I knew what I wanted to do.
I’m not sure if the Internet still ran, but if it didn’t there were the ready-made designs. The TV commercials made it seem like they were demanding you to make your own custom piece to fully enjoy the experience. But did any of that really even matter anymore? Maybe it wouldn’t work anymore.
In the Black Hole the object of the game was to acquire as much items, money, and connections before you made it to the center of the black hole. The top three players could then attempt to roll the dice to escape the center, calling on connections, asking for help making deals with all they accumulated.
The connections were the key to the game. If you played with the same game piece every time they actually stayed with it some how. I think there was a silicone memory infused in it or something weird. It was on the Discovery Channel special.
For most people, all they needed to see was the Discovery Channel special. It didn’t quite work for me. Not after the first time I considered playing.
The first time was about three years ago. All the hoopla surrounding the game had died down a bit. Some of the religious right had made fools of themselves and plenty of late night talk shows mocked them, by playing the game on live television.
Politicians with religious backgrounds even reassured voters that they were never afraid to play The Black Hole. They had no need to be. They already had no soul.
That’s what The Black Hole did. That’s what has happened. The whole world has lost their souls to The Black Hole.
Now I’m the crazy religious radical. And the sad thing is, I had stopped believing. I had no faith whatsoever. I believed in reason. I believed you should be a good person and that was that. Just be decent and decent things will come your way. It sounded good enough for me. And if there were a God, he’d see my effort on that front and at least consider that at the pearly gates, wouldn’t he? Sure I looked at the Bible as an early form of comic books, without pictures, just reoccurring characters like a television series.
I didn’t hate religion. I was convinced it was a good thing; it was our only hope to raise some kids with an inkling of moral fiber. But it was losing a battle against indifference and television. Everyone’s fight for tolerance and understanding meant anyone could do exactly what they wanted and you had to accept it. And that was the perfect time for this game.
In the middle ages this wouldn’t have lasted one night. But as I said, it’s been five years and it’s the best selling board game ever. Lifetime. Compare it to Monopoly or checkers, which has been around forever, The Black Hole has sold more copies.
It came on like any fad. Kids talked about it at school and adults were filled with the same reckless giddiness in the workplace. It was like the iPod. Something no one really needed but made a lot of sense since it was fun and cool. And that’s how it was marketed.
But things started to happen. The maker of the game, something Johnson, was brought up on murder charges. They dug into his past to lean he was a Catholic who had been involved in some scandal not even the newspapers would print. Not only that, but he had murdered three people, one of them a priest. He was proven innocent after a relatively short court case with evening updates making their way onto Court TV. He however lost control over his company during the period and committed suicide real soon after being set free.
The Catholic Church was the first to declare the game unholy and an abomination. It wasn’t something they did lightly, but it made for a running gag of many stand-up comedians.
One was funny, I’ll admit. Ben Stapp had this one where he did an impersonation of the Pope playing the Black Hole and losing to Rob Schneider and Adam Sandler, like that scene from Big Daddy, the impersonations were dead on.
But something was up with the game. I could feel that even as I was about to play it. I wanted to watch my friends play it first because I absolutely hate playing a game not knowing how to, and then in the middle of it someone whips out some rule or stipulation that I wasn’t aware of that makes no sense to me and it usually means I automatically lose.
It’s why I don’t play most games period. But this was the “it” game. The cool game. Every conversation I had with people was filled with adulation, “You’ll love it. You have to play. I can’t believe you’ve been missing out on it?”
What are you superstitious?
I watched as my friends really got into it. They kept asking me to join, and I’d say no, no not yet. It made plenty of sense to them, but to me it seemed so foreign, so alien. To me there were so many loopholes and opportunities for outrageous rules to pop up and ruin my fun that I really didn’t want to get involved. It might’ve also helped that it wasn’t a fun game to watch. I guess you had to play it.
They’d talk to their contacts and a message would appear in the center of the black hole. Their contact would tell them a secret about the other player. This could then be used as blackmail (most of the gameplay techniques had something to do with blackness). By blackmailing another player, they were in your debt, which means if they are in the top three they have to free you when they free themselves and use their resources up to help you.
You could even ask the contact certain questions and it would give a yes or no answer. You could learn a secret based on your own suspicions. This was done when a player would draw a Black Sabbath. The Black Sabbath occurred when you pulled a black card on your seventh turn. It didn’t happen often. But it meant you had to do a charade, and the other players each had a turn to guess it.
Now during the game your players are being pulled into the Black Hole every turn, so you’re always moving one step backward. But if a player got the Black Sabbath correct, all the players rested. If you got it wrong you were sucked another three spaces into the center, and the person who drew the card loses an item.
Really the game had so much going on it’s a wonder so many people were able to play it. It seemed like every time another player played there was a new rule. I knew it was going to be frustrating so I sat back and stopped paying attention.
I listened to my friends as they joked and would tell stories about The Black Hole. About people going into comas and epileptic fits. How there really was a government study to see if they were linked since so many had occurred. But nothing was conclusive. They joked the Catholics. And by then the Baptists and a few other Christian groups had commanded their fellow believers to stay away from it.
But this only made them look stupid and backwards. Like they were the fools. Eventually most of these religious leaders gave in, believing they were strong enough to deal with evil, if the game really was. They’d survive and religion would die. It was cool to hate religion. It was archaic and based on superstition. Science couldn’t prove the faith was real.
Science could prove The Black Hole wasn’t supernatural. At least that’s what the documentary had said. But could it have proved The Black Hole was?
That’s what I always thought. Even before the Black Hole. I worried about dying. I had been raised strictly to believe in God and Jesus. There was always this fear hanging next to me, keeping me in check. I did not want to go to hell if there was a hell. I did not want to piss off God if there was a God. I lived my life according to the possibility that it all could be true.
And because of that I’m here in this card shop with blood streaming down my arm. I must’ve cut it coming through the glass door I shattered. I didn’t want to wipe it clean. It felt nice and warm. My nose and fingertips ached with the cold, but my arm just felt like a sleeping in on a warm Sunday morning wrapped up in a big soft blanket.
I had met a guy who claimed the epileptic stuff was possession. The comas were failed possessions. As I stared at the game now, it couldn’t be anything more evil than a commercial success. It couldn’t be evil. But somehow it felt evil. It had always had this aura around it. Like it was dirty.
Maybe it was all the stories I heard, and the religious upbringing that combined to create my sense of worry, that maybe it wasn’
t something to be meddled with.
I had opened the package now. I had opened the lid and I found myself laying out the board, the cards. I shuffled them of course, as if it mattered. I pulled out the piece you flipped on every square that had a black obelisk on it. It looked just like it was out of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Everything looked so gimmicky. How could it be evil?
But it doesn’t require you to believe in it, because it believes in you.
That’s what they say about the devil. They say the greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing the world he did not exist.
It has been done.
And for all it’s worth I make myself a game piece and I sit down to play. The wind has left me alone, and I can feel the day finally starting to begin. The sun peaks out from the clouds. I deserve to be with the others. It’s not fair that my second-guessing be my salvation. I should’ve believed whole-heartedly, right?
Maybe those that did have faith met the rapture so oft spoke of, and they are gone. Hell claimed everyone else and I am left here all alone. Maybe God just wants me to play, damn myself completely. There can be no purgatory perhaps.
I picked up the dice and I swear the world burst a rolling thunder so loud it paralyzed my heart. I choked, I cried. I had to shake my head to regain focus and escape the hold that was placed on my heart by the sound.
It was sunny outside, but there seemed to be some horrible darkness all around. Chills tiptoed up my legs, combed their way down my spine, and scraped me along my arms.
A violent rush of cold air ripped up through my nose and filled my lungs. I didn’t want to play. But it was my only option, wasn’t it? That or eternity wandering cold empty streets.
Alone.
I waited for more thunder, but nothing. No lightning, no more sound. No more wind. It was quieter than it had been earlier this morning.
I could give in and play the game, and go away like everyone else. Or what? Was there an answer? Is there a home for the half-hearted?
I still couldn’t play the game. I left it in the card shop and walked down to Madison Avenue. I thought of climbing the skyscrapers and I thought of heading south for warmer weather. I’m not much for waiting there is no one to talk to, and no one to give me answers.
That day I had to hunt for a copy of The Black Hole. Now it seems to follow me. I see it in the backs of cars, storefronts, and the kitchens that I pillage. But I believe in the devil. And he believes he can trick me. I just wished God believed in me when I say I believe in Him now.
THE END.
ABUSE
August 31st, 1998
Father John Crosby always had trouble with his Roman collar. The white collar rubbed his Adam’s apple every time he swallowed. He drank his sweet tea and thanked Jessica Milton again. The South always had dominance over how they brew their tea. He was thankful for the appointment to the Diocese of Richmond for this reason among only a handful of others. One he counted was God’s will. But despite much prayer the appointment didn’t seem right. Having been born and raised in Chicago, Father Crosby always viewed the south as a little off kilter.
“Do you find she has a hard time relating with others?” Father Crosby asked. He held back another instinctual sip and rubbed his throat.
“She used to be such a happy child. But look at her.” Jessica’s daughter looked like a long buried corpse. Her flesh wasn’t pale but near translucent, eyes sunken into darkness. She sat in a large winged chair, slouched to keep her feet on the ground and her shoulders against the chair.
“You are possessed.” Jessica suffered her daughter, couldn’t not say what was on her mind. She turned back to the priest, “I’ve said wicked things to her and she does nothing. I am to blame, aren’t I?”
The first thing Father Crosby was told about the Miltons came from his predecessor. “Avoid them, but politely.” The words echoed in his mind. He had felt so righteous when he came. He would lend them an ear and perhaps instill upon them discretion in their bold claims. But the words echoed and he wished he had taken things slower, had not entered their home without research.
“Blame is a strong emotion, Jesus would not want us to be unhappy, would not want us to give into unhappiness.” He spoke to the mother but intended the daughter to take it to heart. “I’m sure your daughter loves you, Mrs. Milton, but she will continue this display, it is her choice. Quite beyond you.”
“You don’t understand, that is not my daughter!” Jessica Milton flung her finger at the girl in the chair. “My daughter is happy.” She was cracking.
The girl got out of the chair and passed between the priest and the woman, rounded the banister and went up the stairs. Her footsteps didn’t carry any sound. Father Crosby had expected stomping but found the girl was reserved. Perhaps, thought the priest, it was the mother to blame. He had seen this often. Overbearing and devoted to the faith but without any good understanding of how the teachings should be passed on.
“In the garden we were given a choice, we’ve always had choice, and we’ve always needed to make our own. That is humanity, that is why God grants us forgiveness for all our deeds, He is well aware that we must make our own choices. Does Catherine Ann make her own choices?”
“I told you she is not Catherine Ann, father. She is evil.”
“Pardon, I don’t understand.”
Mrs. Milton took a moment, frustrated and urgent to find the words.
“She touches herself.”
Father Crosby found a distant echo of laughter in the back of his mind, and it was drowned out by his thought, ‘So that’s it!’
“She is a young girl, discovering one’s body is a part of growing up. I would be happy to talk with her if you feel uncomfortable with the subject, but I’m not certain I would make her comfortable.”
Jessica shook her head, “She has brought sin into this house and it’s killing me. Why does she try to hurt me?”
Father Crosby took it that she meant her daughter’s disobedience and not any kind of physical harm. He always imagined the pain of disobedience as the anger that erupts within him when something didn’t go his way. A child is the extension of a parent’s way. He could imagine the frustration. But he had control. Jessica did not. He could see that in her highly emotional state she had probably delved into a darker vocabulary when a man of the cloth was not sitting in her living room.
Father Crosby decided not to say anything more for the moment. He finally met the mother’s gaze and said he needed to pray, needed to ask for God’s assistance and she should do that same. He started the Lord’s Prayer, his voice soon drowned out by Jessica’s. He thanked her for the sweet tea and said he’d be happy to have Catherine Ann visit him. He doubted the girl ever would.
“You can’t just leave. Now that I have you here.” Jessica looked poised to block his path to the front door, “Perhaps you could bless her room?”
His predecessor’s words returned.
He thought it would make the mother feel better so he agreed and followed her upstairs. His steps made the whole house shake and he wondered how the young girl had managed the climb so quietly. The mother’s feet were more audible as if she stepped to let her daughter know she was coming up. Each step was accented to allow let her daughter count each one. Why were these dark theories forming, Father Crosby wondered. He examined the typical smiling family photographs along the wall.
“You never told me what your husband does for a living?”
“Oh, well he works for the Ukrops. In purchasing.”
“I’ve heard much about them. They sound like quite the people to work for.”
“Well for Protestants.” Jessica sneered. The priest was disappointed in her and everyone who couldn’t understand a good Christian was a good Christian. She had even had the gall to say it as if it would please Father Crosby.
The second floor was laid out like a cross. A long hall shot out of the stairway down to an open door leading to a bathroom. On the left there was the slightly closed door to
the master bedroom down a short hall, then directly across another short hall to the closed door of Catherine Ann’s room. Sun shone in from the bathroom and illuminated the pictures of Saints and the Crucifixes decorating the doors.
“Catherine Ann, we are coming in.” She said it to mean ‘be decent’. She didn’t hesitate to fling the door open.
“Your mother has asked me to bless your room, you don’t mind do you?”
The daughter shrugged. She was wrapped in a blanket upon a desk chair reading a children’s book she was a bit grown for. Father Crosby examined the mother looking for any evidence to still his fears that she was the problem, not the daughter. Children were easier to reason with, adults had made their choice long ago on who to listen to, whether they knew it or not. A child just needed to find that person.
Catherine Ann’s nose touched the pages as she returned to her book. Jessica swatted it away. “You will participate!”
Father Crosby let his displeasure show. He gave Mrs. Jessica Milton a hard stare. The mother just smiled back at him and told him to continue.
“I think we have a problem here.” Father Crosby felt the collar chafing his throat. “Catherine Ann, is there a telephone number where I can reach your father.” The girl nodded then stopped and stared at the back of her mother’s head, expecting her to do something. “Could you go call him for me, and when you get him ask him to hold, and I’ll be right downstairs, Go on.” He gestured her past them. She did, ducking as close to the wall as she could, she walked out and then her steps disappeared down the stairs. “I’m sorry what was your husband’s name again?”
“No stomping!” Jessica yelled. There was no reason; the girl was quieter than a mouse.
“Mrs. Milton, what was your husband’s name?”
“William.” She threw her arms across her chest and pouted.
“If your daughter is being standoffish you have to ask yourself as I’m asking you now, is she afraid of you?”
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