/lit/ - Literature

––So you believe in God, even though you not only don't know if he exists, but are downright convinced that he doesn't exist?
––Yes.
––You are crazy, my friend.
––That's one way of looking at it.

Strange sounds came from the red steel door that led to the engine room. Sandy Prescott was on her way to the bridge when she stopped and looked at the door. Fluids gurgled, pumps whirred ... but she heard something else. Sandy placed the stack of files she was to take to the captain on one of the workbenches and typed the four-digit security code into the console on the wall. A hidden mechanism caused the metal lock to snap. Squeaking, the door opened a finger's width and the sounds grew louder. The curiosity on Sandy's face turned to alarm.

With shaky hands, she pulled the door crack a little wider and peered with one eye into the engine room. The electric overhead lights had been extinguished. The only source of light was the burning coal stove. The machinery and the iron walls were painted with red and black by the dancing flames. A figure that looked like Peter Billings knelt before the fiery furnace, throwing his upper body back and forth, like a broken metronome, and with each swing, his head almost hit the ground. A continuous moan flowed from his mouth, dark and slimy, as if rising from his bowels. Sandy stared at the demonic scene. She wanted to run away, but her legs disobeyed her. Suddenly, the moaning stopped and Peter Billings - or the figure that looked like Peter Billings - slumped over and hit his forehead against the floor. The dull thump of the impact echoed off the flickering walls. After a few agonizing seconds, the lifeless body began to twitch. Like a wooden doll on strings, it slowly straightened ... bent back further and further ... until the head buckled and fell into the back of the neck. As the charcoal-black eyes stared at Sandy, she began to scream.