Friday, August 16, 2013



By Serhiy Krykun

I raise my hands in a desperate attempt to stop the bastard. But my arms fail me, and the Chatterer 
closes in, his saliva getting in my eyes and mouth, his entrails coiling round my torso, his chattering 
almost deafening.

The Lead Cenobite laughs above me.

‘How lovely,’ – he drawls, as if savoring every syllable. – ‘Not to be able to see the eyes of your destiny. You’ve tampered with the things you have no business with, but the consequences are still yours to suffer.’

I realize that my legs are still working.

My knee shoots up. The demon tumbles forward, his wound smearing my face.

In the pale moonlight I see the Lead Cenobite’s pins twinkling; the descriptions of him carousel before 
my eyes.

They were all wrong.

He’s no Devil.

He’s beautiful.

I can’t take my eyes off him.

He speaks to me:

‘Still reluctant to go, I see. Too soon you’ll discover the foolishness of your acts, for the price will surpass your imagination.’

He moves his hand up and glances to my left.

A chain shoots from the darkness of the hall and hooks into the wall, blocking my path.

The wall starts to bleed.

I manage to get to my legs.

The Chatterer recuperates slowly. He seems to know – there is no hurry, I won’t run.

I look into the dark eyes of the Cenobite. He cocks his head and smiles faintly.

Surprised by my own actions, I fall on my knees. I taste salt on my lips – it’s not blood, I’m crying.

‘I’m willing to help. I’m just a cog wheel. I can take you to the people who pulled the lever.’


Serhiy Krykun was born in the ominous year 1984 in the deepest and obscurest part of Ukrainian countryside. He clawed his way up to the city of Kyiv and decided to hold the position. Battered by all kinds of lousy jobs, he's just recently made a "leap of faith" and proclaimed himself an artist. Since then he's been writing writing and illustrating glum scriptures by Clive Barker, Clarke Ashton Smith, Tom Ligotti and  Richard Laymon.

Art by Jason S. Voss

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