Cold Heart

Written in 2005, I believe. Quite different to the others as it is more gothic in style. It was written because I was trying to write something after a break-up. It started slow but after a while it came together. Just over 5000 words.

Cold Heart

I looked out of the window and stared into the dark, bitter night. Her name whispered through my mind over and over: Estelle. Why had I forsaken our love? An impossible question to answer, I am human and we endure the woes of our own doing. A man, far too much of a man.

The rain tapped incessantly on the pane and I placed my palm upon it. Only a thin sheet of glass kept the two elemental forces from being one- the roaring of the storm and the roaring self-loathing in my heart. I could hardly feel either, though I was totally aware of both. The thunder bellowing tauntingly outside could not speak above the gentle gasps of her name in my mind. Meanwhile, the depression had hit such a climax that I was totally numb. My heart was cold. Too cold to let me feel the wretched sorrow that clung to my soul. Both these powerful forces so undeniably prevalent and yet I remained totally immune to their strikes for attention.

Estelle. Precious, sweet Estelle. Why did I have to make her desert me? I know I was sad in those last dry, gruelling months, but she was the sanctuary from the horror in my life and not the stimulus. I was a fool to push her away. I was so aware but out of control. I see now that my cold heart did not begin on this evening. No, I have been numb to love and life since that blighted day, almost a month ago. A curse has been set upon me! And I made the deal, I accepted the terms; I pay the price. I must reflect on that horrid time…



I was in the library on that fateful evening, perusing through the various tomes of dark romanticism adorning the shelves. Various pieces of beautifully bitter-sweet literature that far surpassed my own attempts. I finally settled on the greatest piece within the grand collection- ‘The Twisted Soul’ by my father, Wilfred Damort. It was so rich in dark poetry that it filled me with a conjuring of the least pleasant emotions- Jealousy; Disgust; Self-Loathing; Doubt; Anger; all these feelings visited me at once, the most unwelcome and the most persistent of guests. That desire to write something of equal stature hit me again as my eyes traced the first few lines:

In truth, I speak of deep unpleasantness,

Tortures few mortal men could hope to endure,

Upon a quest of much blighted distress,

I shall speak of it once and then ne’ermore.

My soul is twisted, gnarled, burnt to cinder,

It haunts me and harms me as if a plague,

‘Til my Death it shall forever hinder,

While life is futile, bleak and ever vague.



I leaned my neck back and closed my eyes tightly as I recalled just how tortuous this tale was when in full torrent. The inner-demons, the terrifying mental turmoil and the physical anguish could almost be felt from the page. It is clearly a very masochistic man who wishes to speak of such horrors; but that was I, a man hungry to capture a hellish story that would be loved like dear Father Damort’s. When you have found such beauty in these desperate, dark places, you cannot help but desire to revel in the tragic territories for yourself. How I longed to endure such pain to benefit as an artist or, at least, just to become someone moderately eloquent at describing human emotion. But I could find nothing. I was empty of sorrow. The death within my prose was plentiful in both its content and its quality. Macabre it certainly was, but it was also moribund, pointless drivel.

I sighed heavily. My sweetness must have been passing at that precise moment for I heard the door creak open and, when I opened my eyes, I saw her floating gracefully before me. Her eyes were filled with warm concern and, despite feeling drained, stressed and low, I could not help but return her beauty with a smile. “Melvin, my sweet, I have seen you pained for days, I can see the hurt inside you. Please, tell me what ails you, so that I may perhaps be the balm.”

‘Dear, sweet Estelle, ever doting and ever perfect,’ I thought, ‘she does truly love me.’ She came and rested on my thigh and I took her hands in mine; they were soft and tender and I could not help but kiss them. I spoke to her: “Estelle, you are my angel, my single solace in my life and I hold you more dearly than anyone else in the world, myself certainly included. However, I do feel that you can never be the cure to my distress. I cannot write, my sweet and I feel the burning desire deep inside me and if I do not satisfy it I fear the flame shall burst into an inferno of tortuous fire. If self-expression cannot be achieved, then self-immolation may be the inevitable tragedy.”

“Melvin, must you always speak with such melodrama? It is merely a little writers’ block. It is a tragedy that can and will be overcome. You shall write,” came Estelle’s reply, a slightly amused whisper of a response.

“I do not write, Estelle. I try and I leave a day’s work as ripped paper, a blank page and a frustrated soul. I see no end to this frustration. I cannot express these tortures. I am a writer who is too distracted. I know that I am a writer and I long to achieve my fate but it is cruelly mocking me. I can imagine no end to its taunting…”

I placed my arms around her waste and held her tightly, finding some comfort in the steady beating of her heart. She leant back from our embrace, placed her hands upon my cheeks and lightly put her precious lips to mine.

“Melvin, this will pass, and I will love you and stand by you as long as it takes.” With these final words she stood up, clasped my hand tightly and exited the library. I blessed the Earth for my one joy and closed my eyes once more. As soon as the darkness enveloped me, however, I felt her presence totally gone and I exchanged my blessing for a curse for this wretched world had given me a heart too futile in its ability to express my feelings. I felt as if I was a mess, a mass of flotsam that would never be human.

“I can help you…”

I opened my eyes and the library, apparently empty, came into vision. I sat up and turned my head, searching for the owner of the mysteriously uttered words. The voice had been a low rasp of a whisper, rough and sinister, filled with a multitude of promises as yet unuttered. However, the speaker was nowhere to be seen, as if the words had been from within or expressed by an apparition who had said their haunting words before vanishing as quickly as they had arrived. But it turned out to be neither internal voices nor the mutterings of immaterial spirits. Instead, I managed to follow the voice to the shadows near the curtains and standing there was the silhouette of a man, shaded grey. His words remained thick and tough as he hissed, “I can help you, Melvin Damort. I can give you the peace you seek by giving you the Hell you desire first…”

I was awash with questions, but I asked the most pressing one first: “Who are you, sir, and how did you find entrance into this room, or even my home, without my knowledge of the fact?”

At first there was no answer and I felt unsure how to proceed. Estelle and I were alone in my abode, for the help had left hours earlier. Perhaps I should confront this man immediately, I wondered, and discover the finer details when I know I am safe. However, the being had a strange allure and I did genuinely wish to find out who he was and establish exactly what this intruder was offering to me. I inquired once more, with greater severity in my voice, “I asked who you are and how you got here? Answer me now or I will have to act for the sake of my home and my honour.”

“Dear sir,” came the reply in a less hushed tone, however the voice remained distinctly unusual, slightly serpentine. “Dear sir, I offer you no harm. Unless that is what you desire…” He paused but I found myself unable to offer a response. “Melvin, I come with a proposition for you. You wish to experience the most horrific things that a man can endure in the hope to create a literary piece of disturbing beauty, do you not?” I nodded dumbly.

“You wish to suffer for the sake of your art. I come to offer you the suffering, the pain, that you feel you will need to create this desired masterpiece. If you accept my terms you will be crushed, wounded and a sick shell of the man you were before, the man you are now. However, it is very likely that you will be able to pour your feelings in the most gloriously grotesque manner. You, sir, will be satisfied through the sorrowful treatment I can place upon you.”

I remained silent. It was as if I was trying to write my prose once again. All words failed me. I felt frustrated at my complete inability for expression. And then he said a sentence that awoke me from my trance of futility:

“I knew your father.”

I stared at the being before me with eyes widened by confusion and intrigue. The intruder then moved out of the shadows and I realised that this was no typical man. His clothing was plush and regal and he wore jewellery that was opulent and impressive. The hat upon his head was of a deep black and its wide rim covered most of the face below it with shadows. However, it was the part of his face that escaped the veil that really made this character so intriguing and intimidating. A beard, neatly trimmed, was visible. Deep, dark blue in colour, the wisps of hair contrasted greatly with the skin it covered, the tone of which was also undeniably peculiar. His flesh was a sickly, diseased yellow colour except at the lips, which included a fiery, autumnal tint. I could not yet bring myself to speak and, instead, I tried to develop a better comprehension of this unusual entity that had visited me and, apparently, my father.

“It is true,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “I offered the same deal to Wilfred many, many years ago and he accepted, thus giving the chance for ‘The Twisted Soul’ to be written. If it was not for him accepting my bargain, your father would never have succeeded in his desires. Your fate is the same- refuse me and suffer a life that can never be fulfilled or accept and suffer the life of a tortured, yet eloquent, artist.”

There appeared to be no clear compromise. I now understood this man’s offering fully, if I wished to be a writer of disparity and woe, the consequence must be to experience these emotions on a sufficient scale. The promise that was being proposed, then, was to torture my being to create the true opportunity for expression. The details of what malice I was to face, however, had not been made so transparent. Amidst all the questions I had (and they were numerous), I settled on inquiring further what the deal entailed.

“Who are you,” I asked, “and how can you offer me the torment I desire?”

A smile flickered unnaturally across his face and he hissed, ‘My name is Alistair and I am a slave to Satan. Satan desires as much misery and pain in the world as can be achieved. With you I see an opportunity of satisfying my Lord and your needs also. Your gain is nothing, but Lucifer’s needs are all that matter to me. He can gain if you are willing to allow it.” He paused and then added, “It will benefit you too.”

My head spun with uncertainty. I realised that the pains that I would endure, if they were for the joys of the Devil, were sure to be intensely severe. However, was not such extreme abuse precisely what I felt I needed? We discussed more the terms of our potential covenant. The Hell I was to endure was to not be merely physical and would involve a ritual that was terribly blasphemous and disgraceful. The results of Alistair’s spell were to inflict upon me such diabolical acts that they would be beyond any human understanding. However, he assured me that I would be fully capable to pour my experiences on to the pages that I had left blank on so many other frustrated occasions. The inspiration may not be immediate but it would certainly occur without any real effort. I thought carefully of what was being offered and whether to accept or not. My conclusion was easy enough, despite any cautious consideration I tried to take. I needed to write, to fulfil my masochistic desires. The agreement was sealed before I had been aware of the terms, the dialogue nothing but mere formality. I was told to seek out the grave of Luke Iscariot in the church cemetery if I genuinely wished to conclude this awful offer. I made my plans to visit the tomb that same evening.



After I was certain Estelle was asleep, I silently crept from the house and out into the cold, bitter night. No noise could be heard except for the violent howling of the wind, a fierce bellow that could not have made it clearer that I should turn back. Indeed, even if God had parted the night sky himself and had called down to me directly, it would not be more transparent than this powerful, angry gale. My reaction to such a supernatural event would have been the same as it was to the oppressive storm; I pushed on ignoring all wiser senses. I walked along the village path, every house pitch black for all had turned to slumber and thus I moved unnoticed in the night. Neither human nor beast was seen on my nocturnal excursion; possibly all had been forced to seek shelter because of the intense severity of the wind. Still, it felt peculiar that the night owls were neither seen nor heard, being such a common part of the evening sounds of this village.

Eventually, I arrived at the cemetery and was surprised to find its gate unlocked and swinging wildly in the tempestuous weather. I pressed on, unsure of what other curious occurrences were to greet me, very aware that the most bizarre and unpleasant still remained ahead. My eyes scoured the numerous stones and it took me some time before I eventually came across Monsieur Iscariot’s eerie place of rest. The carved marble that was embedded into the ground spoke in brutal tones:

‘Here lies Luke Iscariot.

This dark man led a dark life.

He lies restless and uneasy.’

I am sure that the tombstone was unaware of how accurate a story it told but there was no denying its awful truth. The patch of land below the rock was indeed disturbed soil and a large hole stood before me. I was aghast at the sight, an abused grave! I should not have been as shocked as I was, but I could not believe that nothing was sacrosanct, not even the rest of the wicked. I crept cautiously closer towards the hole in the ground and peered into its depths. The cavernous crypt suggested great depth but a flicker of fiery light could be made in the dark distance. ‘Climb…’ Beyond the screeching wind a breezy suggestion caressed my ears. ‘Climb…down…’ I felt the whisper and acknowledged its words; I turned and began to climb down the gulf of a grave. I kicked my feet fiercely into the earth to create hold and dug my hands in deep, clawing myself something to grip. Worms and other insects of the night crawled upon my hands and slithered up my arms. Some unpleasant creature resembling a millipede reached my shoulder and began to dance at my face, its stick-like legs constantly drumming upon my cheek. Unable to contain myself, I flinched in a most exaggerated and cowardly fashion and my grip faltered. That wretched creature stimulated descent into the horror below.

I had no clue as to what time it was when my eyes flickered open and I had regained consciousness. A piece of me, the small yet ever-present sane part, was disappointed to learn that my fool-hardy expedition was a reality and not some unworldly dream. I attempted to sit up but my arms and legs were tied. I turned my head and realised I was shackled to an earthy, granite slab of a table. My knowledge of the occult may have been limited but there was little doubt in my mind that I had been strapped to a sacrificial altar. I called out, “Alistair, are you here?”

“Ahhhh,” he rasped out a lengthy sigh, “my visitor awakens. Good evening Melvin Damort, your fall left you incapacitated for almost hour.”

With this small piece of information I calculated the time to be little after midnight. My head did not ache but I had an unusual tingling, sensation down the back of my neck and spine. Few other thoughts could be calculated before my sinister host spoke once more. “I have gone through the details of our agreement time and again and I know you understand fully the consequences of what shall occur tonight. I ask you one last time, do you accept my will? Once I begin, I shall not stop. Be sure you are prepared to endure the vicious abuse that I ravage against you.”

I had made the journey and I was terribly aware of the rules set. I was not entirely certain of the extremities of the torture but I was certain that it would be near insufferable. I was also sure that it was too late to escape this Satanist’s inflictions; both our minds were set. I nodded a sign that I was willing to receive any horrors he cared to unleash. He returned my nod and stood directly over me. He extended his hand a few feet above my face, it was holding a small bag. Shaking his hand gently, a soot-like dust fell upon my head before unleashing a perversely pungent kind of incense. He walked around me, shaking the rancid aroma around the earthy hovel and giving me the last pieces of information. “I assure you this, you will be writing of horrors unpronounced before thirty one days have passed.”

Thick smog filled my vision and I heard not another word from him. Nor could I see him through the grimly scented grey fog. My senses were intoxicated with the black magic that filled the air. My head felt light and detached. I heard a crackling behind me. It sounded as if something was cooking crisp and black. Amidst the sounds of fire and flame came demonic roars and unnatural laughter. I turned my head right. I turned it left. Nothing was visible. All around, there was just endless smoke. I felt sick as the smoke choked my lungs. My head span. I felt incredibly nauseous. I felt I was about to faint when I saw it glow through the grey. A huge sword was silhouetted black in the swirling gloom. The runes raised upon it flickered red and orange. The arcane symbols were mesmerising. The blade spun in the air. It pointed towards me, towards the altar. With blistering speed, the sword struck straight down. It was embedded in the slab, between my legs at my knees. I stared at the glowing runes. I felt their burn. I felt it deep inside me. That fire. That desire. My yearning to write, to feel, rising inside me. The intense burning. The runes burned brighter. My internal flame grew stronger. My head reeled with the searing pain of fire. I was lost to the runes…



Melvin’s stomach ripped open with an unholy torrent of fire. A flaming crescendo burst forth, leaving him to scream in endless torture. His flesh began to curl around his abdomen before becoming black, crisp ash. As the fire spread round his body, pus of various colours secreted from the hole in his belly. Muddy orange mixed with vile green and sloshed forth, acidic and raw. They churned together repugnantly and absorbed his cooked, dead flesh. His body was becoming nothing but cinder, his legs, torso and arms all being burnt black. His screams intensified as the incredible cremation continued ever onwards and an unnatural smoke escaped his howling mouth. The arcane, supernatural concoction not only kept him impossibly alive but conscious. The extreme, malicious burning did not subside and he felt his stomach, heart and various other organs begin to melt into the erupting ooze. Soon, Melvin was nothing but a head, eyes closed, wincing at the devastating torment, steaming in the intolerable heat. His body that had been a pyre had now been entirely subsumed by the sludge that had spewed from him throughout the immolation. As the extremity of the pain began to slowly calm Melvin’s head began to quit its smoking. His eyes flickered maniacally as he tried to comprehend this surreal and depressing experience. As he scanned in his panic, he hesitated to notice that the murky mire that had absorbed the rest of his body was beginning to congeal into a tar-like blob. Slowly it gained coarseness to its texture and it began pulsating and pumping a steady rhythm like a revolting, monstrous heart. The repetitive flexing began to draw Melvin’s attention and he stared transfixed and open-mouthed at the horror before him. The giant, black blister, the size of a young man curled into a ball, began to harden further still and it increased the pace of its abhorrent pumping. Pump, pump, pumppumppumppump. Burst! Suddenly, the pestilent pustule exploded and a thick, black liquid erupted into the air, followed by demonic insects of some unknown nether world. They crept viciously, sadistically over Melvin’s face, stabbing him with sharp, venomous bites filled with insanely painful poison. They wriggled up his nostrils, resulting in agony more excruciating than the most malicious bout of water torture. They ran up his cheeks and their pin-like legs scratched his eyes and pierced his soft flesh. The mass of callous creeps had nothing to assault but Melvin’s unfortunate face that was unable to move without its torso and thus they ravaged his cheeks, forehead and lips with toxin that made him shake with seizure. After much time had passed, what felt like an eternity, two lithe, lice-like creatures dived upon Melvin’s eyes and burrowed deep through his corneas. He offered one last desperate scream before being visited by total and complete blackness…

Without explanation, Melvin found himself whole once again. He was standing in a barren field, totally lifeless; nothing but a vast landscape of grey soil was before him. His immediate reaction was to use his arms to feel his body, to comprehend that he had moved on from the fire and the monstrous insects. The movement proved that his experiences thus far had been no consequence of imagination but terribly real. He felt his body ache and burn with memories of the awful onslaught. His eyes looked around desperately, eager to seek some sort of sense or direction. A thick, heavy wind lifted some of the light soil into the air. The ancient looking dust danced playfully sinister in the oppressive breeze. Melvin felt distinctly uneasy in this new, desolate surrounding. The draught pushed the powdery earth back and forth before flinging it directly at Melvin’s chest. Immediately, Melvin’s clothes began to dissipate into nothing to leave him standing naked in the bizarre, unnatural realm. Another light gust blew the soil through his fingers and onto his hands. Again, the effect was almost immediate as the skin of his palms seem to turn into sand and slowly fall to the ground. He stood there, as if a human hourglass slowly ebbing away his life. He felt unbearably uncomfortable as his entire body began to tortuously shrivel, age and turn to dust. Suddenly, his frail legs snapped at the knees and he quickly fell backwards onto the earth. Gradually, the pace excruciating and nearly static, his whole body began to dissolve as one into the ground. He let out a yell and his lower jaw cracked and dropped away from his body, turning into a pile of corpse ash. His cheeks peeled away from his skull and the bone began to rupture with rapid ageing. Eventually his eyes dissolved and the pale yet blackening sky began to disappear from view. Though blind and incapable of any sense except for touch, Melvin’s torture was not over. Instead, he felt a sickening sensation that is almost impossible to transcribe. Slowly, from within his decaying skull, his brain was agonizingly breaking into ashen sand and mixing with the rest of the decrepit pile that used to be the body of Melvin Damort. Gradually…horribly…Melvin felt himself crawl into nothingness. Melvin was no more…



I awoke with a start. Breathing hard and fast, my eyes jagged excitedly across the room in a desperate attempt to recognise my surroundings.

“Calm, Melvin, calm.” Estelle. Estelle was beside me and it took one look into her deep, hazel eyes to bring myself back to sanity. I began to slow down my breathing and I realised that my torture was over. At this moment, the idea of asking questions, to try and discover what had happened to me, did not strike in my mind. Instead, it was Estelle who began the inquiring: “Melvin, what happened to you? Where had you gone and why did you return in such a state? I do not know which emotion has been more pertinent in these last few days, my deep concern for your good soul or my deep confusion at finding you naked at the front steps. I was not even aware you were outside. Melvin, please, offer me some refuge through explanation.”

It was obvious to me that to offer the truth would be a destructive course of action. First, my tale would sound too fantastical to be accepted and, second, my actions and compliance in the whole affair would raise far more questions than it would alleviate. My immediate reaction was to feign complete bewilderment. “Estelle, I have no idea. I can offer you no explanation, indeed I cannot even offer it to myself. You found me naked? When was this?” I asked, a genuine question because the last memory I had was of indescribable horrors.

“I found you in the early hours, the morning after you had lamented to me the difficulties you had faced in discovering your muse. You were huddled into a ball as if a small child, shivering violently, naked in the fierce cold. You have been in the midst of a deep sleep for three days, your spasms only subsiding twelve hours ago. I have barely slept since this event and have been sick with worry. Can you tell me nothing?”

“Estelle, damn you! I do not know what happened! I feel wretched and sick! Torture me no more with your questions!”

After I snapped at her, Estelle pulled away, shocked and guilty. It is true that I did feel afflicted, but it was little to do with Estelle’s trivial harassment and more in relation to the accursed ritual that I had endured. The dark occurrences on that night felt as if they were a plague upon my soul and, even now, I feel infected. Though the consequences of the ritual were supernatural and many may assume that they did not take place at all, I am certain that my experiences were not merely the result of an over-enthusiastic mind. My hellish experiences were as real, as tangible and as affecting as being attacked by one’s closest friend. I did not have any recollection of the events after I had suffered my magical mistreatment and I am not sure at what point I returned to this world; however, I am beyond doubt that I left this simple plane of existence to a realm of indescribable terror. Quite possibly, I visited the guts of Hell. Estelle could never understand these dark moments and so I could never confide in her the facts she longed to uncover.



For one more day I was bed-ridden but I was by no means cured. I had been eternally cursed and no ceremony contained enough magic or piety to save me from my cruel, self-inflicted fate. I was no longer a man. Instead I was a husk, the skin of my former self. My soul had remoulded itself into a snake and escaped its old, useless container. Ever since I have returned to consciousness, I have been distant and barely conscious at all. My eating is minimal and my interaction with other people, less. It was this reclusive personality that drove Estelle away. She tried to speak to me, to console my heart but it was frozen; a cold heart never to be warmed. The more effort she made to have me return her love, the more hostile I became and I lashed out at her, irrationally harsh. She strived to persevere but it took less than a week to cause her to exit, such was the extremity of my transformation. When she confessed her plans for departure, I did not even offer her a farewell; an arctic glare from dead eyes was all I could muster and she left broken hearted. Though I am painfully aware that I miss her and love her I cannot bring myself to want her back, I am incapable of feeling these emotions, I am only aware of them- they are suggested by my mind but are irrelevant to my heart. Estelle may have departed with her chest aching and her muscle torn into two, but I question if I even have a heart left to feel. All that I feel now is the bleakness of my life. I lost my love and now I can never be satisfied. I have not yet begun my prose and now doubt its worth. Morbidity is now all I know, but what joy is there in describing death if you do not know life? Now, as I look out into the night sky, with the rain shooting at the window pane, I realise that I would rather fail as an artist of death and succeed in love and life. I peel my hand away from the cold glass and move to the corner of the room where my desk awaits. The only light around me comes from a whisper of flame in the weakest lamp I own, I am sitting in dank gloom. I lift my pen and begin to let it write. I icily start to scratch out some thoughts. Here it is, the work I have longed to scribe, majestically morbid and inspired in its ugliness. My success is beginning but it feels hollow and empty. Yes, my masterpiece shall be written but the reward does not exist. I continue with my dark tale, ‘The Cold Heart’, throughout the night. A tragic tale of torture and death. Rain continues to spit from the Heavens. The deed is complete.