Werewolf the Podcast Ep. 255: Descent to Hell – The Elevator, The Narrator & The Game Begins

A werewolf, a professor, a soldier… and a dead narrator trapped in an elevator to Hell.
In Episode 255 of Werewolf the Podcast, the descent finally begins—but something is very, very wrong.

The team—Wil the werewolf, Professor Simon de Montfort, Wing Commander Montgomery Fortescue, and the ancient wolf Fenrir—are locked inside a supernatural elevator heading into Hell itself. But they’re not alone.

Enter Jim Maerk—a murdered podcast host forced to narrate their journey from beyond the grave.

As reality bends, narration breaks the fourth wall, and the laws of existence start to collapse, the group realises:

• The elevator isn’t going down… it’s going wrong
• The rules of Hell may not apply anymore
• And whatever is waiting below… might not be ready for them

Meanwhile, above, Lucifer watches the descent unfold like a game—one that may no longer be under her control.

This episode blends:

• Dark fantasy & supernatural horror
• Meta storytelling & fourth-wall-breaking narration
• British humour meets American chaos
• A high-stakes descent into Hell… with no clear destination

Welcome to the journey down.

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Transcript

Jim: Hey, guys, so here’s the thing.

Oh, you’re gonna love this crew of Badasses.

They’are inside an elevator.

What you Limeys call a Lift for some reason.

Lift? 

pah!

Damn it. 

Is it a verb?

Who cares.

It's a damn elevator, is what it is.

Do these guys not know how to speak English properly? 

There ain’t no letter U in colour.

Col or, Col or.

***Moment of silence.***

Professor: ‘Who the hell is that?’

Jim: Said the Professor.

Wil: ‘I don’t know.’ 

Jim: Said Wil, looking around the small box, for the source of the voice.

Monty took out a fresh hip flask. 

Looking confused at the narrator explaining that he is doing this, he puts it back in his pocket and takes out his pistol, ready for action.

Monty: ‘I don’t know chaps, but I don’t like it.’ 

Jim: He tells them his moustache bristling with irritation.

Monty: ‘I believe we have ourselves a... narrator.’

‘That’s not a good sign.’

‘Takes me back to 56 and Korea.’ 

‘All goes to hell in a hand cart when you get your own bloody narrator in on the job.’

Jim: Will you guys be quiet so I can get this done, please? 

I’m not doing this out of fun, you know. 

Part of Lucifer's stipulation for me being here and maybe getting back upstairs.

***Long Pause.***

I was trying to describe the damned elevator.

The guys in the elevator all nodded, apparently in agreement for me to get on with this thing. 

Yeah?

Monty: ‘Erm... yes. Certainly, old bean. Do carry on, you are doing splendidly. Although do speak up. 

This music is infernal.’

Jim: Cool... thanks.

Not doing this for my health, you know.

Na, been dead for a while now.

Okay to get back to this... 

Whatever it was, a description of...

That’s it, the elevator is not your standard deal. 

Too many buttons all with the same label. 

Hell.

Horrific elevator music, too. 

Just four brass caged walls that hum like they’ve got opinions and lights that flicker like they’re thinking about quitting, and a general sense that gravity has filed for divorce.

***Long Pause.***

You can speak now, guys. 

***Pause***

You need to speak or do something, guys.

Come on.

Otherwise, I have nothing to narrate.

***Long Pause***

The three guys looked confused and blankly at each other. 

Professor ‘What?’ 

Jim: Asks the confused Professor.

Professor: ‘I thought that you wanted us quiet so you could, you know. 

Describe the scene.’

Jim: So you’re not going to say anything else then? 

The narrator asked the four of them.

Just shoulder shrugs from the Brits and what I assume was a wolfy equivalent from the Wolf soul.

Fenrir: ‘I can see why we have not had a narrator before.’

Jim: Fenrir says as if it would bother the narrator.

It doesn’t bother me.

I ignore him.

He isn't real.

Anything else? 

I ask them.

Nothing.

Okay, if you guys aren't going to say anything useful, is it okay if I describe you to the listeners?

Again, the mute pals look at each other, then nod to the light in the centre of the ceiling, which they must think is where I am.

Dumbasses.

Professor: ‘Well...’

Jim: Shut up.

Monty: ‘But you said to talk old chap.’

Jim: Said the Wing Commander.

Sorry, guys, but you think you’ve had a weird day? 

They nodded...

Vo... cif... erously...

Vociferously writers?

Seriously?

Showing off with big words?

Swallow a dictionary recently?

Taken a thesaurus as a suppository, probably.

Monty: ‘Take that back, sir.’

‘Suppositories are for the damned French, not an English gentleman.’

‘We don’t... You know... put anything... Up there, Sir!

Jim: Whatever.

Anyway... now I’m here.

And what I’m sadly looking at and dealing with is. 

No, what you’re looking at, listening to this, through me looking, is one of the strangest little group descents I’ve ever had the displeasure of narrating.

Not that I’ve done this before.

Why’d they choose me? 

***Mumble as if someone communicates with Jim unheard to the listeners and the characters***

Oh... Well... I take it back.

Luci has taste.

***pause***

We’re inside an elevator. 

Professor ‘Ahem.’ 

Jim: Coughed the professor.

Oh, okay... They’re inside the elevator.

You British folk are pedantic, huh?

I already described the LIFT. 

***(Lift said with a huge sarcastic tone. Have fun with it. Make it super ridiculous, Jim.)***

But you listeners, if you’re still listening, have probably forgotten what I said about the LIFT because of these four doofuses constantly butting in.

Front and centre, we got Wil.

Big presence. 

The kind of guy who walks into a room and you immediately check where the exits are and hope your wife does not see him.

Werewolf. 

Not the pathetic, tragic, brooding type either. 

No, this guy enjoys it. 

The violence.

The chaos, the whole package. 

He’s got this casual way about him, like he’s deciding whether to grab a drink or dismember someone, and honestly?

Monty: ‘He has got you to a T there, Wil.’

Jim: Said the Wing Commander, spoiling the narrator's flow.

Monty: ‘Oh... Awfully sorry, old chap. Carry on.’ 

Jim: He said apologising... VOCIFEROUSLY. 

See, writers, I know when to use it properly.

You think us Americans are dumb, huh?

Vociferously. 

Bet there’s a stupid English letter U somewhere in there, huh?

Anyways, I will repeat what I was saying before I got rudely interrupted.

A Werewolf.

Not the pathetic, tragic, brooding type either. 

No, this guy enjoys it. 

The violence.

The chaos, the whole package. 

I actually met his honey a while back, Sally. 

Wil: ‘Sally,'

Jim: said Wil.

Professor: ‘Shhh.’

Jim: Said the prof.

Monty: ‘Shhh.’

Jim: Said the Wing Commander.

Fenrir: ‘Shhh.’

Jim: Said the Wolf soul.

So Wil might get the idea to shut his hole at the moment. 

***Long Pause.***

Thanks... 

That’s right...

Sally

She looked like a bowl of peaches. 

Was not sweet, though.

She is why am here.

Wil ‘What happened?’ 

Jim: Asked Wil.

Professor: ‘Let’s just let him finish. Never had a narrator before. It could be quite a good addition.’

***Long Pause***

Jim: Next, we’ve got Fenrir.

Ancient wolf entity. 

Big wolfy soul thing.

End-of-the-world vibes. 

The kind of presence that makes your instincts start packing their bags. 

Fenrir: ‘That’s me.’

Jim: And somehow... somehow... he’s the reasonable one in that relationship. 

Which should tell you everything you need to know about Wil.

Wil: ‘Fair.’

Jim: Said Wil.

Then there’s Professor Simon de Montfort.

Brilliant. 

The professor smiles a weak, chinned smile.

Professor: ‘What do you mean weak...’

Jim: Dangerous.

Carries enough occult knowledge and weaponry to ruin several dimensions. 

And right now? 

He’s deeply, personally offended by the existence of this elevator. 

Not because it’s taking him to Hell,no, no, it’s the lack of proper ventilation. 

And the fact that he is pissed that I don’t call it a LIFT.

***Pause***

The man tried to pack cheeses for this trip. 

Cheeses. 

Professor: ‘I think we should move along somewhat.’

Into Hell.

I swear I’m not making that up.

Cheese!

Professor: ‘What is the matter with cheese?’

Jim: And finally...

Wing Commander Montgomery Fortescue.

Monty: ‘Retired.’

Jim: (sigh) Retired.

If the rest of this situation is chaos, he’s the guy standing in the middle of it with a straight back and a plan. 

The Wing Commander snaps off a perfect salute.

Heels click.

Military man. 

Old school. 

Believes in duty and honour with a stupid letter U in it. 

Doing the right thing, even when the right thing involves descending into literal damnation with a werewolf and a scholar who’s mentally redecorating the underworld.

He’s the only one not complaining about the ride.

Which, by the way, is totally insane.

Because this elevator?

It’s not moving down.

It’s moving wrong.

Like reality itself is folding up and filing them away somewhere unpleasant.

Now here’s the part where things get awkward.

See, I start doing my job.

Laying it all out, nice and smooth, and they keep interrupting me.

Yeah.

They can hear me.

Wil, yeah, I see you. 

You’re looking around like you're trying to punch a ghost. 

Can’t find me, can you?

The Professor’s demanding identification. 

The Wing Commander is treating me like an unexpected radio transmission. 

Fenrir’s… well, Fenrir’s just being well Fenrir, really.

So I tell them.

I tell them who I am.

Professor: ‘What is happening with the...narrative tense in this episode?’

‘Is it present, past, future, or what?’

Jim: Please don’t worry about the tense or being tense, Professor. I got this.

***Musical interlude.***

Name’s Jim Maerk. 

Host of the award-winning. 

How many awards have you won at Werewolf the Podcast, guys?

Huh?

Huh?

***Pause***

Host of the award-winning. Old Man’s Podcast. 

I’ve dug into conspiracies, cryptids, all that good stuff that people listen to at 2 a.m. when they’re questioning their life choices. 

Made drive-time music for various radio stations.

AROUND THE WORLD!

Had a number of Live Podcasts with chats over the table.

Co-host on the Savaged Unfiltered Podcast.

Grammi’s week ahead is a mainstay; check it out. 

All good and wholesome and not likely to kill me, but...

Turns out? 

The conspiracy cryptids stuff was the bit that got me... Murdered.

Seems like one conspiracy. 

That was fairies stealing kids…

...that I was alarmingly correct about it.

Well, about most of it.

Didn’t help me much, though.

When Sally tore my throat out.

Wil: ‘Fair enough,’

Jim: Wil says.

Wil: ‘Sally's... a lot.’ 

Jim: He continues.

Like I just told him, the bar’s out of his favourite beer.

I mean, I appreciate the lack of existential meltdown, but still, little respect for the dead narrator wouldn’t kill them. 

***Long pause.***

Well. 

Again.

I reset.

Take a breath.

And I start this whole thing, but this time? 

I get a little more honest in my narration.

Wil? 

Walking bad decision. 

Loves a fight, loves the chaos, and yeah, he’ll steal your apple, and then hand you fifty bucks like that balances the scales.

Fenrir? 

Ancient terror, sure, but stuck babysitting a lunatic.

Fenrir: ‘Fair,’ 

Jim: Says the Wolf, getting a side eye from Wil.

Monty: ‘He’s not very wrong there, old chap.’

Jim: Adds the Wing Commander, patting the nodding Wil on his back.

The Professor? 

Genius, absolutely, but if Hell doesn’t have proper storage conditions, he’s going to file a complaint with someone.

Possibly Satan.

Professor: ‘Not like she gives a damn...’

‘Damn, get it... Somewhat amusing what?’

Jim: Says the professor.

Getting a snigger of a joke well said by the elevator's populace.

Monty: ‘Quiet chaps. Let's see what he has to bally say about me.’

Jim: Thanks, Monty.

I acknowledge that gentleman's help.

And the Wing Commander?

Good dude. 

Solid guy.

Probably the only one here who deserves a medal instead of whatever’s waiting at the bottom of this ride.

And as I’m watching them, really watching them, the elevator starts to shift.

Lights dim.

Walls hum louder.

Something out there, somewhere, notices.

And I gotta tell you guys…

And the guys in the very British LIFT

I’ve spent years talking about monsters. About the dark. 

About the things waiting on the other side.

But these four?

Yeah.

I lean back, metaphorically, because apparently I don’t have a body anymore, and I just say it.

I’m glad they’re going to Hell.

Because whatever’s down there?

It’s about to have a very, very bad day.

***round of applause and congratualtions from the four characters in the lift at once.***

The Lift stops.

The doors open.

And...

Well, there is... nothing. 

I mean... nothing. 

Well, that seems a bit of a letdown.

Luci

Do you know what the trouble is with eternity?

It’s the endless, and I mean endless... bloody waiting.

As I said, it is bloody endless.

Sometimes utterly tedious.

Most of it... just unimaginative waiting for things to happen.

Civilisations rise, civilisations fall, and somewhere in between you’re still sat in a perfectly lovely drawing room in the Midlands, watching an elevator take far too long to descend into the pit of Hell.

Waiting for something to happen.

So, naturally, I improved the situation.

I was seated, of course. 

One must set the tone.

In the Professor’s drawing room,oh, he does adore it. 

Edwardian splendour clinging all around me, as it desperately tried to stay relevant.

The fire... boringly... behaved itself. 

The furniture....

Well, it obviously had opinions but knew better than to express them. 

I had made additions to the room’s decor.

Partially to  annoy the room’s owner and most frequent occupant.

But mainly so we could use it to watch the unfolding of tonight's game. 

I had placed on the far wall.

Which I had temporarily relieved of its magnificently magnificent portrait of the noble Professor in a past era. 

An 85-inch television which happily displayed the lift interior, complete with the complaints and existential dread of its occupants, and that extraordinary American narration.

I had purposely employed Jim for this.

Nothing riles British men of a certain age more than a confident American man explaining those men's actions to the British men themselves. 

Trudure, my dear, unhelpfully judgmental demon cat, was curled beside me, flicking her tail just because she could.

You would flick yours if you had one, would you not?

Luck sat nearby.

Or rather, in this case, the goddess of Bad Luck.

Red hair deepened to something like arterial memory. 

Eyes glowed crimson. 

Now she presented resplendent in some diaphanous red dress that billowed in the fluttering breeze. 

The breeze that did not exist. 

She... was definitely a presence that made probability itself flinch slightly. 

She’d shifted from good to bad without asking, which I rather respected.

Initiative is so rare these days.

Well, someone was going to get some bad luck in the next few moments. 

Thankfully, I knew it was not going to be me.

Oh no, not through some sort of intuition about her. 

No. 

She would just tell me, you see. 

It’s rare that she can tell someone what kind of luck they're getting, so with me, she likes to tell me personally.

Vaughnt was also present, bless her, hovering somewhere between attentive service and gothic rebellion, boots planted as if she might kick reality if it misbehaved.

Then,

The bell.

‘Ah. Finally.’ I told the room.

Vaughnt answered it, of course. She always does. 

There’s something deeply satisfying about sending a tattooed, mohawked werecat in Victorian lace to greet one’s guests. 

It sets expectations appropriately...

Those expectations obviously vary, but she sets them well. 

And in they came.

Belphastus first, smug, unclaimed, wearing that tiresome expression of someone who believes he is far more important than he actually is.

Still in his blood-stained McDonald's uniform, he had been recently murdered in.

Behind him, came...

Oh, how shall I put this delicately?

Erm...

Well...

I mean it was...

No, in this case, there was no delicate way to describe... this... delicately.

It was a version of the Duke Demon of Hell. 

Astaroth.

In a human form... 

Well, yes, but only in the same way a storm is ‘just weather.’

Androgynous. 

Fluid. 

The Demons' edges never quite settling. 

Features shifting just enough to keep the eye uncertain and the mind… uneasy. 

It was very on-brand for... 

Ah, a correct pronoun is required.

Hmmm!

There is only one.

Demon.

Well, it nearly works as a pronoun.

I smiled at them.

Naturally.

‘Do come in,’ I said. 

‘You’re just in time. We’ve only just begun.’

They hesitated. They always do.

Rooms like this, rooms with me in them, even when borrowed, tend to rearrange a person’s confidence slightly.

I gestured to the seating.

‘Sit. Please. You’ll want to be comfortable.’

A pause.

Then, because I am nothing if not gracious:

‘Port? Cheese? The Professor insists, and I’ve found it best not to argue with a man who brings dairy products into metaphysical conflicts.’

They rightly looked confused at my last statement.

Good.

Vaughnt was already moving, glasses poured, biscuits arranged with quiet efficiency. 

Trudure watched the proceedings like a minor god, considering whether to knock something off a shelf.

I leaned back.

Took in the room.

My players.

‘Yes,’ I said softly. ‘This will do nicely.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ I continued. 

‘I do appreciate participation. It’s so difficult to organise these things without willing... erm.’

‘Normally, I would say victims, but that does not track in this case.’ I told them.

Belphastus frowned.

Astaroth smiled, or something approximating it.

And I began the introductions.

‘Allow me,’ I said, gesturing lightly toward the screen, where the lift shuddered, and the occupants argued about space, morality, and the lack of proper bar service.

‘In the elevator, currently en route to a rather educational experience, we have...’

I waved a hand.

‘A werewolf with enthusiasm but limited foresight.’

‘His ancient wolf companion, who I suspect is already regretting several millennia of decisions.’

‘A professor who will, I assure you, attempt to intellectualise his way through Hell.’ 

‘And a Wing Commander who will try to organise it.’

A pause.

A sip of port.

‘Good luck to them all.’

Then...

I turned.

Deliberately.

Toward her.

‘...and here,’ I said, with a small, knowing smile, ‘we have Luck.’

She did not smile back.

Red suited her.

Dangerously so.

‘It was,’ I continued, ‘rather fortunate that she arrived when she did.’

‘It seems she has… skin in the game with our British hero Monty.’ I told the damned duo.

Luck said nothing.

Which, in her current aspect, was far more concerning than if she had.

Belphastus shifted.

Ah. 

There it was.

The objection.

‘This is unfair,’ he said.

‘Having Luck on your side...’

I raised a hand gently.

‘Mm.’ I voiced.

He stopped immediately as I robbed him. 

Quite literally, of his voice. 

‘Yes,’ I said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘It is.’

‘But I have no control over her.’

‘So you can try and get rid of her if you wish.’

Luck suddenly became a beacon of raging red flame.

‘Although that would piss her off, and that would be a very unlucky thing to do.’ 

I told the... thing.

A sip of port.

Calm.

Measured.

‘It’s very unfair.’ Another sip.

‘Oh, very much so.’ I finished with a wink.

And I smiled.

Because really...

If one is going to rig a game…

One might as well do it properly.

***Musical Interlude.***

Lucifer

Do you know what I dislike most about games?

It isn’t losing.

It’s not being told the rules have changed.

I do that all the time. 

It’s not when people cheat.

I like that.

I sort of have expectations of cheating from my usual clientele.

They are nothing if not cliched.

The thing I dislike.

It’s the need to know what they win.

Was it not good enough to have beaten the Devil?

***Luci has hysterics***

Beat the Devil.

Can you imagine?

Sorry.

Astaroth, of course, was the one to ask.

They are always... curious things, Demon beings. 

All silk and ambiguity and far too pleased with themselves.

‘What,’ they asked me, ‘are we playing for?’

Such a small question.

Such a telling one.

I smiled.

Because there is only ever one answer worth giving.

‘Just everything,’ I told them. 

‘All of it. The lot.’

No hedging. No clever phrasing. No contracts hidden in the margins.

Just truth.

It tends to unsettle people and unpeople alike.

Astaroth didn’t look unsettled.

They looked… delighted.

Which, I admit, I found irritating.

They reached over, quite unnecessarily, and began petting Belphastus’s hand like he was some sort of favoured animal. 

The smile they gave him was enormous. Intimate.

Almost conspiratorial.

Almost a sex act in itself.

I was missing something.

I do hate being excluded from conspiracies.

Even imaginary ones.

Still.

I continued.

Because I am nothing if not composed.

I had arranged everything.

The pieces were in motion. 

The elevator was descending. 

The Professor, the werewolf, the Wing Commander, all moving exactly where they needed to be.

The board, I assumed, would be waiting.

After all...

...It’s my Hell.

And then the lift stopped.

I turned to the screen.

Calmly.

Gracefully.

Expecting spectacle.

The doors opened... 

And...

It was...

Nothing?

No throne room.

No tenth circle.

No screaming, writhing, theatrically lit expanse of despair.

Just… pure absence of anything.

A void so complete it bordered on insult.

I blinked.

Which I do not do lightly.

I might miss something.

‘I had arranged,’ I said... very carefully.

‘For them to arrive in the Throne Room.’

A gesture toward the screen.

‘Tenth level.’

‘It’s quite impressive. I’ve had excellent reviews.’

Another pause.

Longer.

Colder.

‘And yet,’ I added, ‘there appears to be no hell and in such no game board.’

I turned back to them.

To Astaroth.

To Belphastus.

‘How,’ I asked, ‘are we meant to play… without somewhere to... play?’

And that...

That is when Belphastus laughed.

At me...

Oh, I despise that...

It had happened. 

Belphastus was all smugness wrapped in amusement.

He reached into his pocket with all the casual arrogance of someone about to be extremely irritating.

‘You didn’t think,’ he said, ‘that I’d let you control everything, did you?’

He produced the ring.

I was confused.

It was only a ring of summoning.

How could it have this much control?

This much power?

Of course.

Of course, he had something.

Was he already bluffing?

Men like him always have something they think they can get one over on old Nick with. 

Always, sadly, for men like this, they were commonly very small objects. 

No innuendo intended, but innuendo fits.

Men's small objects always seem to have large consequences. 

Powerless men were... were.

Very predictable.

‘I haven’t summoned my board,’ he said.

Ah shit. 

I never thought of that. 

Yeah, the ring of summoning could do that.

Ah shit. 

And then...

Luck screamed.

Now that...

That got my attention.

She shifted instantly.

Red collapsed into something deeper, something unstable.

Purple.

A colour that never means anything good when it appears uninvited.

Belphastus began chanting.

And I will say this plainly:

I did not like the language.

Not because it was ancient.

But because it wasn’t supposed to be used.

The air bent.

Reality did that unpleasant folding thing it does when something important arrives without permission.

And then...

He was there.

Sitting.

Already seated.

As though he had always been there and we had simply failed to notice.

An old man.

Black stripey pyjamas.

Velcro slippers.

Utterly mundane.

Except...

He had no eyes.

Not missing.

Not hidden.

Just… absent.

And he shone.

Black.

I know... impossible.

Not darkness, no, darkness is simple.

This was… subtraction.

Luck looked at him.

And I watched something very rare happen.

She became… annoyed.

‘Oh, you?’ She said.

Which, coming from her, is practically a declaration of war.

She turned to me.

Flat.

Unimpressed.

‘That’s my brother.’

A pause.

Then, with the kind of resignation one usually reserves for family gatherings:

‘You’ve met before a very long time ago.’ 

‘He does not seem to get out very much these days.’ 

‘It’s Freddy Fate.’

I sat staring with my mouth open.

Then laughed.

‘Of course he is.’ I announced to the room.

And in that moment...

I realised something.

This was no longer my game.

Which, I assure you…

Only makes it more interesting.