MURPHY
Crossroads
Cold rain slapped down with a secret vengeance on the unyielding city streets, and Gabe Felder was sure that each individual raindrop intentionally sought out the space between his hat and collar in a malicious effort to chill him to the bone. He was convinced that no fewer than sixteen buckets of rainwater had already been unceremoniously dumped down his back by the hand of God Himself, sliding down his spine like a hundred frozen needles in his nerves before splashing with brief ripples on the asphalt.
Tarmac, Gabe corrected himself with a hint of bitterness. They call it tarmac over here.
Gabe cursed under his breath, and kept walking. He desperately wanted a cigarette. The asphalt– tarmac– couldn’t have cared less.
“Hey.” The voice came from down the crossing street off to Gabe’s right, and he stopped, turning his head to peer through the darkness and the sheets of rain to try to locate the author of the curt greeting. The unpleasant feeling of the fat droplets drenching his clothing and nibbling at his skin faded into the background, a sort of white noise of nerve sensations as he stood on the corner, his eyes searching the crossroad. There was someone in the dark... but who? His brain tuned out the rain, but warned him in bright neon letters that he was cold; he wanted that cigarette. No amount of anti-smoking ads decrying the hazard the cancer-sticks posed to his health could block out the thought of the hot smoke filling his lungs and warming him from within. Cancer be damned, he’d take instant gratification, thank you very much.
“Hey.” It was the voice again. The disembodied voice was silky smooth, and the rain almost seemed to quiet down to hear what the voice had to say. Gabe strained to hear. It vaguely occurred to him that the accent was that of an American, not that of an Englishman.
“Is somebody there?” he asked the darkness, hoping he hadn’t just stopped in the middle of a rainstorm for nothing. Maybe the disembodied voice was selling umbrellas.
There was no sound to accompany the man’s footsteps, or if there was, it was washed away by the pounding of the rain on the tarmac. The lack of sound made his appearance from out of the darkness sudden and surprising, and his physical appearance did nothing to assuage the shock. He was... well, he was a beautiful man. Even in the darkness, his features were lit as if he was standing in broad daylight. Under the man’s red umbrella, his hair was blond and naturally wavy, hanging just past the tops of his ears. His eyes were a sparkling blue, and his clean-shaven face looked as if it was carved from the finest marble. Gabe was dumbfounded, both by the man’s beauty and by the nagging suspicion at the back of his mind that he recognized this smiling Adonis.
“You don’t look too pleased, Gabriel,” the man said casually, his silky-smooth voice like the resonance of a harp’s strings.
“It’s raining, sir,” Gabe replied, the realization that this strange person knew his name rolling off his back with the rest of the raindrops. The man wore a white suit with gold buttons that shone in Gabe’s eyes, even in the darkness. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, which Gabe gratefully took. “Have a light?”
“Of course, lean under the umbrella,” the man said with a smile, and Gabe did as he was told.
The man clicked his fingers and a small flame appeared– Must be a lighter I didn’t see, Gabe thought– and Gabe used it to spark his smoke, taking a long drag of warmth and cancer. The man’s gold cufflinks flashed in the fire’s light; they read MS.
“I’ve been waiting for you for quite a while, Gabriel,” the man said, his eyes bright, his smile warm, his voice so silky smooth.
“Sorry I’m late,” Gabe replied, completely unaware that he’d broken an engagement with the man before him. “What’s your name?”
The man laughed; it sounded like the peals of a hundred silver bells. “Forgotten already? Such a piece of work is man. Won’t you guess my name?” He grinned, a spark of challenge in his sapphire eyes. His eyes were hard like gems, and glinted in stark contrast to his red umbrella.
Gabe had no desire to guess, he just wanted to get the hell out of the rain. The man’s cufflinks flashed MS again. “You could have one of a million names,” he said, a hint of something between aggravation and desperation in his voice.
This comment was apparently riotously funny, because the man laughed so hard he nearly doubled over. When he regained his breath, he said, “I suppose that’s true. I could have one of a million names, or a million names that all mean the same thing. But what’s in a name?” He smiled in such a way that left Gabe inclined to believe him on both counts. “My name’s Murphy,” he said finally.
“Murphy,” Gabe reiterated, racking his brain for some reference point. If he was supposed to know this man, why didn’t the name Murphy ring a bell? “Like the law?”
Murphy chuckled. “Yes, like the law. Murphy’s Law, something will always go wrong.” The words struck Gabe as ironic coming from a man as physically flawless as Murphy seemed to be. Even his white suit and gold cufflinks were immaculate, untouched by the fat droplets that poured from the sky. It was as if Murphy’s clothes were sticking their collective tongue out at the Rainmaker in all His infinite glory. Gabe found the idea amusing, if a little heretical.
They stood there on the corner, looking at each other, for what felt to Gabe like a long time. He finished his cigarette and dropped it to the ground, grinding the remaining cinders under his heel, never taking his eyes off Murphy. MS, Gabe thought to himself, studying the smiling man’s features. If the ‘M’ is Murphy, what’s the ‘S?’
“Come on then,” Murphy said, inclining his head back down the road from whence he’d appeared. “We’re going to be late if we don’t go now.”
Gabe was confused. Late? Why do I feel that I know this man? “Late for what?” he asked, hunching against the rain as the temporary warmth of the smoke and nicotine began to wear off. That was the downside of cancer-sticks; they left you craving more, and the cravings were always worse than they’d been at the start.
Murphy smiled condescendingly. “For our game, of course,” he replied with infinite patience. “Poker, my friend, where the stakes are high, and you can win... well, anything your heart desires. And I do mean anything.” Murphy’s smile turned just slightly devious, the mischievous smile of a five-year-old who plots to steal cookies when his mother isn’t looking, and his sapphire eyes sparked with just the slightest hint of challenge, an invitation that only Gabe could see. “But of course, you have to ante up to play.”
Gabe stared at Murphy, nodding slowly to show he comprehended, though he was fully aware that he did not. Poker? Ante? What sort of high stakes? The thoughts ran through his head at a whirlwind pace. Murphy had said he could win whatever his heart desired... no more nine-to-five, no more cubicles or micro-management. No more “yes sir, no sir, I’ll have it done by Wednesday, sir.” Money, power... clout. Drugs, if they’d make him forget his disgustingly average existence. A kinkier sex life with Greta. Maybe a threesome or two. Hell, maybe a kinkier sex life with whomever he damn well pleased? The possibilities were endless. But was that really what this man called Murphy meant when he said “anything?” And what about Greta?
Murphy turned, and walked back down the crossroad from whence he came, his stride slow and deliberate, his white suit pristine, his gold cufflinks shining MS from beneath the red umbrella into Gabe’s eyes. Gabe watched him for a moment.
Money. Power. Sex. MS...
Gabriel Felder watched the man in white a moment more, then followed him down the street into the darkness.
Witch’s Kitchen
Murphy led Gabe down the street for either several minutes or several hours, an indeterminate period of time. Gabe could barely see Murphy in front of him through the darkness and the rain. He was reduced to following not the man, but the white suit that pierced the gloom and beckoned Gabe to follow. They turned many corners, walking down crossroads and side streets with twists and turns. Everywhere they walked, Gabe had the sensation of walking downwards; he felt that the roads had a downward incline, and the more he walked, the easier each next step became.
They finally stopped on a street corner, and Murphy smiled at Gabe from beneath his red umbrella. His hand moved slightly, gesturing to a set of stairs that led down from the street. Gabe peered through the rain in the direction the hand pointed. Down the short flight of stairs was a red door with small glass panes, with a black-and-red sign above it that read Auerbach’s. A warm glow radiated from the glass panes in the door, and the muffled noise of general merriment wafted up from the door through the heavy air to tickle Gabe’s senses. The door was calling to him, beckoning him, enticing him with promises of corporeal euphoria. Gabe was a willing seducee.
“Before we go in,” Murphy cut in smoothly, insinuating his voice into Gabe’s thoughts and desires, “there is a small matter of some paperwork that must be completed.” He said it with such grace that Gabe completely missed how similar Murphy sounded to his boss back home.
“Of course,” Gabe nodded, as if Murphy’s petition for legal documentation was the most natural request in the world. The experience was surreal, so perfectly senseless that Gabe was convinced he was dreaming. It occurred to him that even if Murphy and Auerbach’s and the red umbrella were real, however, the outcome would likely be the same. Gabe was willing and able. He was a man of wants.
Murphy handed Gabe a single sheet of old-looking paper, and a red pen. Not a single raindrop touched the yellowed document or the ballpoint quill. Gabe took them both. He didn’t bother to read the writing on the paper; he only saw the dotted line at the bottom, marked with a red X. “Anything your heart desires, my friend,” Murphy said, his voice so silky smooth, enticing like fine whiskey and the bare breast of a beautiful woman. “It’s all within your grasp. Wouldn’t you love to simply reach out your hand, and take all those things you’ve ever wanted?”
Gabe wanted more than just to reach out and take. He wanted to reach out and grab life by the balls. Money. Power. Sex. There was euphoria through those window panes, utopia just beyond the red door. “I’d sell my soul for it,” Gabe said in a fervent whisper. MS flashed in his eyes, but he didn’t blink.
The blood-red pen graced the paper with his signature, and Murphy’s bright smile nearly stopped Gabe’s heart. “That’s my boy,” he said happily. He took the paper back and folded it neatly, tucking it into the inside pocket of his suit. Gabe noticed in passing that the lining of the pristine white jacket was black. He followed Murphy down the stairs and through the door.
Inside was everything that Murphy had promised, and more. Half-naked beauties strolled across thick red carpeting between black marble tables, carrying trays of drinks to the men who sat there, either playing cards or staring up at the stage, where several naked Venuses cavorted around brass poles like heathen sex goddesses. Whole cauldrons of alcoholic beverages simmered in the corners, giving the air the heady scent of bourbon and sex. There was no cover charge, and the booze was free. The air was hot enough that Gabe forgot about the pouring rain almost as soon as he walked in. Several girls greeted Murphy by assorted names as they entered; Gabe didn’t catch any of the names, but he was vaguely aware that Murphy was not one of them. Won’t you guess my name? I could have one of a million names... Murphy brushed the girls aside and led Gabe to a table in the center of the room, and sat down next to him with a bright, mischievous smile. “Just wait until you start winning at poker,” Murphy said with a laugh. “If you think this is good, just wait!”
Gabe was dumbfounded; he was convinced he’d entered the devil’s own strip bar. A flawless beauty in a g-string with stunning blond hair and an ass that could launch a thousand ships brought him a dry martini, a small mirror with a miniature mountain of red powder on it, and a deck of cards, then sat lightly down across his lap. She draped her arms around his neck and leaned in close, her breath hot and heavy on Gabe’s earlobe. “Hey there, handsome,” she whispered, her muted voice husky. “I’m Helen. What’s your name?” The sound of her voice alone was arousing, despite her dialogue sounding like it was scripted for a bad porno movie. But what’s in a name?
“Gabe,” came the response. He was overwhelmed by the aroma in the air and the flesh in his lap. Murphy took the cards and shuffled them expertly before dealing them out around the table. Only then did Gabe look up and see his opponents: floating, disembodied hands. They were players without brains, without the capability to think. Gabe realized that he could not lose, and he smiled. He took a long sip of the dry martini, and looked from Murphy’s smiling face to Helen’s. There was no place he would have rather been. He pulled a five-pound note from the wallet in his back pocked and used it to divide the small mountain of red powder into lines.
Murphy chuckled. “You’ve got to ante up, Gabe,” he said smoothly, his voice mixing with the smell that already permeated the air and stroking Gabe’s senses. “You’ve got to ante up if you want to play.”
Gabe looked at Helen, and her expression turned to a slight pout. “It’s true, you can’t play without an ante,” she said, and nodded slightly. She leaned in so that her forehead rested against his. “You can’t stay if you won’t ante. Please stay with me?” If Gabe wasn’t already drunk on his surroundings, her cliched lines might have repulsed him, but as things stood her words only made him want her more. He never wanted to leave.
“The bigger the ante, the higher the profits,” Murphy cautioned him with the slightest hint of glee, as Gabe rolled the five-pound note into a tight straw and put it to his nose. He looked down into the mirror and smiled at himself. His reflection smiled back.
He inhaled a line of the red powder, sparking a lightning storm in his brain. It was heavenly.
Money. Power. Sex. Helen...
“Greta,” Gabe said simply, and picked up his cards. He was unsurprised to find that he held a royal flush.
Walpurgis Night
Gabe stayed in Murphy’s strip club for so long that he almost forgot the existence of time and the fact of its passage. He spent much of his time with Helen in the V.I.P. rooms, his senses drugged with the red powder, the heady aroma that permeated the club, and Helen’s flesh. The back rooms were always dark, as if the electrician who had wired the club had forgotten about them. Perhaps they were tacked on after the original construction with little thought given to lighting them, Gabe thought. It hardly mattered; only Helen mattered. Sometimes he tired of her, and had another girl or three come off the stage to join him in the back rooms, but he always came back to her. He’d given up so much for Helen; she was his now. She belonged to him, and he’d have her whenever and however he pleased. Gabe was drunk.
When he wasn’t feeling frisky, Gabe played poker against the disembodied hands, and always found a way to win. A royal flush would win one hand, three sixes the next. Somebody always seemed to have three sixes in their hand, an odd occurrence that hadn’t failed since the first time Gabe noticed it, countless hands ago. He had been reduced to understanding his own internal rhythms based on the number of hands of poker he’d played, coupled with the number of times he’d had sex, and with how many different girls. Every time, they were always virgins; even Helen was a virgin each and every time he had his way with her. There was always blood. Gabe came to expect it; he came to enjoy it. He reveled in the feeling of breaking his girls. The blood was his mark of pride. He’d paid dearly for that blood, though he hardly remembered in just what currency he’d paid. It didn’t matter; in Auerbach’s, Gabe was king, complete with riches beyond his imagination and a harem that would have made the pharaohs jealous.
Gabe’s mind was shot. The red powder infected his brain, twisting his perceptions. He always inhaled it off the mirror, and his reflection always smiled back at him, looking him right in the eyes with a devilishly happy gleam in its own. There were long spaces in his memory where he remembered nothing but black and red, a sea of the darkest crimson. The waters were thick like blood. The sound of rain echoed in his head. He walked across the sea of blood, walked on it like Jesus walked on water, as the rain he couldn’t feel fell around him. He took communion from the sea. Heavy thudding sounds accompanied his services. This is the flesh. Thud. This is the blood. Thud. The rain screamed his name.
Murphy
stopped by occasionally; he was frequently away on business. When he returned, even he catered to Gabe, bringing him gifts from places that Gabe had never seen: a silk kimono from
It was much later– Gabe wasn’t sure if it was hours, days, or years– that Murphy returned to Auerbach’s and pulled Gabe aside. “We’ve got to go,” he said simply, that silky-smooth voice of his persuasive and musical. “We simply can’t miss the ceremony.”
Gabe stared blankly at Murphy, the man who had provided so much, yet stayed so cloaked in enigma. Very little he ever said actually made sense to Gabe. “What ceremony?” Gabe asked, suddenly remembering the long walk down to Auerbach’s behind Murphy. Late for what? What ceremony? What’s your name? What’s your name? It seemed like so long ago...
Murphy chuckled, and took gentle hold of Gabe’s arm. His hand was hot on Gabe’s skin, even in the humid heat of Auerbach’s. “We can’t miss the ceremony. It would be in such bad taste.” Gabe couldn’t have cared less whether it was in good taste or bad taste; Helen was waiting for him in one of the back rooms, waiting in that intoxicating darkness for her chance to worship properly at the altar of Gabe. He found the concept exhilarating.
“Of course, we can’t miss the ceremony,” Gabe acquiesced. He never disagreed with Murphy, an offense that would be tantamount to biting the hand that fed him. Murphy catered to Gabe, but Gabe did not dare question Murphy. He had no reason to question the man in the impeccable white suit, Gabe reasoned with himself. He has done nothing but give... why complain? What ceremony? What’s your name?
The beautiful man in white smiled warmly. “That’s my boy,” he said with pride in his voice, and Gabe’s heart soared.
They left the confines of Auerbach’s and stepped out into the night; it was raining, just as it had been when Gabe had first entered the club. Has any time passed at all? Gabe wondered, confused, his brain still addled by the booze and the red powder, and the smell of sweat on Helen’s skin. How long have I been gone? He huddled close to Murphy under the red umbrella like a child holding his mother’s leg, trying to avoid being left at school for the day. He feared the cold and the rain. Murphy smiled. He always smiled.
Gabe and Murphy made the long trek back up the winding streets, back to the corner where they’d met in the time that felt so long ago. The time that was before poker, before the red powder, before Helen... it felt like days, weeks, years. For all Gabe knew, it might have been a century. It probably wasn’t five minutes, he decided, though his decision was largely based on his desire to believe that he’d lasted longer than that during sex. He continued to walk with Murphy under the red umbrella, the cold rain splattering around their feet, angry that it could not touch them.
They walked so long that Gabe almost didn’t notice that Murphy had led him into a building. The inside was spacious and nicely decorated; it was a hotel lobby. Murphy left the red umbrella open, and pressed the call button for the elevator. He chuckled at the marvel of invention that ever-so-slowly descended to meet them. “Such a piece of work is man,” he said, half to himself. Gabe wasn’t sure if Murphy was admiring the elevator, or comparing it to mankind.
I am no machine, Gabe thought defiantly, before his thoughts turned quickly back to their usual cycle: If I had a trillion dollars... If I was ruler of the world... If Helen and a few other girls were here... Murphy only smiled at the neutral expression on Gabe’s face. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, and Murphy led Gabe inside. The doors shut behind them with the mechanical whirr of a washing machine on spin cycle.
Gabe stood in the center of the elevator, watching and observing without comprehending anything. He wanted Helen and the red powder. Murphy pressed the 6 button three times, and the elevator started its descent. “Where are we going?” Gabe asked. The elevator was red. It should be going up, Gabe thought dimly, but the fact hardly mattered. Physics was only a law, and laws were meant to be broken. There is a small matter of some paperwork...
Murphy smiled. He always smiled. He could have had one of a million names, or a million names that all meant the same thing, but he always had that smile. “We’re going to see a play,” he said, his voice so silky smooth. Gabe blinked.
“But I thought you said we were going to a ceremony,” he protested meekly, more confused than irritated. Plays were boring compared to sex, but ceremonies were worse. Just the word ceremony reminded him of church, a wholly loathsome thought. Murphy smiled.
“I know,” he said.
Gabe shook his head, pressing his fingers to his right temple. His head hurt; he wanted the powder. “Is the ceremony the play?” he asked. He wanted a cigarette, a desire that surprised him. He was feeling antsy and claustrophobic in the elevator, which seemed to get smaller and smaller.
Murphy slid his hands into his pockets as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, revealing a dimly-lit room with a stage. “The play is the ceremony,” he replied, and stepped out of the machine box. Gabe was only too happy to follow him.
As soon as Gabe’s feet touched the thick black carpeting beneath his feet, the elevator doors slid closed, and a spotlight illuminated the stage. The stage curtains were red. The powder was red. The virgins’ blood was red. Everything was red. Gabe was lost in a sea of red.
The curtains pulled back. The backdrop that was revealed was gruesome; it appeared to have been built of bone, and was splattered with blood that was still wet. Gabe could feel the warmth of the blood that trickled down the backdrop wall. In the center, a woman was nailed to an upside-down cross, with a nail in her throat and another in each ankle, the crossbar forcing her legs lewdly open wide. Her stomach was slashed open, her intestines hung out; they were purple and black. There was blood everywhere, heavy splashes from a sea of dark crimson red. On the stage, marionettes of witches danced and sang and delivered meaningless monologues. Gabe could barely make out the strings that manipulated their puppet limbs. The strings were black. They should have been red.
What’s your name? Won’t you guess my name? MS. The bigger the ante, the higher the profits. The bigger the ante, the higher the profits. Won’t you guess my name? A million names that all mean the same thing. MS. All mean the same thing...
Gabe knew the woman on the cross. His eyes widened, and he was awake for the first time.
“Greta!”
Collection
Murphy’s slow, sarcastic applause drew Gabe out of his daze of horror, and he spun to face the beautiful man in white. “Such an astute observation,” Murphy said, his voice so silky smooth. Gabe found the voice repulsive.
“You! You did this!” Gabe shouted, red anger boiling up inside him. He wanted to jump at Murphy, to attack the man in white, to strangle the life out of the smug bastard. His feet were rooted to the floor.
Murphy smiled condescendingly. “No, as a matter of fact, I did not... but you did.” His voice was patronizing. Gabe felt sick.
“You’re lying! You’re lying!” Gabe screamed at him, his entire body shaking with the force of his denial. He walked on seas of blood, and the rain screamed his name. “That’s my wife, you bastard! You killed my wife!”
Murphy smiled. He always smiled. He reached into the pocket of his immaculate white jacket with black lining and withdrew a small mirror. Murphy blew on the surface of the mirror, and a cloud of red dust billowed up from the mirror’s surface. “Surely you remember this?” he asked, holding the mirror out to Gabe, holding it so that Gabe could see his face. “You stared into it more times than even I could count offhand. Surely you remember your own reflection?”
Gabe stared into the mirror, and his body shook. His face was smeared with blood; his hands were dripping with blood. He looked into the mirror at himself, and found himself covered in blood. It was warm, it was fresh; it was not his blood. No amount of scrubbing could ever wash the stain of blood from his body. He had walked on seas of blood, the darkest crimson blood, and the rain had screamed his name. The world was black and red; the rain’s screams of pain echoed in his ears, growing louder and louder. He could hear his own heart beating, pumping seas of darkest crimson blood. “I didn’t... I didn’t,” he stammered, flailing futilely for the words that could possibly express the cyclone of his emotions. The ones he found paled in comparison.
“I’m not a murderer,” he whispered, then shouted with more conviction, “I am not a murderer! I am not a murderer!”
“You weren’t a murderer,” Murphy corrected him gently, as a father corrects his son’s grammatical mistake. “You weren’t before, but you are now. Don’t you remember?” The rain had screamed his name, over and over. Gabe! Gabe! Gaaaaaaabe! “You carved her up with such glee,” Murphy continued, unfazed by Gabe’s convulsive shuddering. “You even nailed her to the cross. I thought I was going to have to do that for you.” He sighed proudly, and smiled at Gabe. He was always smiling. “You should have seen your eyes, my boy,” he whispered musically and with conviction. “Oh, they burned so magnificently.”
Gabe shuddered and felt sick to his stomach, worse than the chicken tikka and two beers ever could have felt. He trembled against his will. “I’m not a murderer,” he protested, his voice fragile. “I’m not... and you... you’re name’s not Murphy...”
Murphy laughed. “Am I not? You said it yourself, my boy: I could have one of a million names. I could go down the list with you right now if you’d like, though we’d be here ‘til next Tuesday, and by that time this place will start to smell. I’d rather not be here for that, the odor is so unpleasant. I’m sure you understand. Besides, I rather like the name Murphy; like the law, something will always go wrong.” His silky-smooth voice was so reasonable, it made Gabe want to vomit. There was too much red; all over the room, all over Gabe, all over his hands and thoughts and soul. Everything was red.
One of a million names, or a million names that all mean the same thing. MS... MS! The rain screamed again and again and again. This is the flesh. Thud. This is the blood. Thud.
Gabe’s eyes were wide with terror. His knees gave out from under him, and he collapsed weakly to the black-carpeted floor. It all made sense, it was so simple. In a quiet, fragile, pathetic wail, Gabe choked out, “Morning Star...”
Murphy moved fluidly to crouch down beside Gabe. He reached out, almost comfortingly, and traced a pattern on Gabe’s forehead with his index finger. When Murphy pulled his hand back so that he could admire his handiwork, a pentagram was burned into Gabe’s flesh, a stigma that would never fade or heal. “I like you, Gabriel,” the Fallen Angel said softly, soothingly. “You were always so ready and willing... my servants liked you. The one who played Helen was particularly fond of you, for reasons I’m sure you don’t need me to explain.” His smile was faint and fatherly. “He was sad to see you leave.”
Out in the middle of his sea of red, Gabe felt the crimson blood slowly sucking him in. He never walked on water, but now he would drown in blood. Helen... “he?” Even the revulsion that might otherwise have accompanied such a realization was lost on him, adrift on the darkest crimson sea. This is the flesh. He remembered the feel of the hammer in his hands as he nailed each spike home, through flesh and bone and into the cross. This is the blood. She’d screamed his name; he had kept her alive that long. When he’d grown tired of the screams, he’d driven the nail through her throat. This is the flesh. Thud. This is the blood. Thud.
“I’m a murderer,” he whispered brokenly. Murphy smiled.
“Yes, my little Faust” the Fallen Angel said, patting Gabe’s head gently. “Yes, you are. But I like you, Gabriel. This was to be the ceremony of your collection, the termination of your contract. You were going to head straight to hell, but... I think I’ll just leave you here for a while instead, to give you some time to reflect on what you’ve done.” He smiled; he was always smiling. Once again the Fallen Angel placed his hand on Gabe’s head, this time laying his fingers over Gabe’s eyelids. When he removed his fingers, the eyelids were gone.
Murphy stood and gestured at the stage, and the marionettes all vanished. He looked down on Gabe then, his expression a mix of mirth and pity. “I’ll be back for you, Gabriel,” the Morning Star said softly. “I’ll be back to take you to hell.” He smiled, and vanished.
Gabe sat prostrate on the ground, shuddering without even a semblance of control over his body. He stared at the thick black carpet, and saw nothing but red. He refused to look up for a long, long time. He could only stare; his eyelids were gone, he could not blink. There would be no respite for him from the reality of his actions, no matter how brief.
When he finally did lift his head, she was there, hanging from the upside-down cross to which he had nailed her with his own two hands. The blood dripped down the walls; Greta was dead, their baby was dead. Gabe had killed them both.
He would not look away. He could not look away. He whispered, half to himself, “This is hell.”