His Private Hell - Chapter 110: Chapter 110
You are reading His Private Hell, Chapter 110: Chapter 110. Read more chapters of His Private Hell.
The silence after Darcie’s disappearance wasn’t peace—it was a scream trapped in the throat of the earth. Eella stood in the war-torn chamber, her blood dried on the floor like a signature. The second Choir stood behind her, no longer hollow, no longer chained. Their eyes burned with purpose.
But it wasn’t her purpose.
Beside her, Garrison trembled. Not from weakness—but from the collision of memory and madness. His breathing came in short bursts, every exhale an apology he couldn’t say.
“They’re watching us,” he murmured.
Eella’s spine stiffened. “The Choir?”
He shook his head. “No. Him. Lazarus.”
The name dropped like lead. Somewhere deep in the walls, gears clicked. A mechanical heartbeat returned to life. The stone beneath their feet vibrated.
Eella turned slowly to the Choir. “Can you feel him?”
The leader—a woman with eyes like split moonlight—nodded. “He’s coming to collect his song.”
Garrison drew his gun, but his hands were shaking. “We can’t win.”
Eella stepped in front of him. “Then we don’t fight him. We end the story before he gets to write the last verse.”
The Choir moved in unison, their bodies floating inches above the floor as they chanted. The air thickened. Light trembled. Reality bent.
From the ceiling, a panel crashed open. A single black wire slithered down. Then another. And another.
The room was no longer a chamber—it was a womb. And Lazarus was being born.
Eella screamed as the wires slithered toward them, wrapping around the Choir, threading through their skin like marionette strings. One by one, the Choir fell still. Their mouths opened in a silent cry.
“No!” she shouted. “They’re yours no longer!”
A deep, guttural voice boomed from the walls. “They were always mine.”
Garrison pulled her back as a figure began to emerge—first a boot, then a coat, then a face built from mirrors and bones. Lazarus.
His eyes were black holes. Not empty, but greedy.
“Darcie’s body was disposable,” he said. “But she did her part. You completed the Choir. Now I have my symphony.”
Eella’s voice was steel. “They chose me. Not you.”
Lazarus smirked. “That’s where you’re wrong. They chose pain. And I am its father.”
Without warning, the Choir turned toward her. Their eyes glowed—but no longer with purity.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t forget me.”
But they already had.
Lazarus raised his hand, and the Choir lunged. Not for her—but for Garrison.
He shouted, firing wildly. One bullet hit a Choir member square in the head. They stumbled—but didn’t fall.
Eella ran at them, grabbing the nearest figure. “You don’t want this! I know you!”
No recognition.
Only the voice of Lazarus, singing through them all.
She grabbed the blade from Garrison’s belt and slashed through the wires on the back of one Choir member’s neck. They screamed—and dropped.
Lazarus roared. “You cut my tongue.”
Eella kept slashing, dodging bodies. Two down. Three. The rest faltered, unsure.
Garrison fought off another, but one caught him by the throat, slamming him to the ground. His eyes bulged.
“NO!” Eella shrieked, running to him.
She drove the blade through the Choir member’s back. It stiffened—then dropped.
Garrison coughed violently, blood on his lips.
Eella pulled him into her arms. “Stay with me!”
He clutched her hand. “He’s… inside me.”
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I won’t let him have you.”
But Lazarus was already laughing. “You gave me a door, Eella. The second you opened yourself to the Choir, you opened yourself to me.”
And then Garrison’s scream broke the ceiling.
He convulsed—veins blackening, his eyes rolling back.
Eella backed away, horrified. “Garrison!”
He looked at her—and for a moment, it was him.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Then he collapsed.
Lazarus stepped forward, smiling. “He was a beautiful instrument. But flawed.”
Eella screamed. No words. Just the agony of finality.
But the last Choir member—moonlight eyes—stepped forward, cradling something in her hands.
A heart.
Eella stared. “What is that?”
The Choir member looked at her. “The real Garrison… is still beating.”
She dropped the heart into Eella’s palm. It pulsed—weak, trembling, but alive.
Lazarus hissed. “NO.”
Eella turned toward him, holding the heart close.
“This is what you’ll never understand,” she said. “Love doesn’t obey. It fights.”
She drove the blade into the floor.
The chamber shattered.
Walls collapsed.
The Choir screamed.
Lazarus howled—wires snapping, body dissolving into sparks.
And Eella, clutching Garrison’s heart, fell into the abyss of light.
•
She awoke somewhere warm.
Soft.
Real.
Garrison lay beside her, breathing shallow but steady.
She looked at his chest—scarred but whole.
The heart was inside him again.
She wept, silent tears, as the world outside began to burn.
But inside this moment, they were alive.
And the war was not over.
Only begun.
But it wasn’t her purpose.
Beside her, Garrison trembled. Not from weakness—but from the collision of memory and madness. His breathing came in short bursts, every exhale an apology he couldn’t say.
“They’re watching us,” he murmured.
Eella’s spine stiffened. “The Choir?”
He shook his head. “No. Him. Lazarus.”
The name dropped like lead. Somewhere deep in the walls, gears clicked. A mechanical heartbeat returned to life. The stone beneath their feet vibrated.
Eella turned slowly to the Choir. “Can you feel him?”
The leader—a woman with eyes like split moonlight—nodded. “He’s coming to collect his song.”
Garrison drew his gun, but his hands were shaking. “We can’t win.”
Eella stepped in front of him. “Then we don’t fight him. We end the story before he gets to write the last verse.”
The Choir moved in unison, their bodies floating inches above the floor as they chanted. The air thickened. Light trembled. Reality bent.
From the ceiling, a panel crashed open. A single black wire slithered down. Then another. And another.
The room was no longer a chamber—it was a womb. And Lazarus was being born.
Eella screamed as the wires slithered toward them, wrapping around the Choir, threading through their skin like marionette strings. One by one, the Choir fell still. Their mouths opened in a silent cry.
“No!” she shouted. “They’re yours no longer!”
A deep, guttural voice boomed from the walls. “They were always mine.”
Garrison pulled her back as a figure began to emerge—first a boot, then a coat, then a face built from mirrors and bones. Lazarus.
His eyes were black holes. Not empty, but greedy.
“Darcie’s body was disposable,” he said. “But she did her part. You completed the Choir. Now I have my symphony.”
Eella’s voice was steel. “They chose me. Not you.”
Lazarus smirked. “That’s where you’re wrong. They chose pain. And I am its father.”
Without warning, the Choir turned toward her. Their eyes glowed—but no longer with purity.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t forget me.”
But they already had.
Lazarus raised his hand, and the Choir lunged. Not for her—but for Garrison.
He shouted, firing wildly. One bullet hit a Choir member square in the head. They stumbled—but didn’t fall.
Eella ran at them, grabbing the nearest figure. “You don’t want this! I know you!”
No recognition.
Only the voice of Lazarus, singing through them all.
She grabbed the blade from Garrison’s belt and slashed through the wires on the back of one Choir member’s neck. They screamed—and dropped.
Lazarus roared. “You cut my tongue.”
Eella kept slashing, dodging bodies. Two down. Three. The rest faltered, unsure.
Garrison fought off another, but one caught him by the throat, slamming him to the ground. His eyes bulged.
“NO!” Eella shrieked, running to him.
She drove the blade through the Choir member’s back. It stiffened—then dropped.
Garrison coughed violently, blood on his lips.
Eella pulled him into her arms. “Stay with me!”
He clutched her hand. “He’s… inside me.”
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I won’t let him have you.”
But Lazarus was already laughing. “You gave me a door, Eella. The second you opened yourself to the Choir, you opened yourself to me.”
And then Garrison’s scream broke the ceiling.
He convulsed—veins blackening, his eyes rolling back.
Eella backed away, horrified. “Garrison!”
He looked at her—and for a moment, it was him.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Then he collapsed.
Lazarus stepped forward, smiling. “He was a beautiful instrument. But flawed.”
Eella screamed. No words. Just the agony of finality.
But the last Choir member—moonlight eyes—stepped forward, cradling something in her hands.
A heart.
Eella stared. “What is that?”
The Choir member looked at her. “The real Garrison… is still beating.”
She dropped the heart into Eella’s palm. It pulsed—weak, trembling, but alive.
Lazarus hissed. “NO.”
Eella turned toward him, holding the heart close.
“This is what you’ll never understand,” she said. “Love doesn’t obey. It fights.”
She drove the blade into the floor.
The chamber shattered.
Walls collapsed.
The Choir screamed.
Lazarus howled—wires snapping, body dissolving into sparks.
And Eella, clutching Garrison’s heart, fell into the abyss of light.
•
She awoke somewhere warm.
Soft.
Real.
Garrison lay beside her, breathing shallow but steady.
She looked at his chest—scarred but whole.
The heart was inside him again.
She wept, silent tears, as the world outside began to burn.
But inside this moment, they were alive.
And the war was not over.
Only begun.
End of His Private Hell Chapter 110. Continue reading Chapter 111 or return to His Private Hell book page.