Hellbound: The Tally Man Read Online Free PDF

in his brain whilst he had been alive? Is that why he felt alive now? Perhaps when his body had died, his soul had been released and become independent. Once residing in his body, developing, it had needed death to be free.
    Not being a religious man, Obadiah had not believed Father Hicks’ last minute attempts to convince him that beyond the veil of life lay a better place. He had simply thought there would be darkness, silence and the end of consciousness. Yet here he was, able to sense, touch, feel and hear. Obadiah had never really considered what Heaven and Hell would be like. He had no doubt that if such places did exist, he would have never been spending the rest of eternity in Heaven, but in an especially reserved section of Hell. Whether the lowest circle of Dante’s Inferno, or Milton’s Tartarus, Obadiah Stark hadn’t expected Hell to be like this.
    So, if I’m not in Hell, he considered. Where am I?
    The distant sound of laughter broke his muse, directing him towards the door of the bedroom. Looking down, he saw he was dressed in only blue pyjama bottoms. Grabbing the shirt that was on the back of the chair by the bureau, he moved towards the door, passing a mirror as he went. What Obadiah Stark saw in the reflection was beyond his brain’s ability to process. It was impossible.
    The image beckoned him to move closer, as if taunting him to check its genuineness. He ran his fingers over the area. His skin was smooth, unblemished. There was no sign of the scars you would receive following removal by dermal enhancement; a process he knew was similar to being splattered with hot fat.
    It had been there when he had died, the image such an integral part of him that being without it was something Obadiah had never considered. It had been as much a part of him as his skin. And now, his record of achievement, his tally, was gone. It was as if the tattoo had never existed.
    The smoky smell of bacon permeated the air as Aoife Stark cracked open two eggs, recoiling as the hot oil from the frying pan splashed onto her arm.
    A little girl stood on a chair by her side. “Be careful not to get to close, Ellie,” she warned.
    The little girl nodded. “Ok, Mummy. You be careful too.”
    “I will, chicken. We don’t want Daddy to have to take us to the hospital ‘cause we burnt ourselves, do we?”
    “No. His breakfast would get cold.”
    Aoife smiled at her daughter’s astute observation. She was always amazed at how practical her view of the world was. Not concerned with actually injuring herself, she was more worried about her father’s breakfast going uneaten.
    At four and a half years old, Eleanor Stark was the mirror image of her mother in every way other than her long, strawberry red hair. Her green eyes, full of life, were wide with concentration as she clumsily mixed the contents of the bowl in front of her. The smears of flour on her button nose and across her cheeks, gave her the impression of someone wearing tribal war paint. Her mission to ensure that the eggs and flour in the bowl before her were beaten into submission was of the utmost importance. Lumps would not be tolerated, the marks on her black t-shirt and blue jeans a testament that she meant business.
    By contrast her mother, red pyjamas and a black dressing gown disguising her curvy figure, was less battle damaged. Brown hair, tied in a ponytail, hung just over her right shoulder. Known as Eva to her friends, her thirty-eight year old face, whilst not hitting the exclamation button for beauty, came awfully close to it.
    She looked at the clock on the wall. Nine-fourteen. It was unlike him to sleep so late. Normally, he was up before the sun and his daughter. Scraping the bacon and two eggs on a plate, she tussled Eleanor’s hair.
    “Go and check on your Daddy, sweetie. Tell him his breakfast is ready.”
    “Please leave my pancake mix. I haven’t got all the lumps out yet.”
    “Don’t worry. I won’t touch it.”
    Ellie climbed down from