Gulah

Chapter 1

The only light in the room came from the television, its flickering blue glow painting the walls in shifting, sickly waves. It was the only thing that moved, besides the feeding.

On the screen, a glossy commercial showed sizzling meat, cheese pulling in slow, perfect strands, a family laughing around a table. It was a mockery of the scene it illuminated.

In the center of the room sat the man who was once Dr. Alistair Finch. It was difficult to reconcile the thing in the stained armchair with the man who had once held a scalpel with steady, confident hands. His body was a monument to consumption, a landscape of pale, swollen flesh straining against the seams of a stretched-out sweatsuit. His legs were massive, immobile pillars resting on a footstool. His breathing was a wet, rhythmic struggle, a constant wheeze that filled the spaces between the chews.

And perched on the wide arm of the chair, elegant and obscene, was Gulah.

The demon of gluttony was, as promised, devastatingly handsome. His red skin, the color of old wine, seemed to absorb the television's light, while his own amber eyes glowed with a soft, infernal heat. He was immense, a mountain of solid, hairy muscle and fat, yet he moved with a predatory grace. One powerful, crimson hand, its knuckles dusted with coarse black hair, rested possessively on Alistair’s shoulder. The other held a pizza box.

“Open wider, my dear,” Gulah purred. His voice was a deep, resonant thing, like stones grinding together at the bottom of a well. It was a voice that expected, and received, obedience.

Alistair’s jaw, slick with grease, unhinged with a soft pop. His eyes, small and lost in the puffy expanse of his face, were fixed on the television, but they saw nothing. They were the eyes of a captive audience to his own ruin.

Gulah tore a slice from the pie. It was a meat-lover’s special, cold and congealed, the grease having formed a translucent, orange lake on the cardboard. He didn’t hand it to Alistair. He pressed it, slowly and deliberately, against the man’s lips.

“There we are,” Gulah cooed, his handsome features arranged in a mask of mock tenderness. “You need your strength.”

Alistair made a sound, a weak, guttural noise of protest that was smothered by the dough and cheese being pushed into his mouth. He tried to chew, his jaw working with a tired, mechanical effort. A string of saliva and tomato sauce dripped onto his chin.

Gulah’s smile was a flash of perfect white teeth. “None of that, now. You don’t want to be wasteful.” He used a long, sharp black nail to gently push the dripping mess back into Alistair’s mouth. The gesture was intimate and vile. “A doctor should know about nutrition. All those long hours at the hospital… you were so neglected. So thin. I’m fixing you.”

This was the ritual. The feeding was only one part of it. The other was the reminder. The systematic dismantling of the man Alistair had been.

“Remember your first life, Alistair?” Gulah murmured, leaning close. His hot, spicy breath washed over Alistair’s ear. “Saving lives. How quaint. How… fleeting. This,” he said, shoving the crust of the pizza slice into the man’s mouth, “this is real. This is a testament. Your body is my temple, and I am making it grand.”

Alistair swallowed with a visible, painful gulp. He gasped for air, his chest heaving. “P-please… no more,” he whispered, the words barely audible over his own labored breathing.

Gulah’s amber eyes flashed. The hand on Alistair’s shoulder tightened, the nails digging in just enough to make the man whimper. The demon’s handsome face hardened, the mask of care falling away to reveal the ancient, bottomless hunger beneath.

“Please?” Gulah repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken whisper. “You do not say ‘please’ to me. You do not say ‘no’ to me. You consume. That is your purpose. That is your only purpose now.”

He leaned in, his face inches from Alistair’s, his presence overwhelming. “You are mine. Every pound of you. Every gasp of air you struggle to take. Every pathetic memory of the man you were. It all belongs to me. And I am hungry.”

Gulah’s gaze shifted from Alistair’s terrified face to the half-eaten slice of pizza. A low, possessive growl rumbled in his chest. “Now. Finish your meal. We have another box to get through before I am satisfied.”

He shoved the remaining food forward, not waiting for Alistair to open his mouth, forcing it past his lips. Alistair’s eyes rolled back in helpless submission, and the only sounds left in the room were the demon’s soft, approving hum and the wet, desperate chewing of his human.

"P-please... no more," Alistair whispered, the words a thin vapor of breath over his greasy lips.

For a moment, there was only the wet sound of his breathing and the tinny laughter from the television. Then, Gulah’s handsome face, which had been a mask of indulgent control, tightened. A flicker of pure, unadulterated annoyance crossed his features, darkening the amber glow of his eyes.

"‘No more’?" Gulah’s voice lost its purring quality, becoming flat and sharp as a blade. "The meal is not finished. The offering is not complete." He stared at the half-eaten slice in Alistair’s limp hand, his gaze fixed on the sluggish pace of his human’s consumption. "You are dawdling. You are being... ungrateful."

The patience snapped.

In one swift, brutal motion, Gulah snatched the remaining slice from Alistair’s greasy fingers. The demon’s massive, red hand, slick with oil, clamped around the back of Alistair’s head, tangling in his thinning hair and forcing it back at an uncomfortable angle.

"Since you cannot be trusted to feed yourself properly, I will do it for you," Gulah hissed, his voice dropping into a guttural register that vibrated through Alistair's very bones. "Open."

Alistair’s jaw trembled, but he complied, a low moan escaping as his mouth fell open. Gulah didn't gently press the food to his lips this time. He crammed the entire end of the slice into Alistair's mouth, the crust digging into the soft palate.

"Chew," Gulah commanded, his grip unyielding.

Alistair tried. His jaw worked, slow and exhausted, a pathetic grinding of molars against dough and cheese. A chunk of sausage fell from his lips onto his chest. Gulah made a sound of disgust and shoved the rest of the slice forward, forcing more in before the first bite was even swallowed.

"Faster." The demon’s voice was a low growl of impatience. He was focused on the act of consumption, on the victory of an empty box. The vessel was secondary. "Swallow it. All of it."

Alistair’s eyes bulged. His throat convulsed as he tried to obey, but the food was a dry, pasty plug. He gagged, a violent, full-body spasm that shook his massive frame. Tears of panic and strain welled in his eyes, mixing with the grease on his cheeks.

Gulah misinterpreted the struggle entirely. A cruel smile touched his lips. "Yes," he cooed, a twisted sense of pride in his tone. "See? You can take it. You are stronger than you think. You are made for this."

He didn't see the desperate struggle for air, the blue tinge creeping into Alistair's lips. He saw only a devout follower, overwhelmed by the ecstasy of the offering. As Alistair finally managed to choke the mass down, gulping frantically for air, Gulah was already tearing the next slice from the box, his amber eyes alight with a fervent, possessive hunger.

"Good," Gulah murmured, bringing the new, even larger slice toward Alistair's gaping, gasping mouth. "Now, again. For me."

He was so engrossed in his divine purpose, he was completely blind to the human limits he was systematically and joyfully shattering.

"Good," Gulah murmured, bringing the new, even larger slice toward Alistair's gaping, gasping mouth. "Now, again. For me."

But Alistair did not open up. A terrible, deep shudder wracked his body, a tremor that started in his core and radiated outwards, making his immense limbs twitch and jerk. A wet, guttural sound, unlike any he had made before, rattled in his chest. His hands, which had lain useless in his lap, clawed weakly at his own breastbone as if trying to tear open a blockage.

Gulah’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of impatience. "Stop this drama," he commanded, his voice sharp. "The theatrics are beneath you."

Alistair’s head lolled back, his eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling. The small, lost orbs were now pools of pure, animal terror. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, only a choked, whistling gasp. A dark stain spread rapidly across the front of his sweats, the final, humiliating loss of control.

Then, a final, violent convulsion. His entire body went rigid, arching against the chair for one interminable second before it collapsed into a profound and utter stillness. The only movement was the slow, steady flicker of the television screen reflecting in his sightless eyes.

Silence.

It stretched, broken only by the cheerful jingle of a commercial.

Gulah stared at the lifeless form. His handsome features, which had been arranged in a mask of domineering passion, slowly contorted. Not into grief, or shock, or even frustration. It was a pure, unadulterated sneer of annoyance.

He dropped the pizza slice back into the box with a wet, dismissive slap.

"Pathetic," the demon spat, the word sizzling in the air like acid. He stood up from the arm of the chair, his immense height and girth suddenly dominating the cramped, foul room. He looked down at the corpse of the man he had consumed, his amber eyes blazing with contempt.

"All that potential. All that will, and you break so easily. A weak, pathetic pig." He nudged the bloated leg with his foot, a gesture of supreme disgust. "All that time and effort, wasted. You were not even 1000 lbs… The most pathetic pig I’ve ever had."

He turned away from the chair, his mind already racing, discarding the failed project. His gaze drifted to the window, as if he could see through the grime and the night, back to a different time, a different choice.

"I should have known," Gulah muttered to the silent, stinking room. "That night at the bistro. I felt your ambition, Doctor. So brittle. So prideful. The way your skinny hands were holding that burger while your greedy gluttonous eyes craved more… I could sense the true obese blob you could become… but no….." He shook his head, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "I should have chosen that chubby little waitress. The one with the laugh that apron belly who gave you a free slice of cake. The one who looked at the dessert menu with true, honest longing, like she truly wanted to taste everything but couldn’t because she was working."

A cruel, wistful smile touched his lips as he pictured her. "She had a heart built for sin. She would have lasted. She would have bloomed for me."

With a final, dismissive glance at the man who was once Dr. Alistair Finch, Gulah strode toward the door. The form he had poured so much of himself into was now just inconvenient, rotting meat. A failed vessel.

He didn't look back. There was always another hungry soul. Another heart to break and reshape. The world was a banquet of frailty, and Gulah, the ancient demon of gluttony, was forever hungry.

The air in the cluttered room began to warp. The stench of stale pizza and death was suddenly overpowered by a sharper, more ancient smell: the scent of ozone and burning stone. Gulah stretched, and the motion was no longer that of a impossibly large man, but something else entirely. His red skin seemed to ripple, the very fabric of his form expanding. There was a sound like tearing leather and snapping bone, both dreadful and harmonious, as from his broad back, vast wings erupted.

They were not the wings of a bat, but of some great, fallen raptor, spanning nearly fifteen feet from tip to tip. The membrane was a deep, bloody crimson, threaded with veins of obsidian, and from the leading edge curved wicked, hook-like claws. His humanoid form refined itself, the illusion of mere obesity melting away to reveal the powerful truth beneath: a creature of terrible and perfect musculature, standing a full seven feet tall, every corded muscle etched beneath his red skin. He was a paradox of dread and beauty, a statue of infernal perfection, weighing down the floorboards with his 280 pounds of concentrated malice.

He was Gulah. Unmasked.

With a single, powerful beat of his wings that sent empty pizza boxes and debris flying in a whirlwind, he shot through the ceiling of the apartment as if it were smoke. He soared into the cold, indifferent night air, climbing higher until the city lights below looked like a spilled handful of jewels. Then, he tore a seam in the world itself, a rip of bleeding orange light in the fabric of the sky, and plunged through.

The air in his wake was left tainted with the smell of sulfur and regret.

He landed on a smooth, obsidian platform in a cavern of impossible scale. This was his lair. The air was hot and thick, carrying the constant, low moan of the damned from distant chasms. Strange, phosphorescent fungi provided a sickly glow, illuminating shelves carved into the rock, stacked not with books, but with mementos: a baker's rolling pin from 14th century France, the stained apron of a Victorian butcher, the shattered smartphone of a modern-day food critic. The trophies of his long, hungry reign.

In the center of the chamber stood his scrying pool: a fountain of black, volcanic rock that continuously welled up not with water, but with a thick, bubbling, sulfuric liquid that shimmered with iridescent hues.

Gulah folded his vast wings, the tips brushing the floor with a soft, scraping sound. He strode to the fountain's edge, his amber eyes burning with purpose. The failure with Alistair was already a stale memory. The hunt was all that mattered now.

He leaned over the churning, acrid pool and waved a clawed hand over its surface. The iridescent sheen coalesced, the sulfuric bubbles popping to form images.

The fountain’s vision swam, showing him a tapestry of human hunger. A businessman secretly gorging on pastries in his parked car, his face a mask of shame and pleasure. A college graduate scrolling through food videos late at night, her loneliness a palpable ache. A construction worker eating a third helping at a diner, seeking solace in volume.

Gulah’s eyes scanned them all, dismissive. Too simple. Too crude. Too easy. He had done the easy route with Alistair and it wasn’t half as exciting as he had expected. He sought a specific flavor of gluttony—one laced with pride, with routine, something he could corrupt and dominate, not just sate. Someone he could break. Prove to the other demons he was the one in charge of The Sin of Gluttony for a reason.

Then, the image shifted. He saw a young man, Oliver Guildford, in the sterile, pre-dawn glow of a high-rise apartment. His body was a testament to discipline, sculpted and powerful, a recent college graduate's economics and math mind already being applied to a demanding, high-finance job. Dressed in an expensive suit, he stood before his bathroom mirror, his face a mask of rigid control. But then, his eyes flickered with a furtive guilt. From a hidden drawer, he pulled out a single, perfect, frosted cupcake. He devoured it in three frantic, secretive bites, licking the icing from his fingers with a shudder of bliss before quickly wiping his mouth, erasing the evidence. The conflict was exquisite: the iron will of the jock at war with the desperate, hidden sweet tooth.

A smile, thin and sharp, stretched across Gulah's demonic features.

"Ah..." he purred, the sound echoing in the cavern. "There you are. So proud of your control. So sure of your discipline."

He leaned closer, his reflection a monstrous visage in the shimmering pool.

"Let us see how long that chiseled body lasts... when your secret becomes your only truth."