Untitled chapter 1
“When a door opens to the unknown, it does not invite you in—it drags you, screaming, into a darkness that remembers every soul it has consumed.”
What I Think About Horror
Horror is not entertainment. Horror is not a mask, a carved pumpkin, or a night of children in costumes begging for candy at strangers’ doors. Horror is truth—the truth hidden from us, diluted by priests, cloaked by sermons, and covered in the sweet frosting of tradition. They tell us Hell is fire. They tell us it is punishment. They tell us it is eternal separation from God.
They lie. Hell is not separation—it is consumption. It is not fire—it is the mouth of the abyss, wet and endless, gnawing at what remains of the soul. There are no demons with pitchforks waiting to mock us—only shapes that once were human, stretched into monsters, fused with their own screams until they no longer remember language, only the howl of pain.
The clergy fear the truth. They wear white robes to hide their blackened hearts. They paint Hell as a moral lesson, when in reality it is the marrow of terror itself. If you stare into the thought of Hell too long, you begin to feel it breathing on your skin, whispering in the back of your skull, reminding you that every shadow, every silence, is already part of it.
And we… we laugh. We play games in October, we hang skeletons, we light candles in pumpkins. We pretend the abyss is nothing more than a festival, that the dead can be tamed with candy and songs.
But in Hell, pumpkins rot from the inside, their flesh crawling with worms that still remember the voices of those they devoured. In Hell, skeletons don’t dance—they scrape their fingernails against stone walls, desperate to peel away memories that torment them for eternity. In Hell, there is no laughter—only the echo of children’s cries twisting into something inhuman.
Priests tell us that horror is a genre, a cautionary tale. But I know better. Horror is prophecy. Horror is a reminder—a glimpse of the reality we are too cowardly to face.
I don’t celebrate Halloween anymore. I can’t. Because now I understand that every mask hides something far darker, every flame draws closer the shadows that wait beyond. When a door opens to the unknown, nothing will ever be the same again. And if you believe for a second that Hell is just a story, then the story has already claimed you.
Horror is not make-believe. Horror is Hell itself—and Hell is already here.
Thoughts of the Writer
There are nights when I cannot close my eyes, for the darkness whispers louder than any scream. I have long feared Hell, not as a place told by priests and painted in books, but as something that waits, patient, beneath the cracks of this world. It is not fire I dread, but silence; not demons with horns, but shadows with my face, watching me from the corner of the room when I pretend to sleep.
Hell is not a distant pit. It is a gnawing hunger, a breath on the nape of my neck when I am alone, the sensation that the floor beneath me is thinner than I want to believe. Somewhere beneath, something writhes, waiting for the weight of my soul to break through.
What terrifies me most are the eyes I imagine there. Eyes without lids, eyes that do not blink, eyes that reflect not my body but my sins. They would peel me open slowly, not with knives or fire, but with memory—forcing me to relive every cruelty, every silence, every thought I buried alive. In Hell, there is no forgetting.
Sometimes, when the autumn winds howl through the shutters, I hear laughter. Not the laughter of joy, but the cackling of children who were never born, of mothers who ate their own young, of men who tore their own throats in despair. It is a laughter that feasts on fear, and when I hear it, I know that Halloween is not a night of costumes and sweetness—it is a rehearsal. A rehearsal for the day when the veil tears for good.
And so I write. I write because the scratching of the pen is the only sound that drowns the whisper of claws dragging themselves closer. But the more I write, the more I fear I am not creating stories. I am recording warnings. I am transcribing voices that should have never been heard.
If you still believe Hell is a myth, then close this book now. Pretend it was only ink, only paper, only imagination. But if you feel the weight behind these words, if you too sense the heat pressing against the walls, then know this: Hell is patient, but not merciful. And when its doors open, there will be no more Halloweens. Only harvest.
Dedication
To God, my Heavenly Father—thank You for guiding every step of my journey and being present in each of my decisions.
To my grandfather, Jorge David, who gifted me the love of words and the dream of becoming a writer.
To my sister Giannina and my friend Lorena Contreras, whose encouragement has been the wind beneath my wings.
To my boyfriend and future husband, my true soulmate, who stands beside me in every battle, inspires every page I write, and fills my world with love, hope, and light. You are my muse, my universe.
To my family, friends, my psychology, and my readers—thank you for your unwavering support and belief in me.
To Manuel Cueva and Antonio Martin, whose words reminded me never to abandon my dream of writing.
To Lorena Gallo, whose courage and resilience lit the flame that sparked this book.
To Thelma Fardin, whose bravery in speaking her truth became an anthem for countless women.
To Miss Margarita de Fioravanti, the entire Fioravanti family, Miss Margarita Guillén, Ángel Bolívar Hernández Pólit, and Mariela Vanessa Zambrano Saltos, who have inspired me to strive for excellence and grow both personally and professionally.
And above all—to all women who have suffered abuse: This book is for you. May it remind you that life can begin again, that beyond violence lies hope, and that you deserve a future free from fear. May these pages be your voice, your shield, and your light in the darkness.
I want to express my deepest gratitude to Lutho Mayiseli, Miriam Toews, Elara, Olivia James, and all the incredible writers whose unwavering support has carried me through this journey. Your encouragement, kindness, and belief in my voice have been a beacon of light in moments of doubt. Thank you for standing beside me with open hearts and endless generosity — this story would not exist without you.
Finally, to Volta Publishing, Grupo Dux, and Elara—thank you for making my dream a reality and helping me turn my words into a beacon of hope for those who need it most.
Story logline
When a young woman named Ariana stumbles into a nightmare realm where flesh and reality twist together, she must endure unspeakable horrors and confront her deepest fears to reclaim her humanity—or become one with the darkness consuming the world.
Book Blurb
The city is gone. The screams still echo. When Ariana awakens in the ruins of a world devoured by shadows, she discovers that survival is no longer about escaping death—it is about escaping madness.
Every corner hides something alive. Every silence is a trap. The earth itself rots beneath her feet as the air fills with whispers that tear at her mind. Flesh becomes stone. Blood rains from the sky. Friends twist into monsters.
But the true horror isn’t the city. It isn’t the creatures hunting her. It’s the voice inside her head. A voice that tells her she belongs here.
Ariana must battle not only the nightmares outside but the darkness blooming within her, before she loses the last fragments of her soul.
Enter a descent where terror has no bottom, where hope is a lie, and where the only ending is written in blood.
What the Book Is About?
This book is not an invitation. It is not a game, nor a ritual of curiosity. It is a descent. A wound. A doorway carved into black stone that should never have been opened, but once opened, cannot be closed.
What lies within these pages is not for those seeking beauty in darkness, nor comfort in rebellion. Those who call themselves Satanists play with masks and mirrors, blind to the truth that the abyss they worship hungers for them more than they hunger for it. This book is the unveiling of that abyss.
It is about Hell—not the clean, candlelit Hell painted by liars in pulpits, but the real one. The Hell that seethes like a living carcass. The Hell that feeds on screams so old they have lost all trace of the human tongue. It is about the truth the clergy dare not speak: that demons do not bargain, they do not bless, and they do not crown kings. They devour. They tear out souls the way wolves rip veins from lambs. They laugh not in mockery, but in hunger.
This book is about the hollow lies told to you. Priests who softened the flames into parables, who turned devils into shadows, who promised salvation if you stayed obedient. Their words were not protection, but anesthesia—keeping you blind, keeping you docile, while the truth crawled closer every night.
The truth is this: Hell is not a kingdom. It is not a place of power. It is a slaughterhouse. A pit where all that suffers is chewed and re-chewed by the jaws of eternity. The Satan you think you know—the rebel, the fallen angel—is no liberator, no romantic figure in black. He is a butcher. His throne is a mound of skulls. His crown is forged from the spinal cords of children. His voice is the sound you hear in the walls at night when you think you are alone.
This book is about stripping away illusions. If you dared hope to light a candle on Halloween night and laugh at the shapes in the dark, let these words bury that urge. You will find nothing to celebrate in the pages ahead. Only rot, only despair, only the unblinking eyes of Hell staring back.
This book is not for the curious. It is a warning for the damned.
Introduction
When we’re young, we faithfully believe in the word of God without question, until we grow up, interact with different people, and begin to realize the truth. Some begin to truly doubt everything the priests have said since we were children.
Some people begin to realize that: The Devil, Satan, and Lucifer are three completely different deities, because the Devil is a deity who existed long before God, Satan was created to create hell, and Lucifer is in the ninth circle of hell.
One of the people who also did some research on this discovered the following: “I’m pretty sure it’s implied that Satan is just one of God’s higher angels who judges humanity for God, and that Lucifer is a completely different entity.”
Another thing I’ve discovered while being a writer and writing horror novels is that October 31st is the Devil’s birthday, and that witches and Satanists take advantage of that time to sacrifice us as offerings to the Devil.
Many people have felt very afraid simply knowing that, come October 31st, any of them could be sacrificed at any moment.
That’s why I wanted to write about terror, because I wanted to know how deep my fears are, because you never know how deep your fears are.
That’s why I will continue to write about terror because I want to know how deep my fears are.
Act I — Seeds of Dread
