Sins 01 - Sins of Temptation

more closely, I could see that strips of flesh had been torn from his limbs, leaving weeping open wounds that now crawled with maggots. It looked as if he had died in the middle of being tortured by some perverse criminal. But what could anyone want of this man other than his vast wealth, yet there were no signs of forced entry and nothing had been taken, according to the housekeeper.
    I glanced around the room, the opulence a reflection of the rest of this grand property, dominated by the occult fetishes of his apparent obsession. The dying sun flooded through a pair of large bay windows, suffusing the room with a ruby glow and a touch of flame. Outside, it was darkening now and I could see thick purple clouds gathering like blood blisters across the sky, the beginnings of an unseasonal storm evident in the rain that pattered against the window. A wide wooden desk looked out toward a small church that squatted at the edge of a wood, perhaps Faerwald’s personal chapel, since it lay within his vast estate out here on the edges of civilization. Apparently he had purchased this place before he rose to the heights of popular success and bought luxury properties around the world. Personally, I’d rather be on the beaches of Monaco than holed up to die here in obscurity, but he had been obsessed with the place.
    To the right of the desk, one whole wall was devoted to erotic images, with gorgeous art morphing into pornography, and I couldn’t help but look closer. Sandstone carvings from the Hindu temple of Khajuraho depicted orgies of debauchery, with bodies entwined in yogic poses as they thrust and writhed together. A set of art-house black and white photographs revealed scenes from a dungeon, as scarred and whipped bodies were soothed by gentle tongues.
    Amongst the frenzied sensory overload, a small print caught my eye, portraying naked human figures swept into a hellish vortex, embracing each other with desire even as they were sucked into oblivion. William Blake’s Circle of the Lustful, I read in the text below, and I couldn’t help but glance back at the obscene figure spread-eagled on the bed, pushing away the repugnant image of this bloated man engaged in carnal acts. But beneath the mound of flesh, fattened from years of gluttony and excess, Faerwald’s bones were aristocratic, although he was now a shade of the handsome man he had once been, a magnet for beautiful women, and envied by men for his success. I picked up a Hollywood-style photo frame from the desk, the picture within showing him in a slim-fit white tuxedo dancing a waltz, his strong arms wrapped around a stunning young woman, who smiled up at him with cornflower-blue eyes. I imagined them together, her shining blonde hair a veil that hid her eyes as they darkened with wanton pleasure. Envy surged within me and the need to drink almost drove me back to the car, desperate to tip even the tiniest dribble into my mouth. I pushed down the cravings and turned to examine the desk, using my pen to flick open a leather diary that sat in pride of place. On the final page, Faerwald’s last words stared up at me, written in the same dark red ink, but diseased with tinges of purple and rusty clots that stained the thick ivory paper.
    She comes tonight to claim what I promised in exchange so long ago.
    I didn’t believe her words back then, didn’t think at all, but what she offered has come to pass and yet still I struggle to believe my soul can be so taken from me. I know I must pay the price for my sin, but if I can, I will prevent another from falling as far as I have done. With no self-indulgent pleasure bloating a soul to feed upon, she must sink back to the depths from which I summoned her. I have hidden the book so she will have to sleep again. It is buried, and I am finished, but perhaps this last act will earn me a sliver of redemption.
    The diary page was signed with his name and yesterday’s date, the handwriting measured, sane and deliberate, but the words read like one of his novels. Was he living within the realms of fantasy when he passed so violently into the next world? Looking over again at the man’s horrified face, I knew that his agony had not been mere imagination.
    My eyes were drawn out the window to the church again, for he had sat here looking at it when he wrote those last words, and I felt a prickle of sensation, as if those murky portals called to me. Could he have buried this strange book within? Something dark began to