Beware when you take the life of someone and make a deal with the Devil for hell might be worse than what you're expecting.
Story Credits: Beyond Redemption by Wihuro
https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Beyond_Redemption

MusicSpooky Boo Rhodes
Don't Go Around That Corner

Abyss
MYUUBEGIN

Good evening, it's Spooky Boo from Scary Story Time. Tonight I have an spooky, scary story that will make you hide under the covers for just a little while tonight until duty calls and you turn every light on in the house just to make your way around the darkness of the night. But you like that, right?Grab something warm to cuddle like your giant pillow or you fluffy kitten and listen while you close your eyes and enjoy tonight's story.Now let's begin...Beyond Redemptionby Wihuro“Come on out Lyndon,” Bill Johnson called out as he took position, rifle at hand, outside the old wooden house.His voice carried with it an air of authority to match his physically imposing frame. He wore a long, weathered, leather coat. His Stetson hat tipped forward, his dark brown eyes barely visible below the rim. In the dim light of the fading Texas sun he stood in the shadow of the quaint little house of Mr. and Mrs. Bennett.“You got nowhere to go. The odds are against you this time.”The remote location of the hillside house and picturesque scenery painted a perfect picture of everything a family home should be. It was a perfect place for the Bennett’s and their ten year old daughter, Molly. That was before Lyndon Wesley walked into their lives.“Well let me see, Mr. Johnson,” said Lyndon, his high pitch squawk coming back at Bill from within the house. “Ya got yourself a crazy, murderin’, son-of-a-bitch. And I got me a lock-down in a house with a purdy mother, her dead husband and her very alive and very beautiful daughter. I’d say it’s you who’s facing off against the odds sir.”Bill had been tracking his man for five long weeks and now, finally he had him cornered. Lyndon Wesley: AKA Wild West. The man with a ten thousand dollar bounty over his head dead or alive – twenty one dead including women and children will get you that kind of a price.Inside the house, Rosie Bennett sat on the old wooden floor with her child crying at her side.Her husband lay motionless just ten feet away by the open log fire. The hole in his chest oozed dark red blood onto the oak brown floor. The bright glowing flames from the log fire created cruel shadows of his contorted corpse against the stone walls. His killer stood by the small side window in the kitchen. the barrel of his six shooter pointing out towards the yard.“Please God, help us,” Rosie whispered.“God?” snapped Lyndon, turning round to face the woman. His lips tight and thin over his brown teeth in a grimace.“Do you think God gives a shit about you? Hell no. If he did, then why he put ya with me in the first place, hey? Life’s one big game, and the big man upstairs, he’s the player. We all just pieces in his board game. I bet he looking down on us in here and laughing his almighty ass off. Yea, he gets a real kick out of watching people suffer.”Lyndon began to prowl up and down the old, wooden floor like a rabid animal caught in a trap, hungry for blood. His scrawny body and straw-like hair that hung over his sharp features made him look like a feral beast. Outside, Bill Johnson edged toward the house, rifle at the ready. His heart beating like a drum in his chest. A shot rang out, Bill scrambled to the ground for cover. Panic grabbed him by the throat and squeezed tight in anticipation of the pain of the bullet entry. It never came. The bullet had missed him.“Bill, you hurt?” said Lyndon.His Colt .45 was poking through a side window from the kitchen, “Hope ya ain’t dead old buddy, was only meant to warn ya off that’s all. We’re just beginning to have a little fun you an’ me.”Suddenly, in one swift movement, Bill rolled over on the floor, pointed his gun at the small window from where the voice came from and pulled the trigger. A sound like thunder erupted from the rifle and a scream cut through the air like a lightning bolt. Lyndon screamed out in agony, holding the left side of his face where the bullet had skimmed his cheek, tearing a hole along his jaw line.“You filthy bastard!” said Lyndon, “You filthy, rotten bastard.”Bill scrambled to his feet then darted toward the front door. Inside the house, Rosie Bennett made a snap decision to make a run for it. She grabbed Molly by the wrist and headed for the back door. A shot rang out from within the house and the tiny wrist she held in her hand went limp.“Molly!” Rosie screamed, her heart had only time to feel the terror at the sight of her daughter’s bleeding corpse before it exploded in her chest from the second blast from Lyndon Wesley’s handgun.“Stupid bitch,” Lyndon snarled; one hand covered his cheek, the other held the handle of the smoking gun. “I never said nothin’ ’bout leavin’, young lady.”At that moment, the door burst open and Bill Johnson came charging in. Lyndon had only time to turn around and set eyes on the bounty hunter before he was struck by the but of the rifle, flooring him and scattering his gun across the floor. “You filthy dog,” Lyndon said from behind blooded teeth. “Your mother was a whore, your father was a-”“Shut your hole.” Bill put the barrel of his rifle against the lips of his downed opponent. “You’re gonna hang for what you’ve done.”Lyndon kissed the barrel of the gun at his lips. “We all gotta go Bill. It’s been a fun ride tho, hey?.” He began laughing, a wild, uncontrollable outburst. Outside, the night had taken the sun, darkness prevailed. Somewhere in the distance a wild coyote howled.The abrupt clang of steel on steel awoke Lyndon Wesley from his slumber, as it had for the past seven days since his capture and consequent incarceration at the hands of Bill Johnson.“Wakey, wakey,” the guard said, an overweight gentleman with slicked back hair and a genuine dislike for the latest addition to Huntsville State Penitentiary.“You fat, worthless hog,” Lyndon said, jumping out of bed and grabbing hold of the cell bars with both hands, “I hope your wife gets vaginal disease and dies.” His flesh wound on his face began to weep from underneath the dressing from the sudden movement.“Mind your language, you filthy piece of human waste. The priest is here to see your sorry ass.”The guard stepped away from the cell, and a towering black figure revealed himself. At six foot seven, he dwarfed the guard and then Lyndon as he entered the cell. His long white hair tied back in a neat pony tail; his gray, piercing eyes sunk deep within his skull.He spoke in a soft English accent. “Could you give us a moment alone, please?”The guard looked a little hesitant. “You sure about that, father?” he asked.“I’m going to be fine,” the priest said.He then pointed to the room's lone steel chair.“Please, take a seat, my son,” Lyndon duly obliged. His eyes remained fixed on the stranger before him. “Do you know who I am, Lyndon?” the priest asked.“Yep, you’re a man of God.”“In a figure of speaking yes, I suppose I am. And do you know what I’m here for?”“You’re here to read me my last rights, see if the good old lord can save my balls from the burning flames of hell.”A wild grin stretched across Lyndon’s face, he never passed up on a chance to taunt the lord. The priest matched his wicked smile with one of his own. A cold shiver ran down the spine of Lyndon.“You ain’t no priest,” Lyndon said. “You’re something else.”The smile on the priest's face never broke, Lyndon began to feel a strange sensation like butterflies in his stomach. “You’ve had a troubled life, Lyndon.”“So, what the hell do you know about it?” snapped Lyndon. Whoever he was, whatever he was, he wasn’t a priest. Of that, Lyndon was certain. Presently, the priest spoke again.“I know about your father.”Lyndon raised an eyebrow at the priest. Many had heard the story but few dared to speak about it in his presence.A story about a father who, after his wife had left him to raise a child on his own, hit the bottle hard and took out his anger on his son. Lyndon had learned about the violence from a very early age. Then on one cold winter’s night, just three days after his fifteenth birthday, Lyndon had taken his father’s hunting rifle, walked into his bedroom while he lay, and shot him as he slept.“You think you know some shit about me,” Lyndon said, his fists began to clench by his side. “Yea, I killed my daddy and a whole bunch of other sons of bitches along the way too. So what, you don’t know me.”“I know all about you Lyndon,” the preacher said, his deep gray eyes never trailing for a second away from Lyndon’s gaze.“I know about little Frankie.”A sharp pang shot through the center of Lyndon’s heart. Fear? Panic? Or something else? He wasn’t sure. It felt like a crooked arrow had been fired from point blank range, twisting as it penetrated his chest. Not since childhood had he heard another living soul utter the name of his little brother Frankie, not until now.“You just shut the hell up now, preacher,” said Lyndon, his eyes widening.The priest continued, “I know that your little brother Frankie died when he was just five years old. You were two years his elder at seven. The two of you playing together down the old mine shaft. It was a terrible accident.”“Watch your god-damn mouth.” A deep rage began to boil in the pit of Lyndon’s stomach.“But we know better,” the preacher said. “Sure, you made everyone believe he slipped and fell, but we know different, don’t we, Lyndon? You pushed little Frankie down the shaft. Killed him. And the reason? No real reason. You’re a natural born killer, Lyndon, and that’s all the reason you needed. Soon after, your parents split up and your mother left. The truth is, although they never spoke about

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