The Catacombs of Catastrophe

         It was the heart of winter. The insuperable cold pierced the air, and all life felt its effects. The icy glaze of freezing rain covered trees, flowers, bushes, and the putrid decomposed leaves in the yard. All outdoor conditions were unfit for living, but I, Timothy Abeoprosum, lay warm and snug in my bed, soothed by comforting dreams. In the morning, the sun rose; I awoke at my regular time, and headed downstairs to fetch the day’s mail.
         Among the usual assortment of bills and checks was a peculiar letter from one of my childhood friends, Nicholas Voraxacorpius. A person of conflicting emotions, he suffered unduly as a child. In fact, after we graduated high school he went into reclusion, never to be seen by me or my other companions again. Yet he had now chosen to contact me, of all the times to do so – a regular February morning. The contents of the letter were as such: Nicholas had grown lonesome for me, for many years had passed since I had last seen him. He had tried to contact other school friends, so he told me, but had not heard any replies. I, essentially, was the only friend of his left, so he provided me with the location of his residence, as if he expected me to visit.
         The arrival of the letter was at the most proper time: I had recently been given a break off work for the holidays and had not much to do with my free time. Thusly, I nonchalantly gathered up some of my belongings, and soon thereafter I had begun to travel to the house of my old friend.
         After several days of traveling in the bitter cold, I arrived at my destination. The mere sight of the dilapidated home sent chills down my spine. An inexplicable aura of horror emanated from somewhere deeper than inside of the house. Despite the repulsive characteristics, something drew me to the building, almost like a magnetic force; and regardless of what my fears were, I knew my friend was in need of assistance, so I approached the entrance of the foreboding home.
         As I entered my nostrils were infiltrated by the musty smell which permeated the abode. The light was very dim, but with what light I had I could make out the outlines of the more prominent pieces of furniture. I stood in the foyer, waiting for my host to arrive. Soon enough, a strange figure wandered upstairs from the basement, and upon close scrutiny, I determined it to be my friend of old, Nicholas Voraxacorpius. He jumped in shock upon seeing me.
         “I must say, your presence is much appreciated, Timothy!” Nicholas said, his eyes shifting. “If you would please move your luggage to the upper room… I will prepare dinner in the meantime. Then we will talk.”
         Smiling, I carried my belongings up the creaking, winding staircase, which seemed to continue on forever. I gave a sigh of relief when I reached the top, and, though exhausted, threw my bags into my bedroom. The pleasant aroma of a Christmas dinner wafted into my room. Anticipating a hot meal to assuage my hunger, I began to head down the stairs.
         I entered the dining room to find Nicholas sitting at the head of a very long table. Set on it was, in all sincerity, a meal fit for a king. Taking my seat, I began to voraciously consume my meal, as I had not eaten a good meal in nearly a week.
         About midway through the meal, Nicholas inquired, “Dear Timothy, my friend, how has your life been in the twenty years since I have last seen you?”
         I proceeded to recount my life since high school: Upon graduation, I headed to college to earn my degree in accounting, and now I had my own business, which was quite profitable. He commented on my profession.
         “I hear crime’s rampant in that sector of the workforce,” he slyly commented.
         I looked at him with some puzzlement. “I suppose so.”
         “Crime bosses can manipulate accountants to help them launder their money, can’t they?”
         “Well, uh,” I replied, “I suppose. Not entirely too sure, though. Sounds about right.” The specifics of his questions were slightly nerve-racking, and I would not have countenanced such questions were it not I felt sympathy for a recluse such as himself.
         Within the hour the meal was complete, and I retreated to my room. However, I was stopped by Nicholas.
         “Oh Timothy, I forgot to mention… feel free to wander around the house wherever you like, but whatever you do, please stay away from the basement.”
         Bemused, I consented, and retreated to my room.
         I had been asleep for not yet two hours when I was awakened by a bloody scream, apparently from the basement. Terror struck my heart, which palpitated at the sound of the cry. Though I wished to remain safe, I also was both afraid and curious of what was in the basement, so I headed downstairs and into the basement.
         I wandered into the basement, a marvelously intricate catacomb. Against the walls were skulls, bones, and other morbid items. I stood there in awe of the catacomb. Though the cry had been silenced, I heard faint noises in the distance, and so I walked in the direction of the source of the sounds. As I grew closer, I began to hear a squishing sound, as if one was biting into raw meat. I walked faster. I could hear blood spurting. I panicked. The sounds were revolting. But I continued to walk.
         The sounds only grew louder as I grew closer and closer. With my next turn, I found myself standing in a dim chamber, staring at Nicholas Voraxacorpius as he gnawed on a human arm. Strapped down to the table next to him was a murdered mailman, whose arms and legs had been severed, intestines gutted, and brain ripped out for the eating pleasures of my disturbing host. I stood in horror as Nicholas, blood dripping from his mouth, stared at me with a grin on his face as if he were possessed by the Devil himself. I backed up, turned around, and ran like bloody hell to escape the bloody hell I was facing.
         I tried to find my way out of the catacombs, but I had no such luck. I had given up all hope when suddenly, I saw the exit at the end of the hallway that lay before me. Overjoyed, I sprinted down the hallway, my heart throbbing to my throat. I ran faster and faster as I approached the exit, laughing insanely in fear. The exit grew closer. Almost there. The blood-curdling shrieks of my host resonated off the walls. Almost there. Sweat ran down my head as I ran faster, faster, faster. But the door began to close. Frantically, I sped up. Faster and faster. The door was half-closed. Faster and faster. I trip and land flat on my face, warm blood flowing from my mouth and nose. I try to get up, but there is pressure on my neck – a foot. I turn my head in agony and look up to see my host, Nicholas Voraxacorpius, staring me straight in the eye with a frenzied look. Yet a glimmer of sadness rippled through those cold, glazed eyes. His stare penetrated my soul.
         “This is the end, Timothy, my friend. The suffering of the countless, which you have caused, will finally end.”
          “Of what do you speak of?” I nervously asked him. “What people? What suffering?”
         Nicholas laughed. “The poor. The disenfranchised. The crying mothers who cannot feed their children because of their chronic drug addiction. You helped finance that by obscuring the funds. You are a monster and have no right to live.” He pressed down harder on my neck. “The Earth will be much better off without you.”
         With that, a sharp sword plunged through my back, piercing my right lung, as I gasped frantically for air. My neck started to crack and I began to lose consciousness. As the maniacal laughter ensued, I drifted into oblivion and found myself at the outer gates of Hell.