The Hellhound's Unwilling Bitch - 02

"If in doubt," her mother explained, "you must lie still and think pleasant thoughts." Proper Victorian women could endure anything for their husbands, or so she believed.

Until her husband was possessed.

As a ghost, Cassius cared little for sex, but his new body changed everything.

Sweet screams will not stop her brutal rape, nor will begging prevent his hellhound from mounting her.

Isabella

Before I could scream, his rough hand clasped over my mouth. Jasper had never touched me like this before. He’d never even shown interest. Tighter and tighter. Knuckles forced blunt nails deeper into flesh. His grip was more constrictive than my best corset. Screaming was futile. It would earn me another slap, or worse. Jasper was not a man to anger. Two years of loveless, lifeless marriage had burnt that into my mind, branded the message into my very soul. But still, I couldn’t help but whimper into his palm.

Eventually, he tossed my breast aside, like scraps for a dog, a toy he was bored of playing with. Fingers toyed with my hair. What had come over him?  This bordered on affection. Or perhaps it was just a new level of torment. My whimpers wasted valuable breath. I hushed myself, remembered what Mother had taught me.

“You are no longer a member of your father’s household, but Master Whittock’s. Just as you would please your father by bringing him afternoon tea, you must do whatever it takes to please your husband. If in doubt, you must lie still, and think pleasant thoughts.”

So, I laid still and thought pleasant things, until his hand stopped teasing my hair. Until I could breathe once more. A moment’s silence lingered between us. No explanation was offered. Not even an apology, although that was not to be expected.

“Jasper?” My voice was hoarse, almost a whisper. “What was that?” Not even a murmur of response. I should have known better. It was his right, however uncharacteristic it was.

Stone cold eyes, alight with curiosity, met mine as I turned to confront him. Just thoughtful, philosophical as Aristotle himself. If Aristotle had focused on the meaning of my breasts, that is. As if they were some fascinating puzzle, some great unanswered question, he examined them, eyes tracing over every curve, leaching as much as he could from the ill fitting nightgown. Inspecting his property. One blink, and his demeanor changed once more. The perfect soldier. Blank, lifeless eyes.

“If you’ll be so kind as to follow me, Madam.” It was Jasper’s voice, but not his words.

Perhaps this is just some fantastical dream. Some wild delusion. One in which I was respected, desired, maybe even loved. His body moved. Clutching my wrist, he pulled me out of our bed. His bed. The bed I was allowed to sleep in. I found myself following him, a single bedside candle in hand. He released me, favoring a knife as his companion. I prayed that this was some fever dream.

Sleepwalking, that’s all it was. Unconscious desires coming out to play. Would he listen to reason, now unconscious?

“Jasper,” I plead. “Come back to bed.” All that could be heard was his heavy, even stride, followed by the pattering of my bare feet, desperately hurrying after him. I reached out, a pale slender hand transformed golden under candlelight. “Jasper, darling?” I hated calling him that. My voice betrayed me, every time I uttered it. ‘Darling’ dripped with derision.

Arm torn away from me, as if my touch burnt, he purposefully strode onwards. White knuckles grasped the knife’s hilt.
“Darling?” I swallowed my disgust. “What are you doing with that knife?” A soft glint of a curved jet black blade in the flickering light, ornate carvings almost moved with him. “Jasper!” Ignored, as usual. “Dear Lord. Please, put down the knife. Please. You could seriously hurt yourself.” My voice began to beg, implore him. “Or me. You don’t want to hurt me, do you darling?”

His reply was a hollow chuckle. One that echoed through dim corridors, down unknown stairwells, into my soul. That was not Jasper’s laugh. Jasper didn’t laugh. Had the locals been right? They can’t have been. Fairy tales, and nothing more, just to frighten the children. But as he flipped the knife in the air, letting it spiral and spin, only for it to land clumsily in his hand. Blood shone bright against his marble palm. He ignored the little wound, as if it wasn’t worth commenting on. Jasper would have howled, demanded a doctor. I knew. That was my husband’s body. But not my husband.

Jasper turned a corner, several paces in front of me.

“Jasper! We’ve never even been in this part of the house before.” He strode ahead, long legs and a quick pace setting him far ahead of me. “Jasper? Where are you going?” Through another door,  he delved through passageways, as if he knew every inch of the manor. Perhaps he did. I needed to remove myself from the situation, hide under the covers until morning. I could call for the Minister then.

“Jasper, this is nonsense. I’m going back to bed.” I endeavored to feign unwavering stability, yet my shaking voice betrayed me. “Return when you’ve come to your senses.”

Ear splitting, a whistle rang through the manor. Jasper could not whistle, merely give a harsh blow. Whoever, or whatever, was inside Jasper had no issue liberating a demonic, wild screech of a whistle. Clinking, like the movement of metal armour, slow and menacing, grew ever closer to me. A pair of red eyes pierced through the darkness. I ran, clung to Jasper’s arm.

“Jasper, w-what is that thing?” Eyes forward, focused into the void ahead of us, his cold voice rang out.

“He,” I was corrected, “is my hound, Madam.”

Jasper’s feet hit the stairs, mine pattered after him; the steady metallic clink behind me encouraged me forwards. The basement reeked of dust and old mothballs. I didn’t need the flame to know cobwebs lurked in every corner. Jasper’s eyes fixed upon an ornate sconce, flaunting itself on an otherwise empty wall. With one sharp tug and push, a small segment of wall opened towards us. Jasper’s body held it open, beckoning me inside.

“Ladies first,” he encouraged.

All I could do is what I was told to. Hound and Jasper followed, entrapped me. Iron bars shuddered across us, and we began to shudder downwards. I had never even known the manor had a lift. I moved to Jasper, for protection. To wake him. I clasped my hands around his jaw, forcing dead eyes to meet mine.

“Jasper, please,” I implored him. “Stop this madness.” He simply stared, unblinking and cold, into my watery eyes, then snapped his head from my grasp to stare ahead at the iron bars.

We shuddered to a halt. Jasper unwound the bars with careful precision, before striding into the darkness. All I could do was hurry after him. Two mausoleum doors, heavy stone and ornate metal, creaked open for him, inviting. My own breath appeared in front of me, hairs standing on end. Once smooth skin was now covered with goosebumps. That old, musty smell grew stronger than ever. No one had been down here in years. I’d lost sight of Jasper, he must have wandered off to a far corner of the room.

I stood, silent. That much was not new to me. Barely seen, not heard. The natural order of things. Watching him, silently, as he moved from corner to corner, collecting unknown objects, I shuddered. Fear overwhelmed me. Breath uneven, I tried to draw myself up straight. I had never been a fainting woman. I will never be one. I refuse to be that weak and helpless. I cannot sink any lower than I have been forced to already. Why belittle myself in front of men, who already think so little of me?

An organized and cool whirlwind, Jasper’s body rushed around the hollow room. Silently, I cursed Jasper for buying this house. We’d had enough for a smaller manor, a countryside estate in a charming village. But this was cheaper. Bigger. More impressive. Jasper could show off to his friends, once it had been restored. He’d have been the talk of the town. Hubris. I always believed it would be his downfall, and had warned him about the dangers of pride. He wouldn’t listen. And now his body was not his own. I mustn't cry. Whatever is inside him will have to come out eventually.

The hurricane had finished. Or perhaps it was just the eye of the storm. He stood, dead center of the room, facing away from me. Before I could ask what he was doing, an icy voice cut through the room.

“Roth. If the dear lady makes a sound, kill her.” My heart dropped. Skin blanched, stomach turned, breath shuddered out of me. I felt my own hand, colder than marble, clasp around quivering lips. I shan’t cry, I promised myself. Forcing the candle forward, I willed myself to watch.

The glint of the knife raised high, the determination in the hand that gripped it, it was all too much. I lunged forward. To protect my husband. Snarling, the beast vaulted into my path. Menacing, it paced towards me, herded me away from his Master. All I can do is stagger back. Allow this demon to mutilate my husband. It was almost anticlimactic when a thumb was pierced for a single drop of blood. I followed it to the patterned floor.

As the blood hit the floor, an almighty crash echoed through the chamber. A rush of dusty air, as if the room itself breathed, followed it. It was all I could do to remain upright. Somehow, the great gust had spared the meagre flame. Whatever was inside Jasper clearly desired an audience.

An empty, booming voice enveloped the room. Surrounded me. Curled it’s way up into every part of me, coiling around me like some exotic snake. His voice paralyzed me. Ancient words woke, for the first time in a years, through him. He raised them from slumber, hurled them around the room in determined flurry.

Somehow, his voice grew louder, imposing. Penetrated my soul. Red flame ignited along the far wall. Each candle was an eye, scornful, burnt into me. In you, Lord, I take refuge. Two more candles framed the eyes, revealing a beast’s snarling face engraved upon the wall. In your righteousness, deliver me. Rescue me. It’s fanged mouth roaring to reveal souls, languishing in fiery torment. Eyes made of flames, blood red candle wax dripping down. Tears. Of joy, or of pain? Into your hands, you command my spirit, you will redeem me, Lord. God of truth.

Dear Lord. Save me from this demon.

Louder, he spoke. Candles on each wall sparked alight, one by one. Each commanding sentence brought about another flame, each flame closer to me than the last. Racing up the walls, dancing with fury and passion, the candles encircled us. Bound us. The floor beneath the shell of my husband began to glow. A soft yellow, warm firelight, flickered until it became angry, orange. The seven fires of hell rejoiced in our basement. His basement. Lord have mercy on me. Lord, send an angel to cool me. The entire room steamed, smoked with vengeance and wrath. Lord, please; I am in agony from this demon’s flame.

The once icy stone floor burnt red, blistered his feet. A lake of fire underneath my husband. Lord, please save his soul. The lake ebbed, seeped in between the gaps in the stones. It left behind the devil’s fiery mark, Jasper in the center, arms outstretched as though he were Christ himself. A pentagram trapped him. Or did it protect him?

Room blistering with heat, my nightgown was drenched with sweat. Our silver candelabra burnt at my hand, singed fingers opened; it clattered to the floor. I was frozen in place, a glacier in a room ablaze.  Granite walls tenderly glowing, I could see the demon on the wall fully. The eyes seemed to fixate on me, lust dancing in the flames. Every sin and moral insufficiency found home in this room.

His words became chants, which grew into pained cries. Who was in more pain: my husband, or the thing possessing him? Was my husband even there anymore? Cries crescendo to screams. Howls. The last word was unleashed, unearthly. And, against every natural force on God’s good earth, the shell of my husband levitated, Christ-like.

My husband was as good as dead, a soul belonging to the devil. Black smoke gushed out from the knife. It writhed, coursed into every orifice, under scuffed fingernails, pumping into his veins. Black as the devil, as the night. I was witnessing the soul of a demon. Be strong and courageous. The smoke, smooth as liquid, took the shape of a snarling demon above me. Do not be afraid or terrified because of him, for the Lord my God is with me. It hurtled around the room, before forcing itself into Jasper’s shell. He will never leave me, nor forsake me. The laughter and howls of a thousand demons and Satan himself echoed through the chamber, crescendoing to unimaginable heights.

A blood curdling shriek, and his body drops to the floor. Every flame in the room snuffed, into instant darkness. Hot breath of hell on my bare ankle, the soft red glow of the hound. A fire from within. Metal scales, tips more golden than the sun, inches away from my foot. Circling around me, the beast’s breath blistered my neck. The nose, normally wet and cold, smoked. Polluted smog, his sulphurous breath, roasted my neck.

A single snap of some fingers, and every candle reignited. Flame redder than merlot. Jasper’s body faced the carved demon. Lord, save me. Save my husband’s soul and then come for mine. Release me from this nightmare, Lord. I scrambled backwards, every bone in my body told me to flee. The beast’s low snarl froze me in place. My soul is for God alone, I shall wait for him in silence, for he is my only hope.

His body turned to me. Eyes danced with the fires of hell, matching the blood that dripped from his thumb. I cannot turn away from him. I don’t dare; I barely have the strength. My mouth agape with horror, all I could do was stare in wide-eyed horror at my former husband. Once golden locks dripped with sweat, matted to his temple.  Unblinking, he stared. A lecherous smile adorned his face.