Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25809221-20150219171114

I'm going to start off with the idea behind this story. I am currently in the middle of a Supernatural binge, and one of the scenes were Dean is dragged to Hell gave me a great idea. I wanted to start it off innocently enough. I want it to seem like a cliche torture porn creepypasta, but leading into a darker subplot of the victim, before revealing that he was trapped in Hell. I feel like this is an interesting twist on the usual cliches, and I hope it translates well.

I buck and pull against the leather restraining me, pulling, twisting desperately. I don’t know where I am, but I know I need to escape. A hoarse scream scratches through my throat, but the air is too stale and hot to breath, much less call for help.

“Goodie goodie, you’re awake my boy! You’ve been takin’ a nap for a good long while now,” A voice giggles through the dark, hinted with a antiquated Louisiana twinge. I see a glint of light and my eyes go wide with fear. “Now now, what do you say we get back to work, huh sonny?”

A hear a few steps echo off the stone before he’s close enough to see, but his features are blurred and impossible to make out in the darkness.

“Who the fuck are you?” I gasp. “Where the hell am I?”

“Those details are… unnecessary. All you need to know is that you’re mine, boy.” He leans over me and flashes a wicked grin, before gently bringing the knife to my flesh. He caresses my cheek for a moment, gives me a playful slap, then gets to work with the glistening blade. He speaks to me softly while he cuts into me expertly.

“Now, I know this seems all so sudden, but I assure you there is a method to my madness.” He makes a jagged cut along my arm, and I wince and inhale sharply. “Ahem, sorry. Hand slipped for a moment. You understand.” He continues working, dragging the wickedly sharp blade across my flesh, but his work is precise. The pain is sharp and and the copper-y smell of blood clogs the air. I strain my neck to see what he is doing, but it is impossible between the darkness and the dissy-ness. I feel a blunt pain as he reaches into the wound and removes something.

“What- errg- do you want with me you bastard?”

“I don’t want anything, persay. It’s my job. I just happen to enjoy it. I’m sure you’ve gotten that advice before. ‘If ya’ love your job you’ll never work a day in your life’, as the cliche goes. You loved your job too, if I remember correctly.”

I struggle to remember my old job, but everything before the leather straps and knives is hazy. I start to realise how little I remember. I struggle for a moment to bring my name to mind, but it’s lost.

“Your name was Jackie, boy. Well, Jack. Doesn’t have the same ring to it, if ya’ ask me.”

I glance at him curiously.

“What? Don’t say I never did anythin’ for ya, ol’ Jacky.” He picks up another knife from a small cart I didn’t notice before. A memory flashes into my head, from my childhood. I was with my father, a deer rested on the table. Hunting. I loved hunting. The knife is a large skinning knife. The sonovabitch is going to skin me. I pull and twist against the straps with renewed energy. My mind goes blank, filled with a primal desire to escape. To survive. He punches me solidly in the jaw, and I go slack, but I remain conscious. He returns to the wound on my arm, using it as a starting point. Hot pain flashes through my entire body, dwarfing the hurt from the initial cut. The skin comes off in bloody strips, revealing muscle and flesh beneath it. I scream harshly, tearing my throat and mouth. I scream until I can’t breath, then I scream some more. My voice goes hoarse and dies down to a dry whimper. He works silently for a long time. He works slowly until my arm is stripped bare.

“Now, now, sonny. This is for your own good. Pain is sin, and you have plenty of sin.” He grabs a glass container of a white grainy substance, and I realise it’s salt. “Salt represents purity. It cleanses evil.” He generously pours the salt on to my skinless arm, and rubs it in evenly. Caringly.

Another memory flashes into my mind. I’m older now, again with my father. We rub salt into the left over kill, to keep it from being contaminated, and to make it last much longer. My father smiles at me. His eyes say ‘You did good, kid’. Suddenly he takes my hand, and pulls me to look at him. The memory is silent, but I see his lips move. “Come er’, I want to show you something.” He takes me outside, and out to a shed. He opens a door and leads me to a patch on the ground, covered with hay. He kicks it aside, and shows me a small trapdoor, flaking with old blood. “I can trust you, can’t I, son?”

“Ain’t so bad, is it?” His voice pulls me back to reality.

“Fuck you!” I spit.

“Watch yer’ tone, boy. I’m the one with the knife, ain’t I?” He waves it in my face, grinning, before I jamming into my hand. My eyes roll back into my head and the world, if there still is one beyond this room, goes black.

I awake after what feels like a few hours. My eyes flutter open hesitantly. I don’t see any sign of the man. My eyes start to adjust to the darkness, and I notice the pain in my arm is missing. I crane my neck against the leather straps and I gasp. My arm is unscathed, and smooth. Something feels missing. A memory floods my head. I’m cleaning a knife, soaked in crimson blood to the hilt. I’m alone this time. I’m much older now, at least in my early twenties. I hear a knock on the door, startling me, and I slip; cutting my forearm with the blade. I curse, and cover the wound with the washcloth, before answering the door. I see an injured aging man, his salt and pepper hair accented by highlights of blood red.

“Dad?”

“It’s not mine. I need to come inside.”

“Yeah, of course.” I pull him inside, closing and locking the door. “What the hell happened?”

“A hunt went bad. I just need to lay low and clean up.”

“Yeah, of course. Was anyone following you?”

“Daydreaming again, are we?” I stare at my dad, confused, before the memory fades. The man was back. 