The House of Ash and Guilt

When I died, there was a woman reeking of talcum powder straddling me. She was my third client that night—and my last.

She told me her favorite sound was the crisp snap of breaking bones—more beautiful than any music. My right hand had just been twisted at a grotesque angle, accompanied by her satisfied sigh, until it broke clean through.

The pain hit like a white-hot brand, searing through my nerves—then receded just as fast, like a tide pulling back. All that was left was a numb, bone-deep cold. I could feel it clearly—life draining out of my ravaged body.

When she'd had her fill, she climbed off me, satisfied. Her well-manicured fingers picked up a piece of silver from the table, then dropped it onto my face with disgust.

"Useless thing," she sneered. "Bones so brittle. Can't even take a little roughhousing."

The door creaked open.

Vince Benedict, the brothel's manager, waddled in with his massive gut leading the way. He pinched the silver coin between his thick fingers and blew on it. Then he gave my limp leg a hard kick with his black cloth boot.

When I didn't so much as twitch, he bent down, checked my breath, and went pale. Through gritted teeth, he called for a servant.

"Roll him in a straw mat and dump him at the mass grave outside the west gate. Don't let anyone see."

As they dragged me out, he muttered under his breath, "Just some unlucky kid nobody wanted anyway. Probably no one will come looking. Hope you get a better deal in your next life."

A better deal. If only it worked that way.

As my consciousness faded, my soul felt yanked back—to that Halloween night that changed everything.

Lights strung like jack-o'-lanterns, crowds surging like a river. I was gripping my little brother Matthew Duncan's hand—warm and soft—terrified that if I let go for even a second, the tide of people would swallow him up.

But in the blink of an eye, a puppet-maker's stall caught his eye. He pointed at a fierce general figurine, bouncing with excitement. "Eli! I want that one! The general!"

I let go of his hand for just a moment—just long enough to dig a coin out of my pouch. When I looked back, Matthew was gone.

I tore through the crowd like a madman, screaming his name until my voice gave out and my throat tasted like blood. It wasn't until deep into the night that the night patrol found me—huddled in a corner, hollow-eyed and broken.

Not long after, the headless body of a boy was discovered in a dark alley south of town. He was wearing the exact same indigo shirt Matthew had on when we lost each other—his favorite silk scarf fallen nearby, the one he never left home without.

What followed was the darkest stretch of my life. I knelt in the family chapel for eighty-one days and nights, surviving only on bowls of watery oatmeal slipped to me by a kind servant.

The day I walked out of that chapel, I became the cheapest whore in the brothel. My clients were either middle-aged matrons past their prime or wealthy women with cruel appetites. They took out their rawest desires on me—with whips, with brands, with torture devices I didn't even have names for.

I was tormented day and night. Soon enough, I came down with consumption—coughing up blood around the clock, my body failing more each day. But Vince said those were my father's orders: no treatment.

Then one rainy night, a drunk client decided I wasn't performing well enough. She kicked me off the bed and stomped on my chest, over and over. I curled up on the floor, felt a rush of iron in my throat—and coughed up a mouthful of blood.

That bright-eyed boy I used to be—the one who still had hope—faded into nothing. After that, I had nothing left to live for. Until just now, when this wretched, drifting life of mine finally ended.

Matthew, your big brother is coming to join you. I've finally paid for my sin.