Elevator to Hell Appears | Werewolf, Lucifer & the Goddess of Luck (Episode 253)

An elevator to Hell appears in the cupboard… and things only get worse from there.

In Episode 253 of Werewolf the Podcast, Simon’s carefully curated Edwardian evening collapses entirely when Lucifer installs a literal elevator to Hell inside his drawing room.

As the group prepares for a dangerous mission into Hell, unexpected guests arrive—including a bewildered priest and the unpredictable Goddess of Luck, whose presence begins to warp reality itself.

With a werewolf ready for chaos, a devil with her own agenda, and divine forces interfering at random, the team must somehow prepare for a descent into Hell… assuming luck doesn’t destroy them first.

Meanwhile:

• A priest is recruited to bless weapons for a demonic battle
• Luck begins subtly reshaping fate (for better or worse)
• The mission grows more dangerous—and less controllable by the second

This episode blends dark fantasy, British comedy, supernatural chaos, and absurd storytelling as the plan to invade Hell teeters on total collapse.

Expect:

• Elevator to Hell (yes, really)
• Lucifer at her most manipulative
• The introduction of the Goddess of Luck
• Supernatural strategy… completely falling apart
• A werewolf who may or may not count as a weapon

Will luck save them… or doom them?

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Transcript

The Professor... just about holding his shit together in this case. Sorry about the vulgarity, but you will understand its need.

So let’s carry on from last week's episode regardless.

God knows no one seems to have any regard for me and mine.

And scene!

The moment Lucifer clicked her fingers, I knew deep in my ancient, battle-hardened soul that something in my drawing roomaa was about to become structurally unreasonable and probably unfeasible.

There was an implosion and then a hiss.

Not a polite implosion and then hiss, god no.

Not the sort of restrained, apologetic pop and hiss one expects from a well-bred kettle. 

No, this was an industrial; the laws of thermodynamics have filed a complaint, sort of pop and hiss.

I turned slowly.

My cupboard...

My bloody cupboard.

The one that, until approximately three seconds ago, contained a vacuum cleaner, three umbrellas, and what I had always suspected was a missing sock that had achieved cultural independence.

It was now venting steam.

Lots of bloody, damp, superheated bloody steam.

Thick, rolling clouds poured out around the edges of the door, curling upward and licking at the Edwardian cornicing like an overfamiliar guest.

‘Jesus’

I inhaled sharply.

This was terrifying.

‘My wallpaper,’ I said, with the quiet horror of a man witnessing a personal tragedy. 

‘That is hand-restored...’

I pointed at the deteriorating flock.

‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is...’

‘Do you...’

‘It’s so hard to source...’

‘To source Edwardian real flock paper that hasn’t been ruined by someone with a bloody glue gun and a dream?’

Lucifer, lounging on the sofa with the sort of effortless elegance that suggested she had personally invented lounging, glanced at the cupboard.

‘It’ll dry,’ she said, a vindictive smile addressing those perfect lips.

I was...

I was actually speechless for an unprecedented amount of time.

‘It will dry. But it will...’ I noted desperation in my voice now.

‘It’ll warp... things!’ I offered, already striding across the room with the urgency of a man who had faced down demons but refused to lose a skirmish with humidity. 

I wafted at the steam pathetically with my pocket square before realising it was a battle lost and just looked at the ruin.

‘Wood swells. Paint bubbles.’ 

‘Do you know what bubbling paint leads to?’

‘Eh, do you?’

‘Do you? For fu...’ I stopped the sentence with forethought. 

There was a tense moment as I realised who I was addressing.

I winced.

‘Be careful what you say, Simon. You may not be able to take it back.’ Not a warning that was worth ignoring 

I was exasperated, but quickly realised that the entity that I was chastising was, after all, the devil.

‘My apologies, Lucifer... but...’ I pointed at the first panel of peeling paper as it drooped and rolled down the wall to the floor, and added a whimper as the paint festered on the wooden architraves.

‘Bubbling paint... It leads to touch-ups, Lucifer. Touch-ups are the gateway to full redecoration.’ I told the beast from hell.

The cupboard door rattled.

I leapt back, expecting.

I have no idea what I was expecting to come out of the cupboard, but I could not in any way imagine it was going to be good.

Then it swung open.

I cowered slightly, stupidly closing my eyes, shielding myself from whatever abhorrent entities were going to charge out and kill me.

Hmmm! Nothing.

I dropped my hands slowly and built the courage to open my eyes in the general direction of the cupboard.

Inside it, impossibly, was not the cupboard.

It was a lift. 

Erm American vernacular...

Erm elevator.

Not a modern one, with brushed steel and faintly disappointing lighting. 

This one was wrought iron and brass, all ornate latticework and softly glowing runes that pulsed like something with a heartbeat. 

Steam curled around it dramatically, because of course it did.

I stopped dead.

‘…Luci!’ I yelled.

‘For... for... Oh, for fucks sake.’

‘Luci, there is a bloody infernal lift in my... in my storage space.’

‘Temporary,’ Lucifer said.

I saw the anger in her surface, but she took her eyes to her red, perfect nails in order not to give me a look that could kill... erm, no damn?

Well, a look that would probably have spoiled my evening a lot more than this evening had been spoiled already. 

If that were possible.

‘It’s always fucking temporary,’ I muttered. 

‘Might be temporary, but the effects of it are not temporary.’ 

‘They are...’

‘That’s what you said about the incident with the cherubim and the wine cellar. That turned out to be positive for your air flow, remember.’

‘Ah, yes,’ she was right there.

‘Sod it.’ 

A low ding echoed from within the elevator, and then the music started.

The music was hell-born.

I closed my eyes briefly.

‘Of course it dings,’ I said. 

‘Of course it plays... is that a tune?’

‘Why wouldn’t it ding? Why would it not play that damned tune?’

At that exact moment, the doorbell erm... distarctingly tolled.

A single, perfectly normal, entirely British ding that somehow felt more surreal than the portal to Hell currently redecorating my... bloody... cupboard.

‘Who in hell is that?’ I blurted my irritation, which was still very evident.

‘Good one, Simon.’ Said Lucifer, thinking that I had made a joke.

I looked at her blankly.

The Werecat appeared instantly, as if summoned by the concept of mild inconvenience. 

She paused, glanced at the steaming cupboard and shook her head in resigned disappointment, then at me as though the cupboard issue was of my creation.

I gestured faintly.

‘Door,’ I said, rather too firmly.

I know it was a little rude of me to address her like this, but Vaughnt could see that I was mentally... fu... bloo... whatevered.

She nodded once and padded off, heavy Dr Martens somehow making no sound at all on the polished floorboards.

I turned back to Lucifer.

‘I assume,’ I said carefully, ‘that whatever is eventually arriving through that contraption will not shed, scorch, ooze, or otherwise compromise the integrity of my furnishings or the fabric of my building?’

Lucifer smiled.

It was not reassuring.

‘Oh, Simon,’ she said, ‘where’s your sense of adventure? But nothing is coming up in it. It’s just for the journey down.’

An uncomfortable silence fell as we waited for the dinger at the door.

Who was it? 

We were all here?

‘Is whoever... whatever is at the door to do with you?’ I asked the smiling devil.

‘Most definitely not.’ She said with a slight hint of disgust.

‘Quite the opposite in this case.’ She said as she took another sip of my Port.

From the hallway came the faint sound of the front door opening.

A pause.

A mumbled greeting of sorts.

Then footsteps.

Two sets.

One measured, deliberate, accompanied by the soft rustle of fabric and the faint, comforting aura of someone who believed in tea, biscuits, and eternal salvation.

The other...

The other felt like probability had just taken a sharp turn and decided to see what would happen.

The Werecat returned silently, leading them in.

First came a slightly podgy priest, hat in hand, looking exactly like a man who had expected a quiet evening visit somewhere nice like the local manor and hopefully a small dry Sherry.

We all turned to look at him.

I could see the hope fall from the priest’s face.

He filled the silence.

He was probably used to such reactions in his presence, poor chap.

‘Erm... hello... I am Father McKenzie.’

We all stared at him.

Hard.

I did not introduce myself. 

I was being rude, again.

I just could not get past the fucking elevator from hell in my fucking cupboard.

I even downed my port.

A whole glass of it.

Downed it.

Without any appreciation.

Yes... You can see how upset I was.

‘Professor,’ Father McKenzie began, with admirable composure, ‘I hope I’m not intruding...’

He stopped and looked at Wil for some sort of support. 

Probably the last person in the room you should be seeking support from. 

I mean, even Lucifer would support you... It would cost you your immortal soul, right enough, but she would support you for it.

Sort of.

Wil did his usual thing in a situation like this: he didn't respond to the man at all.

Father McKenzie then turned and nodded with a hint of desperation at the Wing commander, who, thankfully for the man, took the priest's hand.

‘Nice to meet and greet you, fine sir’, ' said the Wing Commander, giving his hand and, ultimately, his arm a hearty shake that off-balanced the priest mentally and physically. 

‘Forgive us for our rudeness,old chap. It has been an interesting and somewhat stressful evening so far.’ 

‘Harumph.’

‘I am Wing Commander Montgomery Fortescue... Retired.’ He told the man before introducing the rest of the company.

‘This is Wil.’ He said, presenting the werewolf who leaned threateningly against the back of a sofa.

I mean, if he had been sitting on it, he would have still done it threateningly.

He just did everything threateningly all the time. 

The priest met Wil’s eyes for a second and gave a timorous nod before quickly moving to a less threatening thing.

Less threatening thing. (laugh)

Little did he know that less threatening... that thing was Beelzebub, the beast of the pit, Satan. Baphomet, Lucifer, etc, etc.

I wonder what he saw, because he did not flinch or react the way most people do when they see the thing they most lust for.

In a more happier future time. 

If there were... a future time.

I laughed to myself. 

I would love to know what he saw when he looked at Luci. 

The Wing Commander introduced her.

‘This lady...’ He said, his enormously bushy eyebrows knotting as he wondered how to introduce thee, Satan, to a priest. 

Not a normal informal introduction for anyone. 

‘Is Luci, erm..? Luci..?’ 

‘Erm Luci..? Erm...’ I could see the desperation in his eyes as he looked at the devil and asked for help in getting to the end of this intro. 

He had no surname to give.

‘Erm Luci...’ He was now pleading.

‘I’m the devil...’ She smiled, giving the confused McKenzie a dainty finger wave.

‘I will ask you later why you see me as Sister O’Connell of Belfast priory... Yes, definitely O’Connell wearing erm... Not something I think I have worn before, but something that I can recognise as well darned socks.’

Ah, right, that was that question answered then.

The priest's eyes glazed a little as he looked at her.

He opened his mouth to ask a question and just gave up, letting his eyes scan the rest of the room.

Good man for not asking, I thought.

That could have got complicated.

He took in the cupboard filled with a lift.

He saw the steam rising up and damaging my wallpaper and blistering my paintwork.

‘…I appear to be intruding,’ he finished, hoping that he could use this as an excuse to leave.

Behind him, unnoticed for precisely another half a second, which, given the circumstances, was generous, the Goddess of Luck stepped inside the room.

‘Oh, good...’ Said Lucifer as she took a sip from her glass. ‘luck.’ She finished.

‘Good luck, luck.’ She said, raising her glass as a sarcastic toast. 

Luckily, Luck did not notice this.

Or at least pretended not to.

The air shifted with her entrance.

Subtly. 

Quietly. 

Like the universe had just realised it might be about to trip over its own shoelaces.

Or not.

Depending on whether she was being bad or good today.

She moved past the priest with an easy grace, auburn hair catching the firelight, freckles dusted across her skin like constellations that had decided to be informal about it.

Her eyes...

Her eyes were not eyes.

They were emerald orbs. 

Deep. 

Bright.

Impossible. 

The sort of green that didn’t exist in nature unless nature was feeling particularly competitive.

She smiled.

Things in the room adjusted themselves slightly, just to be on the safe side of her.

She could be... fickle...

I stared utterly bemused at her arrival.

Then at Lucifer.

Then, at the steaming elevator.

Then briefly again at the ceiling, as if considering whether it might collapse out of sheer narrative pressure.

Part of me wanted it to.

‘…Of course,’ I said at last. ‘Why not?’

‘Why the hell not?’

Dave the chupacabra chose that moment to wander in, look at the assembled collection of divine, infernal, and ecclesiastical entities...

...and farted. A long and tuneful fart.

He finished with a high octave A minor and sat looking at the guests, utterly proud of himself. 

It kind of added a melodic exclamation mark to the evening.

Vaughnt was laughing violently, but as always, silently behind the priest and Luck.

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Perfect. This is exactly how one’s evening should unfold.’

‘It started so bloody well. The Port! The cheese.’

‘Fucks sake.’

***Musical interlude.***

The Professor... again (sigh)

I lowered  my hand from the bridge of my nose with the slow, deliberate care of a man attempting to prevent reality from worsening through sudden movement.

This was... this was all going to...

To erm...

Whatever this was. 

I turned.

Very precisely.

To Father McKenzie.

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Father. I am sorry if I have already offered way too much evidence for being such, but...Why?’ I  asked, with surgical calm, ‘Are you here?’

Father McKenzie blinked once, still clutching his hat, still standing in a drawing room that had, within the last minute, developed steam,  and what he was increasingly certain was a weird vibe.

‘Well,’ he said, with gentle honesty,

‘I was darning my socks in the night, and nobody else was home.’

There was a pause.

Wil nodded.

‘Good tune.’ He added

Father McKenzie paused at this, then continued, encouraged by the lack of anything further from anyone, and tried to provide the group with evidence that he was a confident... man.

He continued, but provided very little evidence of any confidence. 

‘And then this young lady...’ he gestured politely toward the Goddess of Luck, ‘...came in. Quite suddenly, I must say. Invited me to tea. Said there was to be a discussion about God here at the manor.’

I stared at him.

‘…She what?

‘I wasn’t otherwise engaged,’ Father McKenzie went on apologetically. ‘And, well… one doesn’t get many invitations these days. Thought it might be rather nice. I was hoping you could join the congregation if things went well. I mean, Ethel and Doris are lovely, but we could all do with a few more people there. ’

A small, quiet set of sentences.

They landed with more weight than anything else in the room.

Even the steam seemed to hesitate.

‘…No one bothers you,’ I repeated, faintly.

Father McKenzie gave a small, self-conscious smile.

‘Not especially, no. Congregation of just two at the moment, you see.’

Lucifer smirked and laughed, disturbing the moment.

‘Sorry...’ She said.

‘Just you have to admit I am doing a wonderful job.’

Wil shifted slightly.

Monty’s jaw tightened... just a fraction.

Lucifer watched with interest.

I inhaled.

Slowly.

Then turned.

Equally precisely.

To the Goddess of Luck.

‘…Why,’ I asked, voice now carrying the unmistakable edge of a man approaching the limits of civility, ‘is he here?’

Luck met my gaze, utterly untroubled.

‘Oh,’ she said lightly, as if explaining the placement of flowers, ‘I think we might need him.’

‘We?’ I asked a question of sorts, which was soundly ignored.

A pause.

‘For what precisely, dear lady?’ Monty asked in a controlled, measured tone. 

Dangerously measured.

Luck smiled. 

A smile that anyone would go to war for, and except death graciously as a result, and stepped forward.

The room seemed to adjust to accommodate her movement. Not visibly. Just… I don’t know... statistically?

She gestured, almost casually, toward the cupboard... toward the elevator, still breathing steam onto my increasingly distressed wallpaper.

She placed the index finger of her right hand to her chin in the worldwide body language associated with... considering something.

Her empty eyes made it impossible to work out what she was considering.

Possibly a good thing.

You should never make guesses about Luck.

‘I have no idea.’ She laughed.

‘Maybe it's for... I don’t know... blessings?’ She said.

‘Yeah, blessings. That’s it. It feels... right.’

‘Feels right?’ A rhetorical question from the Devil.

I blinked.

‘For... no, I’m sorry... what?’ I asked.

She smiled, a soft, luminous thing that made the concept of inevitability feel oddly warm.

She looked around, scanning the room.

‘She has no idea. She never does...’ Lucifer mocked.

Luck smiled.

‘Always seems to work out though, eh? Luci?’

Luci took her gaze to the port glass that refilled itself before her eyes. 

Before raising it to the green-eyed goddess.

‘Not always for the best though.’ Before she downed my bloody port.

Luck ignored her.

Mainly because Lucifer was... Well,  simply right. 

‘I think I want him to bless... er...’

‘The weaponry, yeah, that’s it,’ she said. ‘And the people that are going to Hell.’

‘It is hell that they are going to, is it not?’

I simply nodded. 

Silence.

Wil looked down at his hands.

‘…Do I count as weaponry or people?’ A strangely sincere question.

Both Devil and Goddess looked at him.

‘A weapon in my eyes.’ Said Luck, winking at the... weapon?

‘Both,’ Lucifer said.

‘Right,’ Wil laughed.

‘Good to know.’

A  set of sounds that had once been language escaped my lips.

Monty did not move.

Did not speak.

Did not react...

Until Luck stepped behind him in what was some sort of slow-motion type cinematic thing.

Yet it was not dramatic.

No thunder. 

No shift in light.

Just a simple, quiet slow-motion clip.

She placed her hand on his shoulder.

Gently.

Familiar.

The kind of touch that implied a history.

The room noticed.

Everything noticed.

Monty went utterly still.

Not tense.

Not defensive.

Still.

As if a piece had just been returned to a place it had once belonged on his chessboard.

Luck’s expression softened... subtly, but undeniably.

‘He’s important,’ she said.

Not loudly.

Not theatrically.

Just… her truth.

I looked at them.

At her hand on Monty’s shoulder.

At Monty, who... against all expectations... did not remove it.

‘…I see,’ I said.

I did not, in fact, see.

Not even slightly.

Lucifer’s smile widened, slow and delighted, like someone watching a particularly promising game of cricket unfold.

Father McKenzie, meanwhile, looked slightly overwhelmed but was doing his level best to remain professionally composed.

‘…Blessings,’ he said, faintly. ‘Yes. Of course. I can… I am actually very good at blessing things.’

Wil brightened.

‘Oh, good,’ he said. ‘You're good at blessings, how utterly fucking useful.’

Monty finally spoke.

Quiet.

Carefully measured.

‘…On what authority,’ he asked, ‘are we proceeding with this… operation?’

Luck leaned slightly closer to him... not enough to be improper.

Just enough to be intentional.

‘Mine,’ she said.

A pause.

Then, almost as an afterthought...

‘And hers.’ She nodded at Lucifer.

‘It feels... right.’

Monty’s eyes flickered.

Something ancient.

Something conflicted.

Something dangerous.

I clapped my hands once.

Sharp.

Decisive.

Trying to restart... what was... a sort of touch of real reality to this unreal moment. 

The clap was the sound of a man reclaiming control of his drawing room by force of will alone.

‘No,’ I said.

‘No, no, no, no,no, no, no, no.’ Did I just Farage this situation? It must be utterly dire.

‘Right.’

‘What is it those American chaps say?’ 

‘Time out.’

‘If we are to conduct a descent into Hell... which I note, for the record, was not in my evening's plans... we will do so with bloody structure.’

‘Firstly, I would not have opened the bloody Port if I had known we were going tonight.’

I pointed, with academic authority, at Father McKenzie.

‘You,’ I said, ‘will explain precisely what your blessings entail, their limitations, and whether they will stain my upholstery.’

I turned to Wil.

‘You will not engage in any form of heroics or psychotic episodes without supervision.’

‘To be fair...’ Wil began.

‘No.’ I held up my hand and turned my face away from him to stop him right there, and turned to Monty.

‘You will provide a chain of command that does not involve interpretive morality or divine improvisation.’

Monty inclined his head slightly.

‘…Understood.’ and clicked his heels.

I turned, finally, to Lucifer.

‘And you,’ I said, my voice tightening. 

‘You will explain why there is an elevator to Hell in my cupboard.’

Lucifer smiled.

‘Because,’ she said, ‘you need one.’

I stared at her.

Long.

Unblinking.

‘I know we need the lift.’

‘I understand that perfectly.’

‘The question was more based on why is it in the cupboard of my bloody drawing room?’

‘We have deep dark cellars here, you know.’

‘You could have brought it up through mould and ancient rat droppings, but no.’

The elevator cut my rant off with another ding.

Soft.

Patient.

Waiting.

I simply closed my eyes and wished it would all go away.

‘…We are...’ He said quietly.

‘We need ‘’

‘... Vaughnt... please could you get me the 72-year-old Glen Garry malt?’