Fell the Angels - Joslinne Morgan (books suggested by bill gates .txt) 📗

elbows, preparing a scathing retort, but her words stuck in her throat.
Nestled comfortably in a grove of twisting, luscious trees, like one of the big cats of mortal earth who crouched and waited for their pray to come by before pouncing, were hell’s twisted iron gates. Amy sucked in a breath and cringed visibly in the presence of such a horror that – until now – she could only imagine what it looked like. The gate had to be over ten feet tall, stretching infinitely into nothing, and appeared to be made of heavy black iron. Above the gates in bold lettering, made of the same black iron but glowing red as if heated, read the words "Omnes relinquite spes, o vos intrantes".
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” Amy whispered, close to the point of tears. She realized she was shaking like a leaf. It was Latin, yet she knew the phrase could be understood no matter what language you spoke.
Whispers. Amy twisted her head around frantically to locate the source. She had heard tales of the dark wood … but she had imagined it a cold, desolate place where lost souls wandered through without any hope of solace or company.
She was quite wrong.
They were everywhere, some had taken the wide crooked path straight to the gates, others found their way through the woods at last, after who knows how many centuries of wandering. They wept, they whispered, pleas for mercy, pleas for guidance. Some appeared to know exactly where they were, they kept their gazes fixed straight ahead, their silvery eyes devoid of all expression. Other didn’t know where they were, these were the ones crying for direction. Spirits of small children cried out for their mothers, a man ran through the undergrowth of the forest, tripping, crying out the name of some woman – his wife, his sister? – but he would never find her.
One soul screamed and tore at its eyes, blood running down its cheek, stumbling blindly down the path, running into other souls who didn’t even acknowledge its presence. It staggered towards Amy, reaching out and groping blindly with bloody fingers. Amy screamed and scrambled to her feet – though it was one of those moments when no matter how much will you have, you can’t manage to move as fast as you would like. And after what seemed to take an age she was on her feet and had bolted towards Mephistopheles, clinging to his arm and burying her face in his shoulder. He smelled of sulfur and ashes, but she knew him. She didn’t want to see the souls wandering tormented and lost. She didn’t want to see the demons that accompanied them every step of the way taunt them and hinder their way. Turning the blind ones around so that they wandered in the wrong direction, kicking, pinching, and ripping apart the ones that had collapsed to the ground and refused to move.
Mephistopheles hissed and jabbed her in the throat with his elbow. Whimpering, Amy backed away, but still didn’t leave his side. Her eyes were kept firmly fixed on the ground.
“Mephistopheles,” spoke a voice like grating metal. “The prince has been expecting you.”
“You may tell him I succeeded,” Mephistopheles replied. “On both charges.”
The voice snorted disdainfully, and Amy heard something suspiciously like a fountain pen scratching against parchment.
“Names?”
“Heather Sardis, and you can put her in category seven.”
“Hmm,” the grating voice replied thoughtfully. “Outer, middle, or inner?”
“Middle,” Mephistopheles replied.
“Hmm,” more scratching. “Proceed.”
“And Amy, you remember Amy.”
“Indeed,” she could hear the smirk. “Let us take a look at our dear Amy,” iron-like fingers seized her chin and brought it up sharply. Amy cringed and found herself staring straight into a wholly unfamiliar pair of eyes. One was bright blue, and the other was dark forest green.
“Yes,” the owner of the grating voice chortled, turning her head from side to side, examining her from all possible angles. “I daresay it is our dear Amy.”
“Let me go,” Amy pleaded quietly, “I don’t know who you are.”
A harsh cackle, and the stranger released the hold on her chin.
“She doesn’t know me, Mephistopheles!” he proclaimed in a high, mocking voice, mimicking hers. “I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me. After all, these-“ he rolled his eyes at this point, one all the way up and the other all the way down to look at her. “Are not what they used to be.”
Amy recoiled, but he kept her chin firmly gripped in his fingers. “
“Do you know why they aren’t what they used to be, little Amy?” the stranger hammered on.
“N-No,” Amy replied, biting her lip.
“The Almighty wasn’t very pleased with my performance. He didn’t believe I had any right to leave Heaven, and I believed I had a right to go anywhere I chose. So I left, of course. I reached mortal earth, I got as far as Italy when the Holy Spirit and his bloody Son caught up with me in the form of two white doves. The buggers plucked my eyes right out and carried them back to Heaven, where I was no longer permitted to enter. Of course I was in excruciating agony. Of course I eventually staggered to these very gates. Of course I had to prove myself by performing deeds for the prince himself. Eventually, I found his favor, and he gave me leave to go to mortal earth every now and again and relieve them of their eyes. He gave me back my sight.” Now the blue eye was focused on her, and the green eye had wandered to the left.
“I still don’t know you,” she insisted, pulling away.
He sighed. “Do I have to say it? I know you have been keeping up with Mephistopheles, it hurts me that you haven’t found me worthy of such effort. After how close we were? I possessed a nun in Aix-en-Provence. During the exorcism not only did I reveal my name, but the name of every other demon possessing her, as well as the name of every saint most effective in opposing us! Surely you heard of that?”
Indeed she had. Heaven had gone up in a fury. The Almighty had been livid. The name of the offending angel had been echoed as a warning amongst the heavenly host.
“It can’t be….” She shook her head slowly, as if she didn’t quite believe it. “Baalberith?”


Heather was dead. She was found lying in the bathtub, her head lolling to one side, her long blonde hair falling over one shoulder into the water, which was tinted rust red with blood.
Her skin was stone gray, and her eyes were wide open, transfixed in an expression of terror. Linda choked and collapsed to her knees next to the tub. “Heather…” she sobbed, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Heather!”
Heather had died, she had died alone and frightened, and her mother wasn’t there to help her, to try and stop her.
You’ve failed, you’ve failed as a parent!
There was no getting around it. Linda was a failure and she was paying the price. This was no better then she had deserved, after all. If only she had said ‘no’ to Keith that night when her parents had left them all alone in the house, completely trusting. Perhaps she shouldn’t have dropped out of high school, perhaps she should have given the child up for adoption. Perhaps she shouldn’t have quit the only full-time job she had ever held. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps - it was far too late for that now.
Linda fumbled in her sweatshirt pocket for her cell phone. It was nearly dead, and had only two little bars, but it was the only phone she had. They couldn’t afford a landline.
“911, what’s your emergency?” came the pleasant voice over the phone.
“My daughter is dead,” Linda said, almost frantically into the receiver. “I just found her in the bathtub… I didn’t do it to her, I swear!”
“Calm down, miss,” the voice placated. “What is the address?”
Crying uncontrollably, Linda gave the woman her address. The woman reassured her that everything would be all right, and just to stay where she was, the police would be there soon. Linda nodded and hung up before dissolving into tears.
The knot of despair tightened, and she couldn’t help but think, over and over, that she had lied.
I did it.
She had killed her daughter, without even meaning to. There was so much she could have, should have, done differently.
I killed her, I did it. I never gave her the love she needed. I did it. I did it!


Chapter Three: Welcome to Hell

God have mercy!
“Pick yourself up,” Marianne snapped. “I have been ashamed to claim you as my daughter for a long time, Linda. Ever since you dropped out of school and claimed that you were going to raise a child entirely on your own. I told you no good could come of it, but did you listen to me? No, you have never listened to your dear, old mother, who has only ever wanted the best for you.”
Linda was curled up on her mother’s couch. Marianne Sardis was a strong, independent woman, and damnably stubborn. She refused to allow herself to be seen at the ‘hovel’ that her daughter had occupied, and Linda had been forced to drive herself to her mother’s doorstep and beg to be let in. After all, Heather had just died; she couldn’t stay in the same house.
Linda said nothing as he mother continued to remind her of her every fault.
“It hurt me, Linda, when you forced me to disown you on such grounds. But what else was a mother to do? And now you come to me for aid, and God in his infinite mercy has allowed me to grant it.”
“It’s very kind of you, mom,” Linda sighed.
“Of course, I have my conditions. You are first of all to address me as ‘mother’ and nothing less than that. As long as you live under my house you will abide under my rules. No more sweat pants and tank tops. You will dress modestly and with taste. I do not want all my friends to be under the impression that you are a slut. And I will hear nothing more of Heather. As far as we are concerned, she never existed. She is dead now, and in the past. God has been merciful enough to bury your past and give you a second chance.”
Linda opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it, knowing it was futile.
“If anyone should ask, you have been abroad, and have just come home to visit me for an extended period of time.”
No one would question the story. Marianne hadn’t spoken about her disgrace of a daughter in years. Linda doubted very much that any of Marianne’s friends even knew she had a daughter.
“Yes….mother,” Linda replied through clenched teeth, her fingernails digging into the embroidered pillow she hugged close to her chest. How could her mother expect her to simply forget Heather? Forget everything she had done? She had put fifteen years of her life into that kid! She wanted to smack her mother across the face, she wanted to scream at her and tell her what a bitch she was being. She wanted to curse God. She wanted to cry.
“There’s a good girl,” Marianne replied, pleased.
Linda simmered, hating her.
Witch! Why are you