All the Fiends of Hell

by Adam L.G. Nevill

Only useless or untrustworthy men, orphans and the mentally ill had survived.

They forbid us sleep. Even that they will take from us.

A hesitation twinned with a moan. A sound of profound suffering, of an animal enduring immense pain. A cry Karl had not heard before. The thing was driven by bloodlust and intent on destruction, yet it seemed tormented. Its very presence here caused it pain.

No one knew anything. There was absolutely no certainty left in the world. False prophets and the demented led the foolish.

One of the reasons I write horror is to conduct a dialogue with myself about life and death, the suffering that living entails but also the wonder and mystery that life offers. Horror, to my eye, is granted a special licence in these matters. Imaginatively exploring the true precariousness of life and society, and the miracle of consciousness and existence, can also be a path to terrifying visions. But if you are gifted with an imagination it must be used. And if I ever needed evidence of how my imagination works, abstractly, in response to my own time in the world, I need look no further than this story.