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“And why do you think you’re going to Hell?” My mother asks, setting her glasses down on the table and eying me with an intense look. I stare back at her with the same intensity and blink.

“Because I sent her there.”

“What?”

“To Hell,” She looks at me like I’m insane.

“Who?”

I stare down at my chalky white hands and pick at my chipped black fingernail polish. “Dad’s girlfriend.” I answer after a moment or so of silence.

My mother’s green eyes are gazing at me, I can feel them but I don’t say anything. I stop moving and stare at the wall, as if I don’t know she’s there. I hold my breath as I hear her begin to speak. “Dahlia, how could you think you sent her to Hell?”

I don’t say anything, but I trace the memories in my head silently. I remember when I considered the decision: it was a Tuesday.



I sit almost innocently on the couch, flipping channels on the TV before finally deciding on Edward Sissorhands. The houses they live in automatically make me think of the ones I pictured that the Socs in The Outsiders lived in. I remember watching the movie on the Thursday before Spring Break let out, and talking with my friends about how hot we each thought Dally and Soda were.

My chain of thought is broken along with the glass window in the movie when I hear you and my father arguing in the other room. Your screaming is loud, but I can’t understand the words. I roll my eyes, wishing he would dump you and move on with his life already. I hate you. I can’t stand you.

You annoy me to no end, most of my friends think the same, and my mother doesn’t understand what my father sees in you. Not that she’s jealous because unlike you, she’s engaged.

I can’t stand it when you won’t shut up about how bad it is for me to take a Motrin for a headache, or when you start nagging at me because I stayed home from school and went to the doctor because I was sick. “You have to train your body to fight it off on its own,” you tell me. I sneer. Talk to me when you graduate from medical school.

I spend a few minutes thinking about how much I hate you and about how mean you are to him. Then a thought pops into my head, one I didn’t call on.

Your bitterness, I shall dispel. The words printed in Japanese on Hell Correspondence. The Hell Girl or Jigoku Shoujo arrives a day or so after you send her your tormentor's name to get revenge for you. She will drag the person to Hell. But there’s a price: when you die, you go to Hell as well.

Hell Correspondence is real. It is not a rumor. Though the Hell Girl looks nothing like she does in the popular anime, she is real. I blink and contemplate whether or not Hell after death would be such a terrible thing. Not having you around would be heaven. It’s a Friday night, and soon you and my father will be retiring to bed. The website only appears at midnight, although there are many fake ones. I know the address for the real one. And it doesn’t appear whenever I try to access it.



It’s a few minutes after ten at night, and I’m lying in my bed with my heart racing. I can feel it pounding against my chest, and it feels difficult to breath. He spoils you rotten. I get nothing. He gives you money for free. I don’t get money for chores. He kisses up to you, even when you’re mean to him. He’s always mean to me.

Plagued by thoughts of jealously and rage, I’ve set my alarm to wake me up fifteen minutes before midnight. I close my eyes tight, forcing myself to sleep. Although I steady my breathing and shut my eyes, I’m still awake. I’m too anxious to sleep. Or maybe, I’m scared.



Beep, beep, beep, beep… Ugh, turn it off. I slowly open my eyes and glance at my alarm clock. Its time.

I flip out of bed and turn it off before sneaking quietly down the dark hallway and out to the computer. I click the lamp on and shake the mouse to wake the computer from its mandatory sleep mode before sitting down and waiting for my desktop to load. I can hear my heart in my head. My breathing is fast, in, out, in, out…

I click onto the Internet and wait for it to pop up. I click onto the address bar and type in the website address, which I have jotted down on a sticky note in my back pocket: http://blog9.fc2.com/w/waine/file/hell.html. I carefully enter the words into the address bar and I am teleported instantly to the website. A flame pops up on a black screen. And there it is. The words, the entry bar, the send button. Everything.

We will take revenge on your behalf.

I gulp and click onto the entry bar. Carefully, I type out your name. Then, I nervously scroll down to the send button and click. My breath catches as the screen fades to black. I gulp, listening to the silence and my pounding heart. Did it work? The answer would come too soon.



The next day, as I sit at the computer desk, just being bored, I get a text message. I know because my phone plays the musical chairs sounding ring tone, the way it always does when someone sends me a text message. I flip my silver phone open and click onto my inbox. There’s a message from a number I’ve never seen or heard of, and the area code makes my breath catch in my throat as it did last night. (666) 876-5671.

I click the message open and my emerald green eyes widen, like a cat’s when it’s on the hunt. “Accepted.” That’s all it says. Accepted. I drop my phone and it falls to the ground, clattering against the tile.

Finally, my puny voice chokes out two simple words. “Hell Girl.”



It’s been a few hours since I received the mysterious text message and I sit on the couch, enjoying the silence. My stomach growls and I suddenly realize that I am ravenous and haven’t eaten once all day. I amble through the kitchen door, but instead of walking into my kitchen, I walk into a large field. The grass is burnt crisp, almost black.

My stomach begins flipping. I glance around, adrenaline rushing through my veins. “Do you really want to send this woman to Hell?” I know someone’s there. I know who it is. But I stare down at my feet, feeling as if I can only throw up the truth.

“…Yes.” I reply meekly. I notice that there is a cool breeze flowing past us, sending my long brown hair flying around my small shoulders.

“To send someone to Hell is to dig a double grave. When you die, you will go to Hell as well. You will never know the joys of heaven. You will wander through eternal torment.” Hell Girl’s soft voice pauses. “Do you still want your revenge?”

I nod slowly and then find myself screaming and crying. Abruptly, it begins to feel as if my bones are melting. My flesh burns and my eyes water. I feel hungry and thirsty and tired. I scream and yell, crying out for it to stop.

Then, I’m back in my kitchen, kneeling on the tile floor. “There is no second option. You will pull the string.” I hear her voice inform me. I glance up and see a black doll made of straw, bound together by string. Around its neck is a dark red string. The one that will send you to Hell when I pull it.



For the next few days I contemplate over and over about pulling the string. The doll will never go away until I do. It will stay with me until the day I die. I glance over at it, shoved casually in my bag, and put a protective arm around it. Hell Girl told me I would pull the string. She told me there was no other option. And suddenly I understand.

Since the moment I picked the doll up I had the uncontrollable desire to yank the string off. And it wouldn’t surprise me if I did pull the string off.

I’m lying in bed when I hear you screaming at my father. “You weren’t working today, tell the truth!” you yell. “You were staying home and cheating on me!” Ignorant b***h, I reply in my head.

I feel something snap suddenly, because I hear my father crying to you and begging you to believe him when he says he was working, which he was. I listen to you continue not believing him while I rummage through my things for the black doll. I yank it out and ready my fingers on the red string. Forgive me dear God, I think as I bite my bottom lip and pull the string off.

Without another thought I turn over on my side, facing the wall, and go right to sleep, feeling relieved, happy, and almost scared. And in the morning when I wake up, you aren’t there.



So after I finish telling this to my mother, I smile at my hands. “The whole Hell Correspondence deal is a scam. You never have the decision not to pull the string. The moment you click send, you’re damning the person and yourself to Hell.”

I glance up at my mother, who stares at me as I smile while tears stream down my eyes. I hug her and she holds me while I sob into her chest. My voice sounded like that of a small child when I spoke.



"Momma, I'm going to Hell."





This short story is based off the legend of Hell Correspondence, or The Hell Girl. Commenly known as Ai Enma or Enma Ai, she is has her own anime called Hell Girl or Jigoku Shoujo in Japan. The rumors are true, at least from what I believe. I've had experiences with this website before, very close ones. Believe its a rumor or not, I don't care, I just hope you enjoyed the story. =) *The website address listed in the story is the real one.*