Sometime in the 18th century
The rushing of footsteps. The howls of the crowd outside. People pushing and kicking against the doors, the windows. The entire house is shaking, or so it feels like. A man is trying so desperately to keep the doors shut, to keep the windows closed.
He has already pushed all of his wardrobes, all of his tables and all of his chairs in front of the openings to the outside. But he knows that none of it will last long. Not against them.
"Open the door!" a deep, throaty yell rings from just outside the front door. There is heavy knocking, so much so that the wooden door is about to spring from its hinges.
The man turns to the voice, body and light garments drenched in musky sweat. He can hear and feel his own heartbeats, pressing against his ribs.
Another knock and another. And a wooden fragment shoots out of the door, landing right in front of the sweaty man's feet. The howling of the crowd outside is now louder than ever and the house seems to scream in agonizing pain against their relentless assaults, begging for it to stop.
There is a moment where the man just stands there. Motionless. Staring. It is as if time has stopped for the man, the world so slow, all of his problems and worries distant.
The door finally gives in. It bursts open in a thousand splinters. The crowd rushes in, getting stuck on the wardrobe, tables and chairs.
At this moment, the man feels his blood, the adrenaline, the life in his body return. He scrambles to his feet and falls to the floor. His body aches, with a wooden splinter embedded deep in his right hand. He wants to scream, but is too speechless to.
A large man with a pitchfork is the first to get through. The man scrambles to his feet again, despite the pain, and runs to the upstairs. An even larger crowd of people flows in.
He crashes against the door to the roof. He closes the door behind him with a reverberating bang, his hands almost too sweaty to keep onto the brass handle. With the turn of a key, the door is locked, a little respite for the man. He backs away from the door. He can hear a flurry of footsteps on the other side, like a stampede of wild, rabid animals. The clattering of their weapons sounds akin to screeches of wolves or other larger beasts. The man runs to his work desk.
"Open this door!"
"Open it!"
"Please!" the man yells to deaf ears. "I have not done anything! By God, I have done nothing!"
His entire body is shaking. It's shaking so much that he feels numb.
Loud banging echoes in the man's ears. He searches through his drawer. Each rustling of an item inside sounds as loud as the screams of dying men, so sensitive are his ears right now. After seconds, seconds that feel like hours, the man finally finds what he has been looking for. A little figurine made of the simplest of clays and dirtiest of stones. He holds it against his chest, while closing his eyes. There comes that feeling of disassociation again, the world ever-so distant.
"By the deep abyss and the gods below, let the Pandemonium course through my bones. Let the foolish and the non-believers see your might, as I rise up again from this darkest night. Let their minds be shown to the gloriest of wholes. Let their insanity quaver, glory Pandemonium!"
The final barricade breaks. Dozens of blood-thirsty men and women bolt in, quickly filling the attic space and surrounding the man. They all wear expressions of anger, unbridled rage, resentment and disgust on their faces. The man keeps his eyes steadily closed; the last time he will ever feel peace again.
The large man punches him across the face. The man falls to the floor, his little figurine flying out of his hands, and spits blood.
He tries to keep himself upright, but a kick to the abdomen sends him clattering to the floor again. The man jolts in pain. Such pain he has never felt before.
"No! Listen! I have not—"
Another kick. A stab with a pitchfork through the hand. The man screeches in utter agony.
More and more blows are being dealt to the man, each one more gruesome and more vile than the last.
Skin is ripped. Flesh and muscles are being torn through by forks and kitchen knives. Bones are broken, like twigs under a man's boot. Blood gushes from every wound on the man, which sickles through the floorboards below. People take their turns to deliver their jabs, their personal vendetta onto the man, who can barely be described as alive at this point.
One last gasp. The man's fingers twitch with what little life there still is left within him. The large man sees this.
"End it, Barter," a woman says. She hands Barter a knife, small, but sharp.
Barter leans in over the bloody pulp that is left after the man's massacring. He stares the man deeply into his eyes, eyes wide and still able to see. He holds the knife in view for him.
"Be scorched in hell, Quiver," Barter exclaims.
With a slash and a spurt, blood pours out of Quiver's neck. He squirms and twitches helplessly on the dusty floor, as his life's crimson essence leaves his body.
Dozens of pairs of eyes engrain themselves in the last thoughts of the man, as the last trickle of blood escapes him.
*
Barter unloads the heavy casket. The stench of rotten meat and skin is all the more apparent now, with the corpse of Wells Quiver so close to his own face, the wavering of the ship not helping any more. He places the casket on the ground and takes in a few deep breaths of the ocean. It is stormy at sea.
Barter feels a light touch on his shoulder. It is Amanda who gives him a reassuring smile.
"It's over," she says.
Barter nods. He looks down on the casket again.
"For the families you have ripped apart. May your casket never be opened and your story never told."
With that, he gives the casket a push and it plunges into the raving waves below. He and his wife look as the casket sinks to the bottom of the sea where it would hopefully remain for eternity.