The Oubliette: The Diabolical Series, #3

By Joan De La Haye

Hell's labyrinth hides more than demons.

Lost in the depths of The Oubliette, Sarah grapples with stolen memories while Carol finds a twisted peace under Asmoday's tutelage. But as the veil between worlds thins, ancient horrors awaken, threatening to unleash chaos upon both realms.

Trapped in a jar, Jack waits in the shadows. Lilith's schemes weave a sinister web, and new threats surface, more terrifying than any demon.

Sarah's forgotten memories hold the key to her salvation, but can she remember before it's too late? The fate of both worlds rests on their desperate battle against unseen threats and their inner demons.

The Oubliette, the third terrifying chapter in the Diabolical series, will:

Drop you into a chilling Hell where ancient dangers lurk.

Force Sarah and Carol to face their demons and uncover hidden truths.

Push them to the limit as they battle monstrous threats and their own vulnerabilities.

Keep you guessing until the explosive climax, where everything hangs in the balance.

Dare to face the ancient terrors within?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joan De La Haye
• Release date: Feb 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224871599

Joan De La Haye

Joan De La Haye writes horror, dark fantasy and some very twisted thrillers. She invariably wakes up in the middle of the night because she's figured out yet another freaky way to mess with her already screwed-up characters. You can stalk Joan on her website: www.joandelahaye.com

Book preview

The Oubliette

The Diabolical Series

Book 3

By

Joan De La Haye

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by Joan De La Haye

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise).

www. joandelahaye.com

Cover art by Tallulah Lucy

1st Edition March 2024

Also by Joan De La Haye

Stand-Alone Books

Requiem in E Sharp

Fury

Oasis

Burning

The Diabolical Series

Shadows

The Veil

The Race Series

The Race

Training Days

Besieged

Retribution

Consequence

The Patron

The Eternally Cursed Chronicles

Bound by Betrayal

Short Story Collections

Sliced and Diced

Sliced and Diced 2

Sliced and Diced 3

Table of contents

Title Page

Also by Joan De La Haye

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Be a Freaky Darling

Jack's Lament

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Fury

Requiem in E Sharp

Oasis

Burning

The Race

Sliced and Diced

Sliced and Diced 2

Sliced and Diced 3

Bound by Betrayal

1

T

here is no such thing as time in the dark. The Past and the future are immaterial. The only thing that exists is the now and the screaming and the thing that’s lurking in the dark, waiting to devour me. That thing is the dark, and it’s slowly consuming me. Soon, I will no longer be me. The darkness will eat everything I once was, and nothing of who I was will remain. 

I barely remember anything from before the darkness. I know I was once a woman living in the light with a name and a man I loved, but now I’m just an empty shell, a shadow waiting for the lights to come back on so I can move, think, or even breathe. For what is a shadow without light? Nothing. And that is what I am.

I believe my name was once Sarah, but the only reason I’ve come to this conclusion is that it’s what the voice in the dark calls me. Calling me something from a life I hardly remember seems to be part of the torture. I think I’m being punished, but I’m not always sure what I did to deserve this constant torment. There are brief moments of clarity, but they are as fleeting as the hope that comes with those moments.

Mostly, I remember tiny snippets of my former life. Just enough to make this new existence that much more unbearable. I remember glimpses of happy times, walking through a forest with the man I think I loved. I remember a woman and her two sons, who I believe were important to me. I think she was once my sister. I always remember the blood and death. I remember pulling the trigger and killing people I think I cared about, but I don’t always remember why I killed them. I sometimes remember putting a gun under my chin and pulling the trigger. Is that why I can’t remember? Did I survive and now have brain damage? Am I blind? Is that why I’m trapped in the dark? Am I being punished for killing those people? Is this my prison cell? Am I trapped in a coma in some hospital bed or a prison hospital?

I hear someone laughing when I think of these things. It’s a cruel laughter. There are times it sounds as though it’s all in my mind, and then there are times when the laughter comes from all around me. There are times when it’s just one person laughing, a woman, and then there are times when it’s a thousand deafening voices laughing and taunting me all at once. It’s those moments that put me on my knees in a corner, screaming. Or at least, I think that’s what I’m doing. I don’t always feel as though I’m in my body or if I even have a body any more.

And then there’s the screaming. I’m not always sure if it’s me who screams or if it’s someone else. Sometimes, it seems far away; other times, it’s right next to me and so loud that I think it might deafen me. But it’s always there. The screaming is constant. It mixes with the laughter and creates this cacophony of noise designed to drive me mad.

She came to me when I crumbled and was at my weakest. She came with soothing sounds and a chocolate-covered voice. She told me it would be over soon. She told me I was strong and needed me to save her. I believed her because I needed to believe in something. I want to help her. I have to.

I only hope she isn’t one of those voices screaming. She’s the only person I seem to be able to remember. All my other memories are fleeting and come and go like the mist. A part of me finds that suspicious, but she’s all I have, and if I can’t hold on to that tiny slither of hope, then I truly am completely doomed, and this is Hell. 

*

T

he band gyrated and screamed while the circle of flames blazed around them, separating them from the bar patrons. Asmoday had named that particular establishment The Red Door. She guessed it was because the bar did, in fact, have a red door. All of his properties were named after the colours of the door. The Blue Room didn’t just have a blue door but was also painted different shades of blue. At first, she thought it was because the musicians who entertained there only played the Blues, but apparently not. The first time she saw the red door, she thought about The Rolling Stones and couldn’t help whistling a few bars of ‘Paint it Black’.

Carol squeezed through the throng of naked demons and eternally condemned humans moshing in the pit around the stage. It was a band she hadn’t heard of in life. They were some Scandinavian punk band who’d done bad shit while on a drug-induced bender, depending on which version of the story you believed, either involved a goat and an unwilling girl or a bunch of virgins and the band members dressed up as goats. None of the demons believed the version with the virgins because it would be almost impossible to find that many virgins at a punk concert. 

The demon who told her the story was too busy laughing about the goat to tell her the story properly. She hadn’t been that interested. If he’d told her about Asmoday and his Dragon, now that would have been a story that would have held her interest. But no one in The Pit would talk about Asmoday or any of the Princes. Lilith was only discussed in whispered and reverential tones in case she was listening. The Great Mother knew all and heard all. No demon dared talk about how a human had thwarted her plans, especially since that human was now Lilith’s latest toy. 

She’d heard whispers of Jack’s punishment at the hands of Bael and Lilith’s rage that had left many of the council members missing a few limbs, and some had lost a couple of heads. But none of the infernal could tell her what had become of Sarah. When Sarah’s name was mentioned, awkward silence was invariably the only response.

While Carol served drinks and cleared tables, she found herself smiling. It was strange. She’d always been brought up to believe that Hell was where you went to be punished, but she didn’t feel as though she was being punished. It was quite the opposite. She’d never felt this free before. Her life before had been punishment and neverending torture, even before Jack had shown up. 

She was still smiling when she heard his voice. Her smile faltered. Of all the bars in all The Pits of Hell, why did he have to drink in hers? It was the first time since arriving in the Underworld that she’d seen Uncle Martin. She had hoped that given the size of the rings of Hell and The Pit being a veritable labyrinth of bars, gambling dens, and whore houses, she wouldn’t bump into him for a very long time, if ever. But no such luck. Why she’d thought she could escape him completely was beyond her. She should have known better. Lady Luck had never been her friend. Why would it be any different now that she was dead? 

Carol felt Asmoday watching her from his usual dark corner. Even though he appeared engrossed in his latest card game, she knew he was watching everything. He never missed a thing that happened in his establishments, whether he was there in his infernal flesh or via his legions. She could feel him judging her. Her reaction to seeing the man who molested her for the first time since a bullet found its way through his brain would determine her future in Hell. She was determined that that future would be a bright one. She was also determined that Uncle Martin would be the one who endured the afterlife in fear, not her.

She didn’t have long to wait for Martin to make the sort of scene that would have embarrassed her in life. But in Hell, it made no difference. No demon or condemned soul would bat one of their eyelids at anything Martin did or said. Only her reaction mattered. Taking a deep breath, Carol turned around and faced him. Death had not been kind to his flesh. The rot and decay that came with being in Hell had well and truly set in. When Jack had used him to torment her, Martin had invariably looked the way he had when she was a child. He’d been big and strong—the powerful monster who had always been able to overpower her. But now, he looked anything but strong. He looked like a bloated corpse left in the water too long. The stench of The Pit and damnation permeated his every pore.  

You look like shit, Carol said with a smile. She only hoped his smell wouldn’t trigger her gag reflex. She still wasn’t used to the odour that wafted from the damned.

I look like everything else in here except you, Martin said as he shoved a bony finger at her naked breast. His fingernail fell off, landed in a fresh puddle of blood, beer, and piss one of the infernal had spilt. Why don’t you look like the rest of us? You’ve been here long enough for it to start setting in, so why don’t you look like the rotten little bitch I know you are?

The bar patrons stopped laughing, drinking and dancing. Even the band stopped playing. All eyes were on her. She’d never felt so exposed before. It was the first time since Asmoday dumped her in The Pit that she’d felt truly naked. Carol had also never stopped to think about why the rot hadn’t started to set in. In truth, she hadn’t noticed. There weren’t a lot of mirrors in Hell. The damned had a habit of breaking them when they caught a glimpse of their reflection. Only the demon-born revelled in their frightful appearance. Only now that Martin pointed out that she still looked utterly human, she saw it. She didn’t know why she didn’t look like the rest of them.

Her heart would have raced if she’d still been alive, but now that she was dead, her body didn’t respond quite the same way. It didn’t respond to fear at all. Sex and hunger, on the other hand, were on overdrive. Her fight or flight response was now also only geared toward one reaction. When you’re already dead, there’s no