Through Hell

"Ms. Hartman, I don’t think you understand. You can’t just vandalize the girls' bathroom because you're feeling... angsty." Principal Granger steepled her fingers, her voice teetering between pity and frustration. "You’re turning nineteen next week. I’d hate to see you jeopardize graduation."

I sat motionless in the hard plastic chair, eyes fixed on the corner of her desk where dust gathered in a lazy little storm every time she sighed. Everything felt cold lately. Numb. I kept doing violent, stupid things—just to feel something. A flash of joy, a spike of adrenaline. Anything.

"I know, Principal Granger. It won’t happen again, I promise," I said, voice flat, turning to stare out the window. Not even the picturesque campus—green lawns, manicured trees, that faux-European bell tower—could pull me out of the fog.

"I know you miss your brother," she said gently. "But doing things like this—things he would've done—it won't bring him back."

She wasn’t wrong. I was acting like Thomas. But unlike me, he wasn’t coming back. Ever. He was buried three miles away in that dump of a cemetery Mom picked out—Heaven’s Gate, of all things. The irony would’ve made him laugh. Thomas, the proud atheist, laid to rest under a marble angel, surrounded by promises of salvation he never believed in. Not to mention dad.

He used to say that when you die, it’s like blowing out a candle. No afterlife. No heaven. No punishment. Just... silence. Maybe that was why he did it. Maybe he decided life wasn't worth the crawl if there was nothing waiting at the end but more darkness. A mercy kill. Like putting down a rabid dog.

"But who would I be if I expelled you?" Granger continued. "So—you have detention. Today. I know it’s very middle school of me, but it’s the only thing I can come up with that doesn’t involve a suspension."

She scribbled something on a little notepad and tore the page out with care. "You’ll meet Mr. Tuk in Room 209."

As she handed me the paper, I noticed the tan line where her wedding ring used to be. Arnas, her husband, had left her last year for some Brazilian model, and she’d had a complete breakdown. Hospital stay. Leave of absence. Came back all smiles, like nothing had happened.

"Thanks, Principal Granger," I said dryly. "Promise I’ll find a more constructive outlet for my angry aura."

"One more thing," she added, just as I stood. "You wouldn’t have happened to see a certain book, would you? Old. Very old. Mrs. Blanks says it’s missing from her office."

"A book?" I blinked. "What kind of book?"

"Not sure. She says it's... fragile. Leatherbound. Could be nothing. If you haven’t seen it, don’t worry."

She waved me off, already buried in her monitor, fingers hammering the keyboard like it was to blame.

I made my way to class. Cher was already waiting.

"Well, if it isn’t Banksy herself," she grinned, swinging her long braid over her shoulder. Cher was sharp, fast-talking, and dead set on being the next Picasso—or the first Cher Gupta, whichever came first. We’d become inseparable after Thomas passed. Trauma bonding at its finest.

"Granger gave me detention," I groaned, slumping into my seat. "Because apparently, grief doesn’t excuse public art."

"Ah, nice of you to join us, Ms. Hartman," said Parker, our algebra teacher, arching a brow. I used to like Parker. Before I stopped caring about anything.

"Sorry, Parker. Won’t happen again," I said, bowing dramatically.

"Mmhmm. Let’s begin with pi."

I tuned out, staring through the window as the lesson blurred into static. Numbers on the board. Voices in the room. None of it mattered.

"Hey, you good?" Cher whispered, elbowing me.

"Yeah. Just tired. Promise."

She nodded, but I knew she didn’t buy it.

The thoughts came in waves when I wasn’t paying attention.

What if you could’ve saved him?

What if he blames you?

What if you were just too selfish to see he was slipping?

I made it through the rest of the day on autopilot.

"Alright, projects are due Friday, and remember—prom is in two weeks!" said Mr. James, holding up two fingers like we were blind. Cher snorted.

"Got it. Two weeks, Mr. James," she said, barely containing a laugh.

"Ha-ha, Ms. Gupta," he muttered as we packed up.

We walked the halls with our backpacks dragging behind us like old luggage.

"You get that project done yet?" Cher asked, tugging at my jacket.

"Planning to. Unless detention eats up my whole night again."

"Well, talk to you later, Ruthy." She gave my shoulder a squeeze and disappeared around the corner.

I was left standing in front of Room 209. Alone.

"Good grief," I muttered, flopping down against the wall.

Minutes passed. Then more. No sign of Mr. Tuk. No sounds except the echoing hum of the last buses pulling away.

I was just about to leave when something glinted in the corner of my eye.

A book. Nestled in front of a locker. Covered in dust and something darker—soot? Burn marks?

I knelt down. The leather binding was cracked and brittle, like it had survived a fire. Embossed across the front in faded gold leaf were the words:

Ad Inferos.

"Where’d you come from?" I murmured, reaching out.

The second I touched it, something pricked my finger—a jagged bit of metal embedded in the spine.

"Ow! Screw you," I hissed, shaking my hand.

Suddenly—

"Are you my new master?"

I froze.

"Who... said that?"

Silence. Then—

"It’s very rude to drop people."

I looked down. The book had a face.

Not a drawn face. Not a design. A face. Lips, eyes, a nose—twisting and moving like flesh but embedded into the cover like waxwork.

"What the hell?!"

"Also rude to curse," it snapped, spitting a bit of dust at me.

I staggered backward, heart pounding, every instinct screaming run.

"What... what are you?"

"Name’s Ad Inferos. But you may call me Ad." It smiled—if that’s what you could call the way its mouth curled, tight and knowing.

"I’m dreaming," I muttered, gripping my hair. "This is a dream. Or a psychotic break."

"You’re neither asleep nor insane," it said, reading my thoughts like a diary. "You picked me. That means we begin our journey now."

"Journey?" I echoed. "Yeah, no. No thanks. I’m leaving."

"You can’t. The ritual’s begun."

A dark glow spilled from the book—like a UV light bleeding through reality.

"What’s happening?!"

The floor shuddered. Lockers rattled. Lights flickered and died. Then blackness swallowed everything whole.

I tried to scream, but it was like my mouth had vanished. My body floated—weightless, blind.

Alive, but nowhere.

"Hello?!" I called, but all that answered was my echo.

Then came the vertigo. Then—

Nothing.