Tale of the Torturer


I have served Queen Bactria well, perhaps too well. In the dungeons of Winter castle I took delight in her cause, the cause of Evil. Giving pain to people seemed to please her and for this she employed me. For that was a trade that was not unknown to me. I can still hear the screams from the pain I caused, caused by her request. My Queen was a beauty in every way imaginable. However, she possessed a heart as cold as ice. Her family ancestry may have contributed to this. As it was made up of Brutes, Conjurers, and Lust mongers. In all honesty the only lust my queen indulged in was that of bloodlust. Any enemy that made her weary, be it a landowner or nobleman, it did not matter. Their pain was her pleasure and my laborious endeavor.

Many a time had she called upon me for evil bidding and each time was the same. I would make my way to her royal chambers and there, amidst the darkened tapestries, was my queen. In a state of mania she would conduct a ritual to reveal what she sought. Cutting through the flesh of the hands of her servant girls, she would spill their blood in the middle of a large encircled pentagram drawn on the floor.

From the reflection of the dark red liquid came the face of the supposed threat. Each time the face was different. The omen, of course, was always the same. The face posed a supposed threat, even if the person involved was not known to my queen. My duty was to purge the threat immediately. From the shadows of dusk I would seek them and death would seek with me. Finding my victims, I would forcibly retrieve them from their homes. But, mind you, I would not kill them. That was a pleasure reserved for the entertainment of my queen. As quickly as ability would allow I had them in the dungeons of Winter castle. From there agony was an eternity for whoever was considered a foe. With my queen and her servant girls looking on, I conducted every horrible act conceivable. It was not confession that interested me, but the sheer malice of pain in their shrieking voices that I fancied most. Red hot pins under their fingernails, severing their limbs and tongue, and the rack of death were my personal favorites. And for some that truly caught my evil eye, I would let the pestilence-breeding rodents slowly devour them. All this for the love of my queen.

During these barbaric sessions he would observe with eyes as malevolent as hell itself. For the more pain I caused the victims, the more intoxicated with ecstasy became my queen. I vividly remember one session, a session that involved several supposed ‘threats’. A nobleman from a neighboring community had chosen to criticize the manner and temperament of my beloved queen. Not only was I sent for his retrieval, but for his many young children as well. It was of winter season and the torment I had in mind suited winter well. In frostbitten cold the nobleman dangled upside down and naked from a tree while his children, all eight of them, were converged into freezing water. To make sure the cold did not make him unconscious, I continually flogged him. A few meters from the pool of icy death was the throne of my queen. She was sipping wine and would occasionally don a malicious smile, proof of her sadistic nature. She would not move an inch until all of the victims’ lives were completely expired and then she would spat on their corpses in disgust. To me this was normal, even natural. What other kinds of acts would give to a man such a passion for life? To my queen it was pure contentment.

Pleasure in it’s most seductive form.

Besides giving pain, my queen fanatically valued her beauty. She was comparable to any mythological Goddess and believed herself to be the fairest in all the world. It wasn’t uncommon for my queen to have fits of jealousy especially with her own servant girls. They would receive beatings on a daily basis. Once, when she was in a particularly foul mood, she beat one of her servant girls bloody. This beguiled even myself because even after the servant was unconscious my queen continued the abuse. Eventually the servants’ blood was all over my queens’ face and hands. She marveled at the way it felt on her skin, so soft and delicate. Believing that it enhanced her beauty, it was this strange fluid, blood, that she needed more of.

That night she sent for me. It was not necessarily a foe that I was sent for, but a victim none-the-less. Adolescent girls who rivaled her beauty were my main objectives. Over the course of many weeks each night was the same. I would go to the lowliest of villages in the land and I would wait for the victims to reveal themselves. Mostly it would be young peasant girls fetching water for their families. Not too much effort was needed to capture them and take them to the confines of Winter castle. There by request of me queen, I would commit the unthinkable. Stripping them bare, I would place them in a hallowed-out steel casket with spikes surrounding the inside. Once they were inside I would use chain pulleys to lift the casket above the center of the dungeon, where my nude queen would be awaiting. With the chain pulleys I would make the casket slowly rotate. This would cause the young girl inside to be pierced on the spikes and shower all below with her blood. My queen would emphatically bathe in the red death until the last drop had splashed. Many young girls had I finished in this manner. Their bodies, pierced and puss-filled, were thrown into the moat of the castle. I have no regrets for my actions. If I am to be damned it was not without worthy cause.

The blood baths demanded by my queen would give to her both youthful appearance and stronger vitality. It also attracted the attention of a very powerful Christian king who was concerned of the many young maidens who had been disappearing along the countryside. The king sent two magistrates to investigate the brutal incidents. My queen was delighted to receive two willing participants, for any Christian visitor to Winter castle would unwittingly forfeit their own lives for my queens entertainment. At their arrival, a great feast was prepared and my queen had deceitfully changed her character. During the feast, the magistrates ate heartily and spoke of politics. But when the time had come they had completely eclipsed their welcome. When one of them started intriguing to my queen about the young maidens the other demanded to inspect the dungeons. Subtly smiling, my queen consented for it was the dungeons where I was waiting!

Before letting them go she proposed a toast. Her servant girls brought the magistrates large goblets of wine and, like fools, they quickly consumed them. It was of little time after, still at the large dining table, that both men passed out cold. In the dank and darkness of the dungeons consciousness found them. I had tied both of them to wooden chairs and had gagged them. My queen had let her presence be known, much to their unease. At her command, I hammered nails through the testicles of one while the other pathetically screamed for his life. I was truly indifferent. With one dead I severed the hands, feet, and head of the other. Their bodies were rightfully disposed of and all of Winter castle was to deny that they had ever arrived. The blood baths continued. For my queen, the whole world could die at the expense of her beauty. In short time the Christian king, not hearing any word from his magistrates, decided to send his bravest warrior to Winter castle, his son. Without warning the son of the Christian king approached the gates of Winter castle with five soldiers accompanying him. This made my queen exceptionally annoyed. In a most arrogant tone, the son of the king demanded entrance. At once my queen developed a strategy, for she was brilliantly clever. The son of the king was permitted only to the dining quarters where my queen greeted him in her most provocative attire. His insolent attitude was responded to with affection and meekness. The more enraged the son became, the more physical adoration was shown to him. My queen was well endowed, her flesh could tempt even the most pious of saints. Soon it became apparent that Christian or not, he was tempted. Within the son’s mind the original purpose was quickly forgotten and none of his soldiers would intervene because they already rather fond of the servant girls. The inevitable would happen. My queen easily persuaded the foolish son of the king to her sleeping quarters. There she would use her feminine abilities to seduce him in every way. He had no idea that I was behind the tapestries!

In the peak of their passion I lashed out at him. The son of the king was totally overwhelmed as I repeatedly thrashed him over the head with a mace. He died shortly and with barely a struggle. That left the five remaining soldiers to be dealt with. And dealt with they were. One by one I entered the rooms of the servant girls, who would never reveal to the soldiers the truths of Winter castle because they feared my queen above and beyond everything else, even death.

One by one I found them and bound them. In the familiar dungeons making the Christians scream was my fondest memory yet! To associate them with their chosen faith I took white hot crucifixes and pressed them to all of their flesh. Never before in my wicked life had I heard such amazing cries of agony. One of the soldiers decided to face death with bravery and loudly proclaimed that Christ would administer justice to all in Winter castle. The act of insolence did little more than provoke smiles from my queen and myself. I took a crucifix that was brightest from the searing heat and pressed it in his tongue. Not a word more was heard from him. All were placed on the rack and all were disemboweled. I knew the Christian king would eventually wage war on us, but it concerned me not. For death, pain, suffering, and eternal damnation did not move me in the slightest way. I knew as I have always known, that in this life all is sinful. To deny myself the lustrous pleasures of pain out of fear of anything, man or otherwise, would be to deny myself existence. Let the Christians come with their worst!

With fear not an issue, the morbid activities of Winter castle continued. More maidens retrieved, more bathing in blood. Soon the number of missing girls would number in the hundreds. The Christian king, angered by the disappearance of his son and soldiers, dictated to many communities that the inhabitants of Winter castle were the spawn of Satan himself and a danger to all around them.

However, many feared, because my queen was noble in her own right, that any harm done to her or her castle would cause division among the land. Peasant girls were not worth the matter for conflict. Realizing this, the Christian king gathered all forces loyal to him and began a campaign against Winter castle. My queen was not ignorant of this fact, she had read the omens well. On the puddle of blood in the center of the large encircled pentagram was the face of the Christian king. The same king whose army far outnumbered that of hers. I knew we were done for, nor did I care. Within weeks the king had found his way to the gates of the castle. In no time a battering ram smashed down all walls keeping the Christians out. All of the Castles’ sentries were slaughtered mercilessly. I was beaten by nine soldiers all at once. The king was careful not to put my queen to death, but the loss of his son and the terrible confessions of the servant girls prompted a swift decision. My queen was forever to be imprisoned to her sleeping quarters, never to be released. Winter castle was from then on occupied by the Christians. As for myself, I wasn’t as fortunate as my queen. Many servant girls had made it clear to the Christian king of my position to the queen. Beaten almost to death, I wasn’t aware of what was happening until I could smell the smoke. It was then I realized I was tied to a very large wooden stake. I could feel my feet melt, then my legs and torso, finally my upper body and head. The pain I felt must have truly been justice, for I was feeling pain long after my body had died.

In the depths of Hell the sum of my life had been disclosed to me. It seems that judgment had served it’s purpose, but believe me, I still hold no regrets. Although roasting in God’s furnace amongst the foulest of filth, I would not change one decision or one act of cruelty. For the truth is this. I had a passion for life unequaled by Christians, Saints, Angels, the lot of them. The passion was fueled by evil. The evil of my queen beloved.

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TheyWatchMe avatar
6 years ago

*Claps* That was amazing. Well done! 10/10

6 years ago

Why is this under ritual???

6 years ago

Surrounded by the complicated emotional points but yet still able to spin more story from the simplicity of intention. Brav-o.

SeiraYuki007 avatar
7 years ago

The queen reminds me of Elizabeth Bathory.. And her lackey~

7 years ago

By far the best creepypasta I’ve ever read! You are an amazingly descriptive author

7 years ago

The best creepypasta that i had ever read

cheshirereality avatar
8 years ago

An exceptionally well cooked pasta peppered with elegant sadism. Simple,smooth and savourable.

cheshirereality avatar
8 years ago

An excepetionally well-cooked pasta peppered with Elegant sadism. Simple and delicio

lilith666 avatar
8 years ago

Pure Pleasure of blood & sadism..loved it..!!

rainbowdashyy123456 avatar
8 years ago

I loved this when I reviewed it! So glad it made it

Karma_the_beast avatar
8 years ago

This is just sick, I love it. I love especially that theres no convoluted theme behind it; it’s just delicious and sick and simple. Excellent job cx

winter spring
winter spring
8 years ago

great Italian dish that is somewhat scary ill give it 8 out of 10 breads that’s enough breads to fill up anyone’s stomach

DarkOne avatar
8 years ago

awesome story hope you make another as good as this 🙂

XenoShimaga avatar
8 years ago

i watched this on history channel, just not from this mans point of view. It explained how this queen thought the fountain of youth was made out of blood…..

MissCuttThroat avatar
8 years ago

I love the writing.

almost makes me think of a very twisted version of Game Of Thrones hehe

8 years ago

You should at least leave a credit to Elizabeth Bathory’s biography as an inspiration. 3/4 through, I almost stopped reading.