I escaped from Hell. (Which, yes, unfortunately means Hell is real. Sorry to burst your bubble if you hoped Hell was just something that religious people made up to scare you into following their way of life.)

To make a long story short, I was in a car accident in Florida sometime in 2003. The exact details don't matter. Next thing I know, I awake in this…place. I felt like I was drowning. I was stuck inside of this enclosed space filled with a smelly liquid. I started clawing at the walls of my enclosure until the container I was in just sort of burst open and I spilled out, along with the liquid I had been drowning in.

As I quickly learned, this was the City of Hell. And it was the most horrific thing I've ever experienced. Hopefully my story makes things a little easier on you when you, inevitably, end up in Hell yourself.

As you might imagine, I was terrified out of my mind. One moment I was driving my car, the next, I was drowning, and then when that stopped, I found myself on what looked like some kind of back alleyway behind a dilapidated concrete building, and everything smelled like ash and rot.

Turns out I'm luckier than most. I known some mid-tier level martial arts. I had joined a class years back to stay in shape, but I also wanted to hone my self-defense skills. So when this deranged naked man came charging at me from the darkness of the alley, I had some training to fall back on, and I defended myself, managing to wrestle away some piece of what I think was bone from the man and stabbed him to death.

This was just the start of what ended up being a long, scary, and quite frankly shitty journey through what I came to know as the City of Hell. (I've heard it go by other names—Inferno, Dis, or just "Hell"—I'll refer to it just as the "City of Hell" since that's what it is.)

I'm using this platform as a way to tell other people about what Hell was like without getting sent to an insane asylum. I know you'll just think this is another internet creepy story, but thankfully, with Reddit's anonymity or whatever, I think I'm safe from a psych ward (yes, I am in therapy; no, I haven't told my therapist that this really happens, but he buys that they're really bizarre nightmares; but he did tell me I could write "fictional" stories online to try to process what he's described as a series of traumatic episodes). At any rate, I've seen too much to go without sharing.

Let me tell you about how I survived in Hell—and, somehow, lived to tell the tale.

I'll give you a brief background of what Hell is like.

There's a city at the heart of Hell, a city born from the depths of despair and fashioned from the nightmares of the damned. Chaos reigns supreme there. The air is thick with the stench of rot and misery, a putrid cocktail that assaults the senses and lingers in your lungs. You're well-advised to steer clear of dark alleys and "abandoned buildings." These fleshy, fungal sort of pods are all over the walls, which is where you start your life off in Hell, as I did. Claw your way out of the fleshy pod, like I described, and if you're lucky, no one will be around. If you're unlucky—which is far more likely—another damned person will be lurking nearby waiting to feast on your flesh.

As far as I can tell, the City is really all there is there. It's huge. And life, if you can call it that, is nigh impossible. But you can, and will, die there—and reincarnate, or come back to life, or however it works, right back there in the City of Hell. If you get killed, prepare to wake back up in your growth pod thing. If you live, you better be ready to kill someone if you want to eat.

You think I'm being dramatic. But there's almost nothing to eat in Hell except other people. We're all just a bunch of broken beings bound by a single instinct: the primal desire to survive. People claw at each other, fighting for every scrap of sustenance, every precious drop of tainted water. It's a merciless dance of violence and desperation, where weakness is a death sentence and mercy is an indulgence long forgotten.Bands and alliances of the damned ebb and flow, each an island of fleeting stability amidst the sea of turmoil. Strength and cunning are the only currency that matters, so if you happen to be a brutal or physically strong person, you may have a chance. If you're not…well…I'm sorry.

Survival is hard in the City of Hell. Not only is everyone out to kill you, but even if you're lucky enough to kill first, raw flesh isn't exactly very nutritious—especially when the corpse is plagued with infection. I guess germs still exist in Hell. If you can light a flame, you're better off than most. But flame attracts attention, so it's a catch-22.

And then there is water—a life-giving elixir that is as scarce as hope is in Hell. Clean water is but a distant memory, replaced by a noxious brew of filth and decay. Those who dare to search for a drop of purity must navigate a treacherous path, where the thirst for survival competes with the fear of disease. Boiling water is your best bet.

I didn't survive much longer after I first woke up in Hell. I managed to kill that guy who was trying to shank me, but then I ran into someone who was bigger and stronger than I was. I can still remember the fear that coursed through my veins as he disemboweled me and began feasting on me while I lay there dying…Hell isn't a place for the weak.

I was in Hell for a while—I guess around 20 years, since it was 2022 when I escaped. A lot of shit happened, and I'm not sure which parts were the worst. Why don't I tell you about some of my early days.

The Meat Markets

Cooperation and order are pretty rare in Hell. In fact, they're nigh impossible to find outside of an established group or tribe. But there was one place that was, by the city's perverse standards, almost civilized—most called it the Meat Markets. If you could overlook the fact that it dealt in human flesh, it was a hub of commerce and twisted cooperation.

I first stumbled across the Meat Markets after a week of survival. I was trying to find a group to join and hadn't been having much luck. Then I came across this more open area where there seemed to be a larger number of people than are usually gathered in one place. Had I accidentally stumbled into someone's tribe? I was bracing myself for the end…and then someone shouldered me out of the way and just…kept going. I realized this was somewhere new and I decided to stick around the area for a few days to figure out what it was.

The Meat Markets were always busy, with Hell's residents bartering and trading their wares. Here, the currency was not gold or silver, but flesh and bones—or tools, or sex, or what have you. As best I can tell, a number of the more established tribes formed a loose alliance for the purpose of having access to better "quality" food products. Even in Hell, economics and the law of comparative advantage rules (although don't expect your MBA to do you much good here).

Rows of stalls line the grimy streets, each adorned with the gory display of the butchered dead. The sellers tout their offerings with a strange mix of pride and resignation. Fresh cuts were displayed on hooks, limbs are stacked like firewood, and skulls are arranged as macabre decorations. Hell doesn't have a lot by way of decor shops.

"Freshly harvested! Best cuts in the City!" I remember one vendor called out, waving a severed arm. Another merchant showcased a row of skulls, each with a story etched into its hollow sockets, a grim souvenir of the damned.

When I first stumbled across the Meat Markets, I couldn't help but marvel at the ingenuity of these damned souls, carving out their own niches in the merciless landscape of Hell. I couldn't deny the strange sense of order that prevailed here, and in a way, it almost felt…peaceful?

But make no mistake; the Meat Markets were not for the faint of heart. The competition was fierce, and alliances were often formed and broken with the speed of a heartbeat. It is Hell after all. Thankfully, the resident tribal guards do a pretty good job of killing anyone who starts to cause a commotion. They don't want access to their supplies disrupted.

I remember once when a heated dispute erupted between two vendors, both claiming ownership of a particularly fresh carcass (they do their meat chopping fresh there, by the way). The argument escalated quickly, and soon, they were at each other's throats. In the end, it was the stronger and more ruthless vendor who emerged victorious, driving a bloody bone shard into his rival's heart with a sickening thud. And then that vendor had more meat to sell. That's just how it goes.

I've been to the Markets a few times since then. I don't always see the same vendors there—my theory is that the tribes only allow the markets to operate so that they can scout for the best butchers and then they invite them (or take them) into their own little group. I've never stuck around long enough to ask a guard, though.

The Sewers

In my earlier days, I discovered the sewers when running for my life. Scared out of my mind, I ducked into an alleyway and fell down what I guess was some kind of manhole. I tried to live there for a bit. Never again. I managed for probably a few weeks, but that was it.

Life in the sewers of Hell is a daily struggle, a ceaseless battle against the unforgiving elements of this godforsaken place. It's a world of perpetual darkness, where the only light comes from the faint, flickering glow of phosphorescent fungi clinging to the walls. The fungus seems sort of like the fungal stuff near the pods people are born into, but they're about as edible (that is to say, not really—but desperate times). The stench is suffocating, a putrid cocktail of decay and filth that clings to your very soul. More than usual in Hell.

Cooking food is a luxury that few can afford. Like any part of Hell, most residents subsist on raw, rotting scraps scavenged from where and who they can find them. But in the sewers, more than most, fire poses an especially great risk—if you can get it started.

In the sewers, fire is both a blessing and a curse. The lower you go, the cold it gets. The cold of Hell seeps into your bones, making warmth a precious commodity. But lighting a fire down here is a dangerous game. The sewers are filled with pockets of explosive gas, ready to ignite at the smallest spark. Ironically, that's how I went out. I won't be doing that again.

If you do manage to light a flame without blowing yourself up like I did, you're practically a sitting target because the tunnels are so dark as it is. So good luck.As with any part of Hell, finding clean water is a constant struggle. The putrid water that flows through the sewers is a breeding ground for disease and infection. Drinking it without purifying it first is a death sentence—but fire can be a death sentence, too. Ironically, the sewers have some of the most water in Hell, catching runoff (and every other liquid) from the City, but cleaning it in the sewers is no easy task.

And then there's the flooding. Hell is a realm of torment and chaos, and the sewers are no exception. Torrential rains can turn the narrow tunnels into raging rivers in the blink of an eye. Many have been swept away by the rushing waters, lost forever in the darkness below. And if you get caught against a submerged wall, drowning in infected water and sewage isn't the most fun way to go.

Survival in the sewers requires resourcefulness, cunning, and a ruthless will to live. Those who thrive down here have learned to adapt to the harsh environment. They know where to find the safest spots to rest, away from the threat of flooding or the prying eyes of predators.

Some have even managed to cultivate the phosphorescent fungi, creating makeshift gardens to grow in the darkness. These groups are really the only way to survive in the sewers. They band together to both grow their gardens and purify water using fire, while others stand guard to ward off attackers.

But no matter how well-prepared you are, danger lurks around every corner. Literally—one wrong turn and you could find yourself lost from your group (if you're lucky enough to have one), caught in a flash flood, or drowning in a pile of human waste.Life in the sewers of Hell is a relentless struggle against the odds. But some people choose it over the terrors of the City proper. I think I'll take my chances with the City.

My Escape

You're probably wondering how I got out of Hell in the first place.

Escaping from Hell is a fool's dream, a delusion born of desperation and a longing for something that can never be. But still, the damned can't help but yearn for a chance at freedom, no matter how slim the odds may be.Rumors of a way out circulate through the City like whispers in the night. The most fabled path is that of the pillar of fire, a celestial anomaly that descends from the heavens and touches the infernal soil of Hell. They say that on rare occasions, if fate deigns to smile upon you, you might get lucky enough to catch a ride on that column of fire back to the world of the living.

Like I said…I'm a lucky guy.

That said, it's still a gamble with cosmic odds, a lottery of souls where millions hope for the grand prize, but only a handful ever get the ticket. Those who yearn for escape keep their eyes on the skies, praying for the heavens to open and deliver them from their torment. You have to be not just fast, but in the right place at the right time.

The journey to catching the elusive pillar of fire is a twisted dance of luck and cunning. The first step is finding a place of elevation, somewhere where the heavens might notice you amidst the mire of suffering. Some say atop the crumbling towers, others suggest the slopes of the Bone Mountains, and some even tried to build a Tower once (that didn't go so well), but the truth is, no one really knows when or why these pillars form.

Then comes the waiting—a soul-crushing vigil that stretches on for eternities. You sit there, night after night, gazing up at the stars with hollow eyes, praying for a glimpse of that celestial beacon. And all the while, you must be vigilant, for other desperate souls might try to take your place, to shove you aside and claim your seat in the grand lottery.

And if, by some twist of fate, you do see the pillar of fire, the race is on. You must dash, run with all the strength you have left in your damned bones, to reach that point of contact between Hell and the divine. It's a mad scramble, a chaotic sprint where hope and despair intertwine, and the prize is the chance to escape the eternal abyss.

I managed to catch a pillar and ended up in the body of some middle-aged woman who, best I can tell, was some kind of psychic or witch or something. So I'm not sure what role the occult plays in those pillars of fire.

But for most, the dream of escaping remains just that—a dream. They continue to roam the streets of the City of Hell, forever bound to the cycle of torment and despair, never knowing if they'll ever find a way to break free from the chains that bind them. And so, they endure, clinging to hope, no matter how faint it may be.

My time in Hell was, without question, the worst and most horrific thing I've ever experienced. Maybe I'll write more about other experiences I encountered while there. But this is how I ended up there and how I escaped.

When you end up there one day, I hope you get lucky like I did. I'm dreading the inevitable day I find myself waking up inside one of those pods again.

Part 1 here

Now that I’ve given you a background on what the City of Hell is like, I should tell you more about some of the other most dangerous and horrific parts of the City that I encountered while I was trapped in Hell. Hopefully my warnings and descriptions will help you know what to do—and more importantly, what to avoid. What follows are some of my attempts at journaling the next steps of my life in Hell, and the horrors I experienced—and, in some cases, managed to narrowly avoid.

After I lost my life to the ravages of the Sewers, and rebirthed in a growth pod, I once again foraged my way through the City, encountering additional horrors that put to shame some of the places I had previously visited.

The Unholy Cathedral

I’ve gone out of my way to avoid this place. After hearing tales of it from mind-wrecked victims, I took heed and steered far clear of this bastion of evil.

In the twisted heart of the City, where darkness reigns and agony is the currency of existence, there stands an edifice that defies the very essence of the infernal realm—something I know only as the Unholy Cathedral of Hell, although I think its adherents call it something else. This imposing structure, built from stone and bone, rises against the backdrop of the tormented city like a defiant monument to the divine in a world devoid of divinity.

But its followers are not worshipers of anything close to the divine.

The Cathedral, with its spires built out of sinew and spines, is a paradoxical sight. Its grandeur contrasts starkly with the desolation that surrounds it, and its gothic architecture seems out of place in a realm where chaos and brutality hold sway. But the Cathedral is not a beacon of salvation; it is a focal point for a peculiar and sinister cult.

The cult that congregates within, who I have heard call themselves the “Ministers of Dis,” is not a cult that seeks redemption or enlightenment. No, their beliefs are as twisted as the world they inhabit. They claim to be followers of a deity, or demon, that revels in suffering, a god of cruelty and malevolence. This dark entity, nameless and inscrutable, is said to hold dominion over the torments of Hell itself.

The Ministers are an eclectic mix of the damned, drawn from various tribes and backgrounds. They wear robes of black and crimson, their faces often obscured by masks carved from bone, leather, or occasionally cast in metal. Their rituals are a grotesque dance of devotion, involving self-inflicted wounds, chanting of infernal incantations, and offerings of blood and pain.

It is said that at the center of the Cathedral stands an altar, a jagged monolith of obsidian that seems to drink in the despair of all who approach it. Here, it’s told that the cultists perform their most extreme acts of devotion, channeling their anguish and anguish into dark rituals that are said to please their malevolent god.

But the Cathedral of Hell is not a place of solace or unity. Within its walls, power struggles and betrayals are as common as whispers of damnation. The cultists vie for the favor of their god, seeking to curry its twisted blessings through acts of sadism and brutality. To outsiders, they might appear as a unified force, but within their ranks, the thirst for power burns with a ferocity that rivals the very fires of Hell.

As one might expect in a realm where survival is paramount, consorting with the cult often comes at a steep price. The cultists have been known to demand not just loyalty, but sacrifices in the form of flesh and blood. Those who refuse to pay such a price often find themselves subjected to the most sadistic torments the cult can devise, as those who defy them suffer extended periods of torture that are designed to keep the victims alive for as long as physically possible while exacting the most pain from their husks.

I learned these accounts through a series of damned denizens I encountered over my years in Hell—the few capable of speaking, that is. Some were so broken that a mere mention of the “Cathedral” sent them into spasms of sent them fleeing into the darkness of the City.

The Cathedral of Hell and its enigmatic cult stand as a testament to the dark corners of the human psyche, where even in the bleakest of circumstances, devotion and fervor can flourish. Their practices may be monstrous, their beliefs unfathomable, but they are a reminder that even in the deepest abyss, twisted souls can find a purpose—even if that purpose is born from the very depths of damnation itself.

Personally, I doubt their beliefs derive from any god or even demon. From what I’ve seen of the people of Hell, one need look no further than the evil thoughts of mankind to develop this sadism.

Gehenna

Gehenna, the accursed realm beyond the City of Hell, is a desolate wasteland of ash and distant mountains. While it seems devoid of the typical torments of Hell, it could be described as its own unique circle of Hell. As the damned venture further into the depths of this nightmarish domain, they encounter a landscape that defies all semblance of reason and sanity—or so I am told.

I met another denizen of Hell once. I don’t remember his name—we don’t usually bother asking. I’ll recount his story as best I can recall:

“The journey to Gehenna is an arduous one, where the stench of decay and suffering grows ever more suffocating. The ground beneath your feet turns from jagged rocks to dusty ash after a few miles of walking. Those who dare to traverse this treacherous path do so with a mixture of dread and desperation, driven by the faint glimmer of hope that drives their walk—could there be a chance to escape Hell, or at least the horrors of the city?

But food is nonexistent here. There is no rain. The journey through Gehenna is a test of endurance, and only the strongest and most cunning can hope to survive—if one can even call it that. Your body wastes away as you walk endlessly if you go on long enough. And yet you seemingly make no progress. And when one turns around, you find yourself no further than a few steps outside the City, your body turning to dust as you die from rapid decay.”

I have never ventured into Gehenna myself, and after hearing this account, I have no desire to do so.

The Library

Perhaps the one place of relative “solace” (relative, mind you—it is not safe, or what is left of it) was the Library of Hell. I stumbled across its ruins once while traversing across the City in search of a new place to take shelter. The lone man I encountered there was, surprisingly, not hostile—although understandably wary. I was in no mood for a fight and prepared myself for defense, but he invited me to sit by his small fire and to share a morsel of food.

I asked him why and he said he only wished to tell me a story, in exchange for my promise to spread the story myself. I agreed. I will do my best to honor that promise now.

In the heart of the accursed City, amidst the chaos and brutality, there arose an audacious ambition: to create a haven of knowledge in the very depths of Hell. The idea of a library, a repository of wisdom and understanding, seemed like a flicker of hope in a realm devoid of reason and compassion. But in a place where survival was the only currency, where brute force reigned supreme, the dream of a library faced insurmountable challenges.

A group of residents, driven by their memories of the world they once knew, set out to build this bastion of knowledge. They called themselves the Librarians. They scoured the city for any semblance of writing, be it tattered pages of forgotten attempts at journals made from human leather, to even crude etchings on the walls. They hoarded every scrap they found, cherishing these fragments of a lost world as though they were treasures beyond measure.

The location chosen for the library was an abandoned building, its walls charred and scarred by countless battles that had raged through the city. It was not an ideal place for such a noble endeavor, but in Hell, one took what they could get. The Librarians worked tirelessly, salvaging stones and materials from the ruins to mend the shattered structure.

Their labor was not without danger. Rival tribes, ever eager to seize any advantage, saw the library as a potential source of power and dominance. The defenders of the library fought fiercely, driven not just by a desire to protect the knowledge within but by the belief that there must be something more to life than the unending cycle of violence and torment.

As the library began to take shape, it attracted more damned souls from various tribes, each drawn by the allure of the written word and the promise of a respite from the relentless brutality. They pooled their knowledge, sharing scraps of poetry, fragments of historical records, and even pieces of forbidden lore.

In this unlikely sanctuary of intellect and curiosity, the Librarians became scholars of their own making. They debated ideas, questioned beliefs, and delved into the secrets of forgotten texts. For a brief moment, the hunger for knowledge trumped the hunger for survival.

Yet, as is the nature of Hell, nothing lasts. As the man told me, he was one of the Librarians. The library's walls, once a symbol of defiance against the savage world outside, began to crumble under the weight of constant assault. Floods swept through the city, drenching the precious manuscripts and reducing them to illegible inkblots.

The inhabitants of the library, disillusioned and disheartened, saw their dream disintegrate before their eyes. They fought to protect what little they had left, but in the end, they were outnumbered and outmatched.

The library was lost, its legacy scattered to the winds. The damned souls who once dared to hope for a glimmer of civilization were left with nothing but the ashes of their ambition. In Hell, even knowledge could not escape the grasp of the unrelenting darkness. It appeared abandon