wavy blond hair. The eyes, still that striking blue, stared up at her, lifeless and glassy, in a final gesture before what must have been its death.

The vision brought tears to Nicole’s eyes. How could something so beautiful, so incredibly soft and filled with such a great potential, have been transformed into the ugly creature that had been called forth by the Lament Configuration box? As she watched, and cried openly in the face of such loss, the body began to twitch in the final throes of life.

First, just a slight jumping, as though the nerve endings were still firing, then slowly growing until it was in the grip of what looked like a seizure. From somewhere deep within the body, the buzzing of a thousand bees began to grow in volume and strength until, without warning, the body split open down the line of its spinal column. Blood sprayed out, as if still pumping through the arteries and veins in the body, followed by a wave of bees.

The insects, all covered in thick, dripping blood, rushed forth in a heavy wave of life. All of them too heavy by far to take flight, they flooded out at a run and poured over the body and to the floor, leaving tiny trails of thick, dark fluid as they went. Not only were they coming from the new tear in the body’s torso, but they had also found their way out through the mouth and nostrils, pouring, just as steadily, out through these openings as they had through the exit that had just been formed.

Nicole screamed, loud and long, finally releasing the fear, the anger, the hatred she had kept tightly inside her since this whole mess began with Melanie’s death. She screamed, and she kicked backwards at the mirror, causing herself to swing wildly out and back in the grip of the chains, repeatedly slamming into the mirror at her back.

The leader of the Cenobites turned towards her, where she thrashed and cursed and hollered, a look of mock sadness on its checkerboard face: “Awww, you poor thing,” the voice lowered and slowly changed into something different, soft, sweet, almost pleasing. “Let Daddy take care of you, Princess. Daddy can make anything better, can’t he baby?”

“NO!!!” Nicole slammed back into the mirror, tears streamed over her cheeks, snot dripped heavily from her nose. She shook with terror. “NO!!! Keep away from me!!! Don’t come near me you asshole!!”

“Don’t be afraid, little one,” still in her father’s voice, the Cenobite howled with pleasure. “This is but a taste of what awaits you.” In an instant the creature’s voice dropped several octaves back to its normal, heavy tenor. “Now be still!”

Another pair of chains exploded up, through the heavy cement, and wrapped themselves like snakes around Nicole’s ankles, pulling her legs apart several inches and then growing tight as though preparing to stretch her back down to the floor. From somewhere behind her (solid mirror was there!!) came a thick, black, metal arm which stretched out, over the girl’s right shoulder just barely brushing her tear soaked cheek, and around in front of her face where it stopped. Less than a second later, a second arm appeared at the other side of her head and snapped around until its end was side-by-side with the first. At the end of one arm, a thick, leather strap hung. The second arm somehow grasped this and stretched it tightly between a pair of heavy, almost finger like prongs, holding the heavy looking leather straight out between them.

Before she had a chance to react at all, the arms snapped back, roughly forcing the strap across Nicole’s mouth, muffling the screams and cries that were, now, unspoken. She tried in vain to shake her head from side to side and free herself, but the grip of this strange mechanism was far too strong for her.

Finally giving in to the grip, Nicole let herself relax slightly in the chains. That did not make them any less comfortable and, in fact, as she slowly relaxed her shoulders, she realized that the chains below had some kind of pressure applied to them from wherever their source was. A gentle, yet constant, pulling on the girl’s ankles made her feel as if she were being stretched. The felt the thin skin at her ankles begin to stretch and split under the force of the chains wrapped tightly around them and forced down a pained hiss.

Nicole tried to look down, only to find that the arm behind her was holding her head in place, forcing her to watch what was going on in front of her. A low, cool breeze blew up her skirt, and ruffled the material, chilling her flesh as the sweat from earlier dried to a thin, salty coating. A breeze tainted with the smell of rotting fruit, coming from behind her, where there should have been mirror!

Fighting against the grip of the arm, Nicole turned her head as far to the left as she could, passing her gaze over the bloody remains of the haloed Cenobite as she did, and then chanced to look behind her, where the mirror had once rested against her back. Instead of seeing the reflection of herself she knew should have been there, Nicole came up against a large, black compartment about the size of a small elevator, from which the heavy black arm protruded. On its one visible side it was covered in markings not unlike those found on the Lament box she had used to summon the Cenobites.

She tried to scream again, but the arm tightened, forcing the leather deeper into her mouth, and yanking her head back around so she once again was forced to watch what went on in the hall of mirrors.

VIII

Directly before Nicole where she hung suspended, now paramount in her eyes, the strange struggle between the lead Cenobite and the Candyman progressed slowly. The low buzzing of the bees housed somewhere deep within the Candyman had grown to an agitated rumble, more tiny legs and wings began to appear in the tears and gashes created by the barbed hooks digging and tearing into his arms and legs.

“Oh no,” its deep voice sounded almost scolding as the Cenobite spoke to its captive. “No more of your tricks, boy. It’s my game now, and we play by my rules.”

Only the ever growing sound of buzzing came as a reply to the Cenobite’s warning, as the bees rose up the Candyman’s throat, from somewhere deep inside his chest, hidden within the exposed organs that were visible there, and made their way toward to the opening of his mouth. A patrol, advancing to protect their home, and the survival of the master.

A deep “tisking” sound came from the Cenobite as it shook its pin encrusted head slowly, as though it were an angry parent forced to give out a grounding to an errant child. It lowered its right hand, and gently hung the bladed weapon on a thick cord at its waist, then reached up with that same hand and took hold of the fold of flesh which hung down upon the left side of its chest. After dislodging a small hook from the torn flap of skin and muscle, its hand wrapped tightly into the mess and it pulled, hard and fast, on the hanging skin. A moan of pleasure escaped the Cenobite’s lips as it yanked the flap of tissue free from the rest of its body. Blood oozed, fresh and thick, from the newly extended wound track, and the Cenobite could only grin as it held up the strip of flesh for inspection.

Nicole fought hard against the grip of the leather strap in her mouth, trying to move her head to one side or the other, wanting to avert her eyes and look anywhere but at the violence unfolding before her. She closed her eyelids tight, bringing a stinging flood of tears forth against the strain of keeping them closed.

“Such a pretty thing,” a new voice spoke directly into Nicole’s ear, whispering and soothing her. Sweet, loving; almost maternal. Nicole opened her eyes slowly, and immediately wished she had not. Standing directly in front of her, blocking out the view she had of the grotesque confrontation in the middle of the hall, stood the deathly thin female Cenobite creature. The pale skin of its face was so thin and tight that Nicole could easily see the skull beneath; cheekbones pressed against the inside of the flesh, threatening with each slight movement to tear through the parchment like material. Its eyes, once dark and beautiful, were sunken and lifeless and stared, with unblinking clarity, at a place somewhere behind Nicole’s own deep ebony pools. Several unruly strands of black hair remained atop the Cenobite’s smooth, rounded skullcap, just enough to hint at the dark mane of thick hair it had probably sported when alive. A smell of sweet jasmine hinted slightly over the stink of death that it carried with it.

Nicole tried to scream out her sudden shock and panic, but only choked hard against the leather rammed in her mouth, bringing forth another deep shudder and more heavy tears.

“Hush now, little baby,” the Cenobite rasped. “Don’t you cry. Mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby.” Cold, bony fingers stroked Nicole’s face as the Cenobite gently caressed her smooth, tear soaked cheek. Similar brushes of cold, dead flesh could be felt on her thighs and legs and she knew, without having to see, that the collection of not-quite-dead abortions were groping at her smooth, hot, dark skin. “Shhhhhh. Hush now, little one. There’s no need for those tears. Everything will be fine. Mama will keep you safe.” The Cenobite leaned slowly forward, and planted a light kiss on Nicole’s cheek.

The girl shook her head violently, fighting against the grip of the arm behind her, and her revulsion at the creature before her.

“Get away from me!” was what she had wanted to yell in the thing’s face, but it came out muffled and garbled against the gag being almost constantly pulled tighter and tighter by the arm behind her head. She felt the edges of it digging into her mouth, forcing her jaw open and pulling on her lips.

Throughout all of this, the Cenobite with the heavy pins in its skull continued to do its work on the man held in the chains.

After removing the flap of tissue from its own chest, the creature slapped it over the Candyman’s open mouth, stretching the shredded ends around the back of his head until they made contact at the base of the prone Candyman’s skull. This connection, the Cenobite held in place with its left hand, pulling its own face closer to that of its captive, locking midnight eyes with the Candyman’s own dark glare of defiance. With its right hand, the Cenobite reached up to the top of its own head, and, after gently taking hold of the head of one of the large pins placed there, it slowly removed a shiny metal shaft about six inches in length. The pin slid smoothly out of the Cenobite’s skull, leaving behind only the smallest droplet of blood to show where it had previously been.

After holding the pin between them for a moment, allowing both to get a full inspection, the Cenobite swung it quickly around the back of the Candyman’s head and pierced the ends of the newly formed gag of tissue and blood where it had previously held them in place with bloody fingers. Slowly, it brought both of its hands back around to the front, and lowered them to its sides.

The drone of the bees inside the large figure of the Candyman grew increasingly louder as the insects suddenly realized that their means of egress had been blocked off. Then, slowly, it subsided until the only sound in the hallway was Nicole’s labored breathing, and the “shushing” sounds emanating from the female Cenobite who was mothering her.

Satisfied with its handy work for the moment, the male Cenobite turned from its prize and approached Nicole slowly, taking easy, measured steps and appearing to float across the floor to where the girl hung, suspended by the two sets of chains and the mechanical arms holding her head in place.

The girl had given up all attempts to hide her gaze, and her fear and frustration had turned to cold defiance in the face of these two monsters. She glared rage alternately at the gaunt woman figure and the pale, needled man standing before her, inspecting carefully what had gone on in its absence.

“No more tears, then?” its tone was mocking, almost self-satisfied. If such a creature could feel pride, Nicole was sure that this thing was, in spades. “Have you given up? Come to realize that there is no fighting what is meant to be? Or is it something more than that?” A hand rose slowly on the Cenobite’s right side, the thumb and pinky finger gloved in the same thick, black material that composed the rest of its gruesome costume, to stroke the face of the female Cenobite, gently, almost lovingly. The woman turned its face slightly towards the other Cenobite’s hand, and seemed to almost fall into a blissful sleep from the simple contact made by its master’s fingertips.

“This is what you wanted, is it not?” with its left hand the Cenobite absently waved towards where the Candyman still hung, bound by chains and gagged by flesh. “You called us here to stop this... man... you have so laughably called evil. There is no evil, girl. There is only pain; only pleasure; only flesh and blood and shit. Materials to be used to create something more,” again it stroked the female’s bony face with its blood stained fingers. “Something beautiful in the eyes of our master.”

Nicole’s reply was muffled by the heavy leather in her mouth and she bit down hard on it, bringing another round of tears to her eyes.

“Tell Mama what’s wrong,” once more the lead Cenobite spoke with her father’s voice. Mama, clearly the name of the emaciated female Cenobite, lifted her head slowly away from where its face was being caressed. For a split second a look of human loss crossed through its eyes, then nothing again, as it stepped back to Nicole. It was humming a lullaby to the girl, the sound both pleasant and disgusting. Nicole shook her head violently, trying to keep the sound out of her ears, but was unable to fight against the grip on her mouth.

As the Cenobite approached, it raised its right hand in front of Nicole’s eyes and turned it slowly about until the palm was facing the girl. From the tip of each bone thin finger there grew the tiny, sharp, metal tip of a hypodermic needle. These continued to stretch out until they hit a length equal to that of the creature’s fingers, then stopped. With its left hand the Cenobite grasped the front of Nicole’s sweat soaked dress and tore it open. The soft cloth parted easily, buttons flew and bounced off the floor, tinkling away into the distance.

Nicole’s skin gleamed dark brown in the blue light still filling the hallway, heavily contrasted against the white satin bra that cupped her breasts. The top of her dress flapped loosely about in the breeze coming from the doorway behind her, gently tickling against her stomach as it fluttered.

She cursed and screamed and swore into the leather gag, none of it doing any good.

Slowly the Cenobite pressed the tips of its fingers against the flat between Nicole’s breasts, forcing the needle tips into her flesh. Muffled screams pushed hard against the gag, as the pain of those needles dug deeply into the girl’s tender skin. Pressing harder and smoother, the Cenobite’s fingertips soon came into contact with Nicole’s hot, sweaty chest, the needles pushed their entire length into the girl’s body. Every nerve was burning now. Pain beyond anything Nicole could remember ever feeling. Physical pain where the needles pressed against her lungs and heart, where the chains at her ankles pulled her towards the floor, the clamps at her shoulders holding her aloft. All this, but more.

Memories began to shift and move behind the girl’s eyes. Things long ago repressed, held at bay where they could not harm her any longer. Slowly at first, snippets here and there, then in a rush, as if the dam had broken altogether and set free the full strength of the river beyond.

IX

Nicole was ten years old.

The world of a ten year old is so much bigger than that of an eighteen year old, and the sudden change shocked Nicole to full awareness. The mirrored hall, the Cenobites, Candyman, Lemarchand’s horrible invention, all gone.

Nicole sat in her bedroom, the bedroom of a typical ten year old girl, full of frilly pink sheets, soft stuffed things, dolls, and flowers. She sat upright on the bed, a twin sized beauty covered in a thick, soft comforter and holding far too many pillows and teddy bears, and looked around slowly, knowing where she was, but not for one second believing it to be possible. No matter how much she questioned it, however, the impossible was true.

Nicole was in her own bedroom, a bedroom she had not seen in seven years. The bedroom in Daddy’s house.

Screaming was coming from somewhere down the hall, outside the door with its pretty pictures of ponies and puppies. Somewhere in the house Mommy and Daddy were yelling loudly at each other. Again. The words were lost somewhere in the distance between the place they were and the place Nicole was sitting, snuggled down in her soft pajamas, holding Sammy Bear tightly against the scary world outside her window. A tiny creature, breathing the deep fear of a girl with far under nourished self-esteem.

The yelling was growing louder, harsher words being spoken. A series of swears, almost like what Tommy Jenkins called her at recess earlier in the day, crashed through Nicole’s door and into her room, hitting her hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Tommy Jenkins had called her those names too. Bad names, mean names, names that Daddy called Mommy when he was mad about work. Just as Mommy didn’t like to talk about those names, Nicole hadn’t told anyone about what Tommy Jenkins had said. Instead, she just let them assault her, as these ones from somewhere downstairs had, and then tried to ignore them.

She didn’t know what a “whore” was, and Tommy probably didn’t either, but it was definitely something bad because it always made Mommy cry when Daddy said it. This time, when Daddy used that word, it sounded even meaner than ever.

Was Mommy crying now, as she had every other time?

“C’mon Sammy,” Nicole pushed the blankets off of her legs and swung around to the edge of the bed, Sammy Bear’s soft ears framed the girl’s chin. “Let’s go see what’s going on,” she whispered conspiratorially to her soft, white friend. “Don’t be scared. We’ll be quiet.”

With the bear squeezed tightly in her arms, against her chest hiding the way she was breathing fast and shallow, Nicole walked bravely across the pink carpet, it tickled her toes, and slowly pulled the door to her room open. Beyond was the hallway, long and dark in her ten year old eyes, and the source of the yelling. The sound had grown louder once the door was open, and Nicole guessed that it was coming from the living room at the bottom of the stairs. She’d just take Sammy and they’d take a fast peak from the top step. No way anyone would even know they were there. And then, back to bed to hide under the blankets until school came the next day.

Taking every step as though it meant the world, Nicole and Sammy made their way slowly along the hallway towards the stairs. The floor was cold and smooth, not like the soft carpet in her room, and Nicole shivered a little each time her bare feet touched its surface. She tried to hide that she was scared, putting on a brave little face for Sammy, who was probably terrified at that moment.

She hugged the bear tight, whispered into his big, plush ear: “Don’t worry, Sammy, we won’t get caught this time. Daddy won’t take you away from me again. I promise.”

Last time she’d gone on her “sneaking around” (that’s what Daddy had said “sneaking around”) it had cost a week without Sammy bear to protect her. That time there had been a different kind of screaming coming from Mommy and Daddy’s room, and when Nicole had peaked inside to see what was going on, Daddy was on top of Mommy and Mommy was screaming at him to “get the (swear) off of me”. It was bad to say those words, so Nicole didn’t like them at all; didn’t even like to think them in case it meant she and Sammy would be apart again. After that, Daddy had put a new knob on the door, and the room was locked up tight at night. Sammy had been locked away in there for a week until Daddy was sure that Nicole had learned her lesson.

The yelling was incredibly loud at the top of the stairs, but it was also different. Daddy wasn’t yelling bad names anymore. In fact, Daddy wasn’t yelling anything anymore, and Mommy seemed to be doing all the yelling.

Loud, high pitched screeching noises rose up the stairs in Mommy’s voice. The sounds made Nicole’s skin feel like it was crawling on her arms and legs. She pulled Sammy tighter, and buried her chin in the top of his big, soft head.

“Time to have a peek,” she whispered to the bear. “I’ll go first, then tell you what I saw, okay?”

Nicole leaned forward, crushing Sammy Bear’s face against the railing, and craned her neck out into the open air beyond. She turned her face slightly so that she could see the living room, and then took a deep breath before looking at what was there.

She couldn’t help it, the scream just came out. It was loud, shrill, and filled with fear and pain.

Mommy turned toward her, blood streaked her face and dripped from the big knife she held in her hand, pooling onto the floor and soaking into the white carpet where Nicole had been told to never, ever, spill anything, but had dropped a glass of purple Kool Aid when she was five.

Mommy’s eyes were huge and dark, her skin was as white as the carpet she stood on, and her clothes were soaked in thick, dark blood. The mess of blond hair on top of Mommy’s head was loose and sticky, wet from sweat and also from blood. A fresh, dark bruise was starting to grow on her cheek and blood dripped from her nose and lip.

“Nicole…” Mommy’s voice was small, far away sounding. Like when Nicole was down the street playing with Amy and it was time for dinner and she was calling. Really hard to hear, but still there, in the distance. “Baby, I’m sorry…”

“Mommy…” Nicole wasn’t sure what to say. Where was Daddy? What happened? Why were they yelling? How much trouble was she in for sneaking around this time? She held Sammy tight, not wanting to lose him again, this time maybe forever.

“Sweetheart.... Please, forgive me...” Mommy was starting to cry now, but not like when Daddy had called her names. This was different crying. It felt the same as when Sammy had been taken away, not like when you hurt your knee on the hard pavement, or when you fall off the monkey bars because Tommy Jenkins is pushing you. Not crying because you hurt outside, but because you are hurt inside, where nobody can see, and nobody can help.

Nicole started to slowly go down the steps, holding Sammy ever tighter against herself as she went, not sure what was leading her there, but knowing that she had to be closer to Mommy before more bad stuff happened. And where was Daddy, anyway? He was sure being quiet?

About halfway down the stairs, Nicole found out where Daddy was. He lay, in an ever growing pool of blood, on the floor where the expensive coffee table had been (another thing she had been told not to touch) in front of the leather couch with its squeaky cushions that sounded like farts. Underneath him were pieces of wood and smashed glass.

Why hadn’t she heard the sound of the table shattering? That should have been really loud!

“Please, Sweetie, don’t come any closer. I don’t want you to see this.” Mommy moved forward to block her view of the mess on the floor. “Just promise that you’ll forgive me. Tell me that you still love me, Baby.”

“Of course I love you Mommy,” what a silly thing for her to ask. “I’ll always love you.”

“Always? Forever?”

“Yes. Forever and ever.”

Mommy fell onto the floor on her knees, she was crying really hard and was having trouble taking deep breaths. Nicole took another couple of steps down, then stopped again. Mommy was looking at her, hard, but full of love.

Suddenly, without any kind of warning at all, Mommy dropped forward, face first into the carpet, then stopped moving.

Nicole waited at the bottom of the stairs for a really long time. It felt like a really long time, anyway.

Carefully, still holding Sammy tightly, she moved towards where Mommy had stopped moving, and saw that there was another mess slowly spreading into the white carpet under and around where Mommy lay.

Her hands were somewhere under her body, the knife was nowhere to be found, and Mommy was not moving at all. Not knowing what else to do, Nicole walked back to the bottom step and sat down there. She propped Sammy up next to her on the step, and together they stared with shiny button eyes, as the bodies of her parents grew cold and stiff.

X

Nicole screamed and writhed against the clamps at her shoulder and the chains around her ankles. She bit hard into the leather strap that gagged her tasting her own blood where her teeth pressed into the gums.

The Cenobite standing before her, its gaunt expression transformed from blank and emotionless to a look of sheer, blissful, climax, had its eyes closed, a low hum of pleasure rose from somewhere deep within its body. It slowly withdrew the needles from Nicole’s chest, tiny droplets of blood rose slowly out of the minuscule puncture marks left behind where the needles were extracted, and lowered the hand back down to its side. The sharp syringe-like spikes slowly retracted into the creature’s fingers leaving only the tiniest spots of red in their wake. Its left hand, cold and clammy, gently cupped Nicole’s cheek, and stroked her smooth skin.

“Poor baby,” the Cenobite purred. “How did you survive after that? Parents killed before your eyes, family torn asunder from within. How tragic. How very sad.” The words were there, but the emotion behind them was not what it should have been. The Cenobite woman seemed almost in awe of these events, as if it wanted to have lived them itself and not just experienced them through this way. Perhaps this was Nicole’s way out. Could she somehow use this strange jealously against the Cenobite and somehow get herself free of the bindings that held her so tightly?

“Enough of this.” The other Cenobite, the one with the pins in its skull, grabbed the female’s left hand and harshly pulled it free of Nicole’s face, spinning the woman thing around to face its master. “We are not here for your pleasure; only her pain, her suffering. These things are not for you alone. Pathetic!” It slapped the female hard across the cheek. “You are far too young to be here for this. Stand aside now, let one who understands the chorus of suffering take the mantel here.”

The female Cenobite lowered its head, staring in shame at the cement floor, and moved slowly, dejectedly, back towards the mirror doorway through which it had come. It stopped short of the entrance, the mirror beginning to ripple and reveal access to the tunnel beyond, then turned back, resuming the position it had taken upon entering the hall of mirrors earlier.

“Now, child,” the needle ridden Cenobite spoke again to Nicole. “Watch what I first do to this pathetic flesh before you, and know that what will be done to you will be infinitely more impressive.”

Nicole renewed her struggle against the chains and leather that held her tight, trying to somehow not watch as the male Cenobite once again turned its attention to the Candyman, still suspended there in the middle of the hallway.

It was then that Nicole realized that time had somehow ceased to flow outside of herself while the gaunt woman thing had been probing her memories. All of the events she had relived had passed in the blink of an eye, and nothing had changed in the world outside of her head.

Nicole watched, unable to do anything more about her circumstances and still slowly reliving the memories she’d held repressed for so long, as the Cenobite slowly left her side. It moved, smooth and graceful, back to where the large form of the Candyman was held in place by the thick, glistening black chains which seemed to come from nowhere. Candyman’s head jerked from side to side as he struggled in vain against the hooks that tore into flesh and cloth alike. His breathing sounded heavy and labored against the thick mess of flesh and gore pressed tightly across his mouth, just beneath his nose. Thick rivers of gore dripped from the gag, over the large man’s chin to drop, heavily, to the floor.

The Cenobite stopped just in front of the trapped man, studying him closely and coolly, as though it were an artist looking at the final strokes on the masterpiece that had been numerous hours in preparation. A small grin cracked over its lips, causing the thick pins surrounding the mouth to move into a new, very different, configuration.

“Poor, lost soul,” almost emotion, but then nothing but cool detachment from the Cenobite. “Your pain must be terrible to you. Yet to us,” it waved slightly to indicate the immobile female across from Nicole’s position, “there is nothing more beautiful than to see your suffering. An eternity awaits you in our grasp. Though, perhaps a place could be made for you in our ranks? One such as yourself, strong, powerful, sharing our desire to rend flesh from bone, a welcome addition indeed. If only...”

With a sharp thrust of motion, the Cenobite raised its hands and shoved them deeply into the exposed organs previously hidden by the Candyman’s coat, burying its dark clad arms up to the elbows in the mess of blood and flesh. Newly aroused by the sudden intrusion, a great buzzing of bees came from somewhere deep inside the man. Candyman’s head snapped back, a muffled scream of pain attempted to escape the gag of flesh and blood holding the bees at bay, and his breathing came in deep, heaving breathes.

“Yes,” the Cenobite continued to push its arms deeper into the man’s body, soon it had the entire length of its forearms behind the exposed ribs. “That’s it. That’s the pain we were looking for. Flesh torn open; bodies ripped asunder; organs tickled and stroked to the point of climax. Wait, what’s this?” The Cenobite stopped advancing, turned its gaze from the grisly work back to the face of its captive victim. The Candyman’s dark eyes had gone from being deep and defiant, to looking lost and innocent. Filled with fear and pain, sadness bordering on a great grief.

“Ahhhh, the pain of losing a loved one. Taken from you at the prime of your love. Forced to watch as your body is destroyed. And, more, guilt. Oh, how delightfully depressing. You feel guilty over what happened to you. The poor girl, lost and alone, having to live with what your lustful affair wrought upon her and her family.” The Cenobite threw its head back and let out a deep, roaring laugh. “How very human of you. Beyond the pain and suffering you have experienced, beyond all that you are giving to us, lies this very human, very dead emotion.”

The Cenobite slowly removed its right hand from behind the barrier of ribs. It clutched, tightly in its grip, the Candyman’s heart, still beating and squirting blood, which it slowly raised for the man to see.

The Candyman fought hard against the chains that held him tight, flailing wildly in their grip, trying to break free, as he stared at the heart that the Cenobite held up before his eyes. Metal clashed against metal as the thick hook that sat in place of his right hand made contact repeatedly with the black chains holding the Candyman in place.

With a simple, almost disinterested gesture, the Cenobite tossed the heart aside, towards the gaunt female who had remained in place, unmoved since this exchange began, and slowly removed its other hand from the mess of organs. It lowered both hands back to its sides, blood and other fluids dripped slowly from the tips of its pale fingers and began to pool on the floor below.

Nicole watched as the dark blood landed in heavy drops on the cement, and saw the box, resting there, where she had dropped it so long ago, ignored by both the Cenobites and forgotten by herself. The box had to be the answer. If she could get it back she could send these Cenobites back to hell, and hopefully have them take Candyman with them. But, how to get it? That was the problem. Here she was, suspended in mid-air by chains, unable to do much more than pivot her head slightly from side to side and up and down, the key to her freedom resting on the floor, not more than ten feet away, and she could do nothing.

XI

Nicole quickly turned her eyes away from the box, hoping that neither of the Cenobites had noticed her looking at it for fear of them figuring out her goal, and saw that the woman creature was watching her very intently. Nicole locked her gaze with that of the female Cenobite, also ignored for the moment while its master worked on the Candyman, and saw something there that shouldn’t have been. There was something in the creature’s dead eyes, something that had not been there before.

Love? Maybe.

What else could it be?

It reminded Nicole of the look in Mommy’s eyes just before she had taken her own life. Tears stung the girl’s eyes and she fought them off, needing to stay focused on the possibility of freedom.

The creature that had aborted so many of its own children long before being transformed into the shell it was now, continued to stare at her. Everything in its face, spread across the parchment thin skin, told the tale of its own inner workings. It seemed, logic be damned, to be feeling love for Nicole. Love of a mother for a daughter, perhaps. The memories it had seen, used purely as a torture against the girl, had somehow changed it ever so slightly from the cold, emotionless thing it was, into a feeling creature. Maybe it was just a basic, maternal instinct, somehow reawakened after unknown years of servitude to hell’s whims, but it was something that Nicole thought she could use.

But how?

A loud tearing noise turned Nicole’s attention back to the events unfolding between the lead Cenobite and its captive victim.

The Cenobite had a tight grip on the rusty hook that had taken over for Candyman’s right hand, and was slowly twisting it around and pulling it free of the bone at his wrist. The sound of flesh tearing was almost like the sound of wet cloth, slowly being pulled apart, but harsher due to the context in which it was heard. Nails pulled free of muscle and bone as the Cenobite ripped the hook loose of its anchor and let it drop, heavily and loudly, to the concrete floor. It struck with a wet clanking noise, and, after twirling about for a moment, came to rest only a few inches from where the box lay on the floor.

Candyman was enraged. All elements of the innocence that had been in his eyes moments before, suddenly washed away to be replaced by heavy, dark pools of anger. He fought hard against the chains, the hooks tearing deep gouges into the flesh of his arms, legs, and face, as finally he pulled himself free of their grip and fell forward, slamming down, against the Cenobite’s body.

The Cenobite tried to step back, but was taken by surprise by the sudden assault of the man it had believed to be beyond even the slightest hint of rebellion. The two figures slammed together as the larger one pulled himself loose. The sudden change nearly tppl the spiked creature off of its feet and to the floor.

Heavy arms wrapped around the Cenobite’s body, as the Candyman fought for purchase against the creature. Finally, having taken a thick handful of heavy, black leather, the Candyman squeezed his arms tight, trying hard to press the air out of the Cenobite’s lungs and hopefully give himself a chance to get the upper hand in this previously one sided battle.

Having no need for breath, the Cenobite merely stared into its opponent’s dark eyes, fascinated by this turn of events, while the other squeezed hard against the creature’s chest and back. Slowly, though, it dawned on the Candyman that this tactic was really not going to work, so, instead of continuing, he planted his feet solidly on the cement floor and pushed forward with all the strength he could muster, until he toppled them both to the floor.

Now it was the Cenobite’s turn to be shocked by the course of things as it hit the floor, flat on its back. The back of its needle festooned skull truck the cement with a metallic clink and a heavy thud. The larger figure pressed down heavily atop its chest, forcing it to the floor and keeping it there. The Candyman pulled his arms free of the Cenobite, and tore the gag from his mouth, tossing the wet mess aside where it hit one of the mirrors and slid to the floor, leaving a shining trail of red to mark its passage.

“What are you, creature?” The Candyman spat into the Cenobite’s face. “Why are you even involved in this? The girl called me here. She did not heed the warnings. Now she must be my victim and join me in eternity.”

“I am hell given flesh, boy.” Even from the ground, the Cenobite’s voice was deep and powerful, filled with that same regal sense of control that it had exhibited from the beginning.

Nicole forced her eyes away from the two creatures fighting over ownership of her body and soul and turned her attention back to the female Cenobite the other had called “Mama” before. It was still standing, still as a statue, where it had been banished to. Dark eyes, filled with remorse and concern, looked on at Nicole’s struggle against the chains and strap holding her in place.

Nicole locked her gaze with Mama’s, holding her eyes there for a long time while she forced the memories of her parents’ deaths back to the forefront of her mind. The blood, the tears, the sadness, the anger; all and more came, finally completely unabated into Nicole’s thoughts. She stared hard at the Cenobite as tears began to swell in her eyes, until they fell in long, wet trails down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. Tears brought on by the memories, so recently unearthed thanks to the Cenobites, and of what came after.

XII

Mama took a careful step forward, suddenly mobile, then stopped again. Caution, it seemed, was overwhelming the creature’s sudden maternal instinct. It glanced quickly away from Nicole, down to the floor where the large human figure seemed to be in the midst of overpowering the other Cenobite, then back up, until once again their gazes locked. Perhaps caution was not the driving factor, but some form of fear of the repercussions of ignoring the command of her master.

Apparently figuring it was safely ignored for the time being, Mama took another cautious step forward, then another, and then more until it had traveled the short distance across the hall of mirrors to where Nicole still hung, suspended by the chains.

“My poor baby,” it whispered with heavy, rasping breaths. “What can Mama do to make things better?” The Cenobite gently stroked the trails left by the tears as they ran down Nicole’s cheeks and across the expanse of dark leather at the girl’s mouth.

Still unable to speak, Nicole could only stare deep into the creature’s eyes, and hope she could get some kind of message across. Anything at all that would allow this thing to somehow understand that she wanted only to be free.

Mama continued to look on into Nicole’s dark eyes for what seemed like a really long time, then, gently caressing the girl’s face along the way, it reached around behind her head and did something to the unseen apparatus holding the leather strap in place. The tight gag suddenly became slack against Nicole’s lips, and she felt it slowly fall away.

Finally freed of its hold, Nicole took a deep, heavy breath in through her mouth, tasting the tension, the blood, in the air. It was the sweetest breath the girl could remember ever tasting.

“Tell Mama what her baby wants.” The Cenobite’s cold, thin fingers had returned to Nicole’s cheek and continued to stroke gently against her hot skin. Nicole suppressed her revulsion at Mama’s touch, not wanting to do anything that may negatively affect her hastily thought up plan.

“Give...” Nicole’s voice cracked slightly and she took another deep breath. “Give me the box.”

“Oh, no, baby,” Mama’s hand fell away from Nicole’s face (both a blessing and a need for concern) as its eyes flashed to the floor where the box lay, a light spatter of blood across its glossy surface, next to the hook torn from Candyman’s wrist. “That’s not for you.”

“Please, Mama,” Nicole shuddered slightly, the very thought of this thing as anything’s mother made her shiver. “If you give it to me, I’ll give you something more in return.”

The Cenobite’s eyes snapped back to Nicole. “Oh? More of your sweet suffering?”

“Yes. There’s plenty more where that came from,” Nicole held the Cenobite’s eyes with her own. “And it’s all for you if you give me the box.”

The thing seemed to ponder this for a few moments, glancing from the box to the girl and back again as it did some unseen calculations in its head. “I can’t do it, baby,” a look of fear, human to the last, suddenly filled Mama’s face. “What about...” Its eyes turned away from Nicole, back to the floor where it was now obvious that Candyman was heavily outmatched by the power of the Cenobite leader he was fighting.

The larger man was suspended again, this time in a prone position about six feet or so above the floor and facing downward. As many as twenty of the heavy black chains, the sharp, barbed hooks digging into the stump of a wrist, both arms, both legs, and various points all along the man’s back, held him aloft. Not a sound escaped the man’s lips, which were pinned closed by what looked like a thread made entirely of muscle. The Cenobite had taken up position, standing almost casually, at the man’s head. It cradled the rusty, bloody hook that had been Candyman’s right hand for a century or more in the crook of its arm, stoking it gently, like a father with his newborn baby.

“He’s got other things to worry about right now,” Nicole drew Mama’s attention back, her voice now harder, more determined. “Let Pinhead there stay busy with his new toy. You get me the box, and I’ll give you what you want in return.”

Mama seemed to mull this over for a few moments, then turned and quickly bent at the waist, grabbed the box up off the floor A small, almost static like discharge ran up the Cenobite’s arm the second its pale, cold flesh made contact with the box, then turned back to Nicole and held out the prize.

Nicole looked down at the box, but could not reach for it, the clamps at her shoulders made it nearly impossible to move her arms more than a few inches. She glanced quickly at each clamp, then back at Mama’s waiting eyes.

The Cenobite stepped forward again, this time it stroked the chains above Nicole gently, and the clamps snapped open as one. Nicole toppled helplessly to the floor, landing in a heap onto her forgotten sandals. She rubbed at each shoulder with the opposite hand for a moment, taking stock of the surly bruised flesh beneath the shredded material of the dress. She did the same to her ankles, which, while still being held by the chains from the floor, were no longer a point of great pressure as she was no longer suspended and being pulled in both directions. The dark chains had grown lax and their grip against her skin had loosened enough to allow her fingers to move them. Bright red rings, marked by the links in the chains, encircled Nicole’s ankles and stung under her ministrations.

Mama knelt down in front of Nicole, that same creepy look of maternal joy on its face, and once again offered the box up as a great reward. Clearly, Nicole thought, whatever being made Cenobites saw no need to make them very smart.

Nicole reached out her hands and took a firm grip on the sides of the box. The panels were warm and slightly slick from the showering of blood they had received earlier, but Nicole was no less happy to have the box once again in her grasp.

XIII

“Thank you,” Nicole looked deep into the Cenobite’s eyes. A pang of guilt suddenly flashed through her. She’d used this creature to get the box, not caring in the least for what would happen to it after the other one found out what had been done. This Cenobite, the one calling itself Mama, had been only concerned, without any explanation and against everything Nicole had thought possible with these creatures, for her well-being.

“Now, baby,” Mama raised its hand up between their two faces, the needles had once again extended from the tips of the Cenobite’s fingers. “For what was promised?”

Nicole could only nod.

Once again the sharp sensation of the needles penetrating her skin caused Nicole to take a deep breath and hold back the urge to scream out in pain.

Focus, she told herself. Work the box, ignore the memories.

She moved her hands slowly, with purpose, across the now familiar surface of the box, searching once again for the hidden switch that would open the box and hopefully reverse the events that brought the Cenobites here. Her thumb tricked against something that made the box click and then a piece of the cube began to move slightly forward and around in a pivoting turn.

She moved her hands through the thick fur of the soft cat seated next to her on the hard sofa. It was Auntie June’s cat Selene, the black Persian beast that was far too big to be a normal house cat, but much friendlier than a panther. The cat purred deep in its chest as Nicole stroked its thick coat, her thumb rubbing against the back of the animal’s ear causing its head to pivot to one side.

The box let out a series of notes, musical chimes that seemed to draw the attention of the Cenobite leader away from whatever torturous things it was doing.

“No,” it hollered at Nicole. “Stop what you’re doing, girl.”

Mama groaned suddenly, falling slightly forward against Nicole’s shoulder, causing the girl to wince as the Cenobite hit a bruised spot of flesh. She felt dozens of tiny hands, cold and invading and grabbing, on her thighs and at her waist. The poked and prodded and groped at every part of her they could reach, trying to either invade her or get to the box as she blindly manipulated it.

Nicole continued to work the box, she twisted the corner piece back into place and turned the cube over in her grip, bringing another panel up and moving her thumbs slowly around a circular impression in the center of the square. Another click, and the box suddenly leapt from her grasp and flew out into the hall, past Mama’s now prone body, to land in front of the male Cenobite. The leader of the group. The Pinhead, as she had called it.

Nicole sat under the bleachers in the gym, she was cold, and she hurt all over. No matter how hard she tried, she could not warm up, could not stop the tears or the shivering. The floor was cold and hard under her naked skin, a thin trickle of blood ran across her thigh and pooled on the hardwood under her leg. All she could think of was how they had all laughed at her as she had screamed and railed against them while they had taken turns with her.

“What have you done, child?” the one she had called “Pinhead” demanded of her, its normally thick voice nothing but an angry whisper.

From where the box lay, there rose a light, musical series of tones and chimes, like the old music box that Mommy had given Nicole on her ninth birthday which had sat on her dresser and sung her to sleep so many nights after that. It had a tiny dancing figure in it. The figure turned about slowly as the music chimed away, ticking off the seconds until the turnstile was done and it would repeat.

Blue light once again filled the corridor of mirrors, its source unknown, until it was nearly blinding. This was not the same, pale blue that had heralded the arrival of the Cenobites, but something sharper; brighter and more powerful. Nicole closed her eyes against the light, blocking out the sights that surrounded her body.

She had also closed her eyes to the light of the car headlights as they passed her on the road where she had been thrown from the car after the accident. Her friends had all wanted to see the new Wes Craven movie at the drive in, and they had piled into Katie’s family’s van to go. Everything had been going really great, Nicole and Kyle had actually hit it off better than anyone could have expected, when the vehicle suddenly swerved of the roadway and Nicole was tossed out the shattered rear window and onto the heavy gravel at the side of the road. Only Katie and she had survived the inferno that had ensued. The screams of all the others trapped inside the van had been horrible.

Chains rattled loudly as a heavy wind suddenly blasted through the corridor. Nicole felt it tear through her hair, whipping it around her head wildly as it filled the hallway.

“What have you done!?” Pinhead hollered over the heavy wind.

Nicole felt the weight of Mama suddenly lifted, her eyes flew wide open as a sudden pain filled her chest where the needles from the Cenobite’s fingers were suddenly, forcefully, torn free.

Standing over her now, its eyes blazing with anger and hatred, the Pinhead Cenobite glared down at Nicole where she sat, huddled against the remains of the mirror behind her, crying and bleeding from four puncture wounds in her chest and a couple of slashed ankles.

“This is not the end, girl. We are forever. We are pain; we are suffering. You will not be done with us so easily.”

Nicole could only force her eyes closed, blocking out the hideous visage of the Cenobite as it stared down at her. Hiding from view the tortured shape of the Candyman, the fallen corpse of what had been a very beautiful man turned Cenobite. Avoiding the appearance of the shattered form of Mama, its body smashed into a pile of loose bones and ragged flesh where Pinhead had hurled it against a mirror further down the hall.

The wind howled its anguish as it rushed along the length of the corridor over and over, growing constantly stronger as it fed itself on its own energy.

Pinhead’s deep, regal voice battled hard against the howling wind, the content of its statements lost to the ever growing cacophony within the tight confines of the mirrored corridor.

Then, just as immediately as the noise had built, all was silent.

Nicole took several deep breaths, smelling the freshness in the air. None of the pain and fear that had been there before lingered. It was like a fresh spring morning, after a heavy night’s rainfall.

Finally, she opened her eyes.

The hall of mirrors looked as though nothing had changed since she had entered an eternity ago. The floor was dusty, the only sign of life were the footprints she had left coming in. Her own face, tear streaked and weary eyed, stared back at her from all along the hall.

Four tiny trails of blood ran down the exposed flesh between the flaps of her torn dress, separated into even pairs by the thin material of her bra. Her hair was a nest of tangles and insane curls, her cloths were torn and bloody, her ankles had thick bands of blood running their entire circumference, and she was cold. But she was still alive.

Sitting forlornly in the middle of the floor, equidistant from the mirror at each side of the hall, was the Lemarchand puzzle box, gleaming silently in a pool of pale white light cast from ceiling above.

EPILOGUE

Daniel Robitaille lowered the brush he was holding and set it gently into the cup of water at his side. He leaned back slightly from the canvas before him, looking long and hard at the final work. His masterpiece, his love, his life.

“Caroline,” Daniel’s deep voice beckoned to the beautiful blond woman stretched out on the dark velvet sofa. “I think it’s finished.” He looked again at the portrait, then back to the woman, his artist’s eyes appraising. “Yes, it is truly finished. Come, look.”

Caroline rose from the sofa, pulled the thin satin robe closed over her naked breasts, and came slowly behind Daniel. She wrapped her pale arms gently about his thick, dark chest and rested her chin on his shoulder.

“My God, Daniel,” she inhaled sharply. “It’s beautiful.”

“Not so beautiful as you, my love.” Daniel pivoted about on the stool upon which he sat, wrapping his thick arms around Caroline’s small waist. “Or as beautiful as our child will be.”

Caroline stepped back, gently rubbing her hands over the tiny swell of life in her womb, then turned back to the sofa.

“I have something for you, my love,” she called over her shoulder. “It just arrived from France. They’re very popular there.”

She bent slightly and pulled a small, beautifully wrapped package out from where it had lain, hidden beside the sofa and behind the drapery of her robe where she had posed. Gently, cradling the package in both hands, she turned back to Daniel and extended the gift to him.

He took the gift in his huge, dark hands, and gently pulled the glittering paper from it.

“A box?” He held up a beautiful ornate cube of wood about three inches square and inlaid with gold designs on all the faces.

“It was made by a French designer named Philip Lemarchand. It’s said he was a killer of men and women and his boxes hold the key to everlasting life and love.”

“It’s beautiful, Caroline,” Daniel whispered, mesmerized by the highly polished cube of wood and gold as he turned it over and over in his hands. “Thank you.”

“It’s also a puzzle. They say that great rewards come to those who open it.” Caroline sat on the edge of the sofa, leaned forward and watched the box closely. “Why not try and open it? See what’s inside?”