The Gore #1 – Deceased Facility - 1829 - John and Kate had left behind their gray, damn miserable life in England, hell-bent on finding a fresh goddamn start. England was a hellhole of cold, damn smoke choking every breath, a goddamn chokehold on every goddamn moment. They swore to Christ, to Jesus, to God Himself, that they’d never set foot back in that goddamn hellhole again. That wretched place where the skies were always damn gray, the streets filled with goddamn misery, and every goddamn soul looked like they’d been dragged through hell and left to rot. So when Xi’an looked quiet, peaceful, like a goddamn oasis in the middle of hell’s own furnace, they grabbed it like a damn lifeline thrown from heaven—or whatever goddamn hell it wasn’t. But the second John stepped through that goddamn apartment door, he knew Christ had lied to him. Jesus Christ himself might’ve sworn this place was safe, but it reeked of hell—the kind of hell that pressed down on your chest like a goddamn weight from Satan’s own goddamn hand. The air was thick, choking, smelling like the fire and brimstone that damn fools talk about when they think of damnation. The hellish chill crawled down his spine like Jesus was damn warning him to get the hell out before it was too goddamn late. “Kate!” John yelled, voice raw with hellish fear, cracking like thunder rolling over a goddamn graveyard. “Get the hell over here—now, damn it! This ain’t some goddamn joke!” Kate, hands covered in the damn dust of unpacking, paused and looked up slowly, eyes heavy with bloody exhaustion but sharp as the devil’s own knife. “What the hell now, John? You’re acting like a damn fool, damn it. You think hell’s following us here? Jesus Christ, we’ve been through enough without this damn nonsense.” “This ain’t right, Kate. I swear to Jesus Christ, there’s something bloody goddamn evil in this place. Hell crawling in the walls, damn it! I can feel it, thick like the goddamn smoke we left behind in England.” Kate frowned, setting down the damn box with a tired sigh that sounded like it came from the goddamn pits of hell itself. “You sure it’s not just damn nerves? We’ve been through hell already getting here—running from goddamn misery, damn poverty, hell itself. Maybe it’s just the damn stress, John.” John’s eyes were wide, bloody damn wild, shining with the kind of fear only hell’s own bloody torment can bring. “No, Kate, look! In the damn corner—goddamn it! That pale bloody figure… standing there like it came straight out of hell’s own damn mouth.” Kate’s breath hitched as her eyes followed his damn finger trembling in the damn air. The bloody shape was pale, ghostly, a goddamn apparition too damn real to be ignored, like the devil himself had risen from the goddamn abyss. “Christ, John... that’s a damn ghost.” “Hell yes it is!” John snapped, voice sharp as a goddamn whip cracking. “I’m not screaming like a damn bloody lunatic for nothing, Kate! This place is hell itself, straight from the goddamn bowels of the bloody underworld.” Kate bit her lip, voice shaking like the devil was damn near grabbing her soul. “Maybe it ain’t here to hurt us. We don’t know what the hell it wants, maybe it’s damned lost or looking for goddamn peace.” John shook his head hard, fists clenching like goddamn thunder ready to crack the sky. “It wants to goddamn kill us, Kate! I feel it in my damn bones. This hell is alive, breathing, watching. Jesus, damn it, it’s hell-bent on dragging us down to its goddamn fires.” “For the love of Christ, calm the hell down!” Kate said, voice soft but firm, trying to keep some goddamn reason alive in this goddamn nightmare. “Yelling won’t do us a damn thing. We gotta be smart, not damn crazy.” “No! You always act like it’s nothing, Kate! Like it’s all goddamn in our heads, but it ain’t! I’m telling you, damn it, this place is goddamn cursed, and we’re just walking right into hell’s goddamn jaws!” Kate reached out, voice steady but trembling, trying to hold him back from the edge of damnation. “I’m not denying hell’s real here, John. Hell’s goddamn real, but screaming like a madman won’t fix a damn thing. We gotta be stronger than the goddamn terror.” John’s voice dropped to a desperate growl, a prayer turned into a goddamn plea. “Then help me. Jesus, help me before this goddamn nightmare swallows us whole. I can’t fight this hell alone.” Kate nodded, eyes full of hellish resolve, the kind of determination only forged by fire and blood. “Fine. We fight this hell together. No more running like damn fools. Jesus Christ, we’ll stand our ground in this goddamn hellhole if it’s the last damn thing we do.” Two damn years later, hell followed them like a goddamn shadow. No matter if they ran through deserts that burned like hell’s own fire, climbed mountains cold as Jesus’s grave, or hid in goddamn cities thick with damn noise, the spirit was hell-bent on damn tormenting them. It was goddamn latched onto their souls like a hellish curse. Their son, Tim, barely two years old, wandered one damn morning too close to the goddamn closet from hell. His tiny hand reached out, innocent and damn curious. Then, goddamn hell broke loose. He screamed, blood pouring down his hand like hell itself reached out and tore at him. Kate caught him, heart pounding like a goddamn drum of doom. “Jesus, Tim! What the hell happened?” Neighbors heard the screams and yelled to the damn authorities. When they saw the blood and the fear in Tim’s eyes, they damn didn’t hesitate. “You’re under arrest,” the officer growled, eyes hard as hell. “You hurt the goddamn child.” Kate shook her head like a damn madwoman. “I swear to Christ, it wasn’t me! There’s something here. Something hellishly evil.” “Save your damn excuses,” the other said cold as hell. “We’ve heard every damn lie before.” Tim cried, clutching at his mother as they dragged her away. Kate whispered fiercely, “John, goddamn it—protect him. Don’t let that hellspawn get near him.” John stood there, shaking like hell, watching her fade into the damn abyss of misery. Lhasa, Tibet, April 7th, 1831. The goddamn prison was cold stone and silence. Hell wrapped around every damn corridor like a suffocating fog, a goddamn chokehold squeezing the life out of any poor damn soul trapped inside. Kate was shoved into the hellhole like a sack of goddamn meat, slammed against the wall with a goddamn thud that echoed like hell itself was laughing at her damn fate. “Name, age, birthdate,” the guard barked like a goddamn hellhound, his voice cutting through the damn silence like a damn knife. “Kate Anne Green. Twenty-eight. November 21st, 1802,” she answered, voice trembling but damn steady. “Height and weight,” he snarled, stepping closer, eyes as cold as hell’s own breath. “164 centimeters. 52 kilograms,” she said, clutching her arms against the goddamn chill that seeped into her damn bones. “How’d you commit the goddamn crime?” The words spat out like hellfire, burning. “I didn’t, damn it. Jesus, I swear I didn’t,” Kate hissed, damn desperation thick in her voice. “Don’t lie to us, goddamn it! You’re in hell now,” the guard sneered, pushing her toward a cell no bigger than a damn coffin from hell’s own workshop. No damn windows, no mercy—just goddamn darkness pressing in like a goddamn grave. “Welcome to Area #4—the goddamn pit,” he said with a cruel smile, locking the door with a goddamn clang. Kate stood there, cold and trembling, the walls closing in like the jaws of damnation itself. She muttered, “I’m no criminal,” but the hell around her swallowed the words whole. “You are now, by the damn law of hell,” the guard spat one last time before his footsteps faded down the goddamn hall. Eight hours later, the meal slot banged open like hell’s damn dinner bell. Inside was the goddamn sorry excuse for food: moldy bread, sour milk, and a black banana that looked like the damn devil’s own snack. She ate it all—each bite tasting like damn regret chewing at her soul, a goddamn reminder that hell had her chained tight. Two damn months dragged on like hell on earth, every damn day the heat pressed down like a goddamn furnace, the silence a goddamn law, and one hellish cough brought more damn punishment. They gave her three goddamn toothbrushes a day, but no one gave a damn if she lived or died. Then came the knock. “Green! Get the hell up!” the guard barked. Her ankles chained, wrists bound, they dragged her down another goddamn hallway of hell, the stone walls echoing every damn step like goddamn thunder. “You’re getting a chance,” said the guard, voice dripping like hellfire. “But you won’t get it again.” “What the hell are you talking about?” Kate demanded, heart pounding like a goddamn drum from hell. “Your son, Tim. He’s safe. But he could take your goddamn place.” “Jesus Christ,” Kate whispered, the damn words slipping like a prayer into the cold air. “A better cell. Light. Bread. Real food. A window. Clean goddamn air. Better than this pit of hell.” “You’re threatening to lock a child in here?” she hissed, fury burning like a goddamn fire in her chest. “No. We’re offering him a better damn deal than you’ll ever get.” Kate trembled, fighting the goddamn rage and hellish despair. “No. Hell no. I won’t damn trade my son.” “Then rot.” “I’d rather rot in hell than give up my boy.” June 9th, 1831—Visit day. The meal slot opened, and there was Tim. “Mommy,” he whispered. Kate leaned close, tears in her damn eyes. “Tim…” “Are you still getting fed?” “Bread and cheese. Nothing but hell on a goddamn plate.” “You still shower?” “Three times a week. Feels like ice from hell.” “You still brush your bloody teeth?” “Three damn times a day, Tim. Same nasty toothpaste from hell.” Tim’s eyes filled with tears. “Are you still in the bloody dark?” Kate nodded. “It’s always damn night here.” “Are the guards still so damn mean?” “They scream like goddamn devils.” “I wish I could help.” “You do. You’re the only thing keeping me from giving in to hell.” A guard screamed, “Time’s up!” “I love you, Mommy.” “I love you, Tim. Jesus, I love you more than this damned life.” The slot slammed shut, and silence fell like a goddamn hammer. June 12th, 1831—Punishment day. Strike one: “Talking back yesterday.” Cuffed, shackled, thrown against the hellish wall like a bag of damn dirt. One hour silent. Hell. Strike two: A cough. “Noise violation! Damn it, Green!” More wall time. More heat. More damn silence. Strike three: She dropped her sandwich. “You’re going to solitary confinement. One week in the goddamn dark.” Solitary confinement: 2x2 meters of hell. Dim bulb, no window, shackles, chains. Food like rot from hell’s kitchen. She didn’t damn speak. Didn’t damn cry. Just barely goddamn survived this hellhole created by the Devil. Every sound echoed like goddamn ghosts screaming in her damn ears. July 15th, 1832—Another visit. The slot opened. Tim. Older. Thinner. “Mom,” he whispered. “Jesus, Tim... you’re still here.” “Are they still feeding you that bad?” “Worse than ever. Straight from hell’s pantry.” “They still yell?” “Every damn day.” “Are you still in chains?” “They threw away the goddamn key, Tim.” Guards screamed, “TIME’S UP!” “I love you, Mom.” “Love you, Tim. Love you forever. Christ be with you.” Slot shut. Darkness returned. 1875—Kate’s last goddamn breath Decades shackled, starved, and burned by the merciless fires of goddamn hell, Kate’s broken body lay cold and lifeless, a husk abandoned by Jesus Christ and forsaken by every goddamn saint in heaven. Her spirit, though, burned hotter than hell itself, raging with the fury of a thousand damn angels cast out. Her lips, cracked and dry as the desert, whispered the name of Jesus Christ one last time, desperate for mercy that never came. “Jesus, Christ Almighty, why hast Thou forsaken me to this goddamn eternal torment?” she gasped, voice raw and hollow as the grave. The darkness around her thickened like the damn smoke of hell’s own fire, and her soul tore free from her goddamn body like a damned lightning bolt fueled by Christ’s own wrath. She rose then—not as the frail woman they had known, but as a blazing specter of goddamn holy hellfire, her eyes burning with the fury of divine damnation. Her voice cracked like thunder, a goddamn prayer and curse woven into one. “By Jesus Christ, by the blood of the goddamn Lamb, I swear to Christ’s holy name, I shall not rest! Heaven and hell be damned, I’ll burn it all before I lay down my goddamn soul!” Years later in Tokyo—goddamn city of endless shadows and cold sin—Tim wandered through streets soaked in the damn stink of forgotten souls and lost prayers. The night air was thick with the goddamn scent of smoke and sin, and Kate’s ghost whispered in the cold wind like a goddamn sermon from hell itself. “Do what I say, Tim… Do what I say… Jesus Christ have mercy on your goddamn soul, but do not stray from the path I damn well lay before you.” Tim shivered, his breath freezing in the goddamn chill of the night, the voice a cruel litany that clawed at his soul. “Mother, I’m trying… I’m trying…” he whispered, but the words felt empty beneath the crushing weight of her ghostly command. Sin piled on sin, goddamn crime on goddamn crime, each act a damn step deeper into the pit from which he could not escape. Before every damn transgression, he muttered, “Jesus, have mercy on me, a sinner,” but mercy was as distant as heaven itself. The law caught him at last—dragging him back through the goddamn mountains and rivers to the very pit that birthed the curse: the goddamn prison of Lhasa. The cold stone walls, slick with the damp breath of hell’s own curse, echoed with the muffled screams of the damned. Tim fell to his knees, trembling, and whispered, “For the love of God, for Jesus Christ’s sake, forgive me. I have sinned beyond any goddamn redemption.” But no goddamn mercy answered him. His heart, broken by decades of goddamn torment and unholy sin, gave out beneath the crushing weight of divine damnation. He collapsed onto the cold stone, the world slipping into the dark void where Christ himself seemed absent, and hell’s eternal silence reigned supreme. Midnight in the goddamn prison—the silence was thick and suffocating, heavier than the goddamn grave. Then, a scream tore through the black night, a wail that was part prayer and part blasphemy, a cry born from hell itself. John’s spirit rose, fueled by grief and righteous fury that burned hotter than the fires of damnation. His voice was a goddamn roar echoing through the cursed halls: “By the holy wrath of God Almighty, you sons of hell will pay for this goddamn torment!” Cold, spectral hands reached out, dragging the guards screaming into the eternal blackness. Their screams echoed, mingling with John’s curse and the goddamn fury of a mother’s vow unbroken. The prison trembled beneath the weight of their goddamn sins, the curse finally complete—born of hell’s pain, despair, and the unyielding goddamn fury of a mother wronged. Hell had claimed its own. Jesus Christ have mercy on the souls damned to walk its shadowed halls forevermore. 1897—The damn truth “Jake, your grandfather has been murdered by a ghost. Apparently by some alcoholic named John Green.” “Shut the hell up! Nobody gives two damns!” “Jake - HOW MANY TIMES DID I TELL YOU THAT GODDAMN WEED IS BAD FOR YOU?” “This pack was damn free! It’s really damn good!” “SHUT UP! YOU WANT TO BE LIKE JOHN GREEN? SOMEONE WHO HAUNTS PEOPLE WITH THEIR SPIRIT AFTER DYING AT THE AGE OF 57?” “I don’t give a damn, again.” “WELL I GIVE A DAMN! I AM YOUR MOTHER!” “So you’ll go to prison just like Kate Green?” “NO, BUT YOU WILL WHEN— wait. How do you know who that is? “I am Tim’s GRANDSON! I know you kidnapped me - off the streets! Burn in HELL!” “LOOK, I SAW A CRYING BABY HOMELESS, SO I TOOK YOU TO CARE FOR YOU! KATE’S SPIRIT MADE TIM ABANDON YOU! “Kate has a damn bad history in the United Kingdom. She did unspeakable damn acts, goddamnit! The hellhole of a prison here was designed for those damn purposes. They just never let Tim know, so they could torture him after Kate died!” “What did she do? AND WILL YOU PLEASE STOP SMOKING THAT DAMN THING?” “I won’t stop smoking this damn thing! But she did many damn crimes — such as DYING!” “How is dying a goddamn crime? How the hell would she have done a damn crime before going to the Deceased Facility if her supposed “crime” was inside of it? I have so many other bloody questions, but it’s pointless! Goddamn pointless! You really let that weed mess with your mind, do you now?” “Yep. That’s right.” 1902 - Jake’s final moments came not with salvation, not with grace, but with a goddamn wheeze on the damn concrete of a forgotten goddamn alley, lungs drowning in the goddamn smoke of every bad damn decision he ever made. The weed had consumed his goddamn soul, blackened every damn breath, carved a goddamn pit in his chest where hope used to be. He had cursed the world, cursed his goddamn bloodline, cursed every damn ghost and every goddamn warning that tried to pull him from this hell—and now it was too damn late. The goddamn air felt like fire, thick with the stench of hell’s own breath, and every heartbeat was a goddamn drum pounding his way into eternal goddamn darkness. The sky was a damn void above him, no stars, no light—just the cold gaze of a goddamn heaven that had long since turned its damn back. Jake choked one last goddamn time, hand trembling as if reaching for something that had never existed—goddamn mercy, maybe, or some damn reason for it all. But no goddamn answer came. The world gave no damn notice, hell gave no damn warning, and even the goddamn ghosts had stopped watching. He was nothing now—just another damn soul burned out by a goddamn life of smoke, anger, and wasted chances. He whispered something—maybe “goddamn,” maybe “hell,” but the wind blew it away like every other damn thing he ever tried to hold onto. The streetlights above him flickered and died, and the last damn thing he saw was darkness swallowing the world whole. No redemption. No forgiveness. Just goddamn silence. Goddamn stillness. And a final damn breath, gone forever into hell’s own goddamn night.