Ms. Josephine approachs me, her face becoming much more serious. “I want you to look at my eyes now, Jack. And you just listen to my voice.”
She takes each of my arms, by the wrist, and places them on the armrests of the barber chair. “Dere, now. Close your eyes . . . and just tink of mine. Nothin' else in dis world matters now but da color of my eyes. You focus on dat. Just dem eyes.”
And so that's what I did. Nothing else. It's actually quite difficult to think of nothing. But, lucky for me her eyes were so unique, and similar to the dead girl's eyes, that I had plenty to take my mind off of what I know is about to be the most horrible experience of my life.
This is like knowing you are about to get eaten by a pile of giant ants, nice and slow, bit by bit. Like treading water in a pool of hungry sharks. Like being the next in line to get clubbed in the head by a pissed-off caveman.
But all I think about are their eyes. Ms. Josephine's, and Kristen's. The only two women in my life—and one of them is dead, the other speaks to the dead. Oh the stories I'll be able to tell.
“ . . . just listen to my voice, child. We're establishing a lifeline, right now. You and me, we'll be connected when you cross. And don't be afraid to talk to me. I won't be able to see you, but I'll surely be able to communicate wit you.”
I wanted to ask her just how sure she actually was. I mean, I don't think she was the same person performing this gig 300 years ago. And if she was, I'm not sure how much of it she remembers. Three centuries is a lot of time for forgetting! I've forgotten things from three weeks ago.
“ . . . keep your mind on my eyes,” she warned. “And don't worry, I ain't forgot nothin'.”
By now I should expect that. And I've got a theory about it. I think that, because she is somehow connected to the other side—Deadside, or the Land of Sorrows, or whatever it's called—she can use that to connect with my mind. Thus, she can hear what I'm thinking sometimes.
“ . . . most times, child. Most times.”
See, there it is again. We'd make a good gambling couple, her and I. If this whole walking on the Deadside thing falls apart, we'll always have Vegas.
“ . . . okay, child. Slowly, I want you to open your eyes.”
As I did I noticed that there were considerably more candles flickering. Lots of them—maybe hundreds.
And Ms. Josephine looks different. Her eyes, they look brighter, and almost . . . hollow. She looks blind, like someone who has been born without sight looks. And I don't move a muscle.
“ . . . now listen,” she says, and her voice is clear and cautious, “ . . . I'm goin' to be countin' down some numbers. You will be walkin', wit each number, down into a dark pool of water. Imagine yourself surrounded by trees, but it's so dark dat you can't tell what kind of trees. Da only smell you know is pine smell.”
Like the car deodorizer Ricky has hanging from his rearview mirror.
“'ush!” she scolded me. “Just da smell of pine and dem trees is all dat's around you. And you're totally safe. Nobody can touch you 'ere. So now, all you got to do is walk down into dat calm pool of dark water.”
“ . . . black as da bottom of da ocean,” she says, her words becoming longer and stretched. Her pauses pregnant and elongated.
“ . . . black as da space between da stars.”
And I start to feel the hum coming.
“ . . . and you goin' step down towards da water wit each step . . . tirteen . . . twelve . . . ”
The hum is growing, pressing me from every direction.
“ . . . eleven . . . ten . . . your feet enter da water . . . ”
The hum is becoming a roar, now. And I can feel pressure on my face, my ears feel like I'm descending under water. My arms are so heavy I couldn't lift them if I had to.
“ . . . wit each step, da warm water raises 'igher . . . nine . . . da water is to your knees . . . eight . . . you feel it on your waist . . . ”
And I'm actually feeling the water. It's warm on my skin. And it lifts as her words seem to shift in pitch and tone, lowering. She's Ms. Josephine, but through some spiritual synthesizer. I think this is how I felt when I was coming back from my neurosurgery.
The world falling away.
Reality becoming the only true fiction.
“ . . . da warm water, it's up to your stomach as you lower yourself into da pool. . . seven . . . it's at your chest . . . ”
6 . . .
My neck is just inches from the surface. I trust her, I believe in this . . . but I'm scared. The water, even though it's warm and comfortable, I know it's going to drown me at some point. My transition is going to be through my worst fear.
My nightmare is my portal.
5 . . .
“ . . . you're goin' be fine, child . . . keep moving down into da water . . . ”
4 . . .
The water is touching my lips, and it's all I can do to breathe. And now I'm sinking, and I don't think I have the power to turn back. Something is dragging me deeper. It's like gravity is in control now, and I can't fight back. I have no choice.
This quicksand of my worst phobia.
My escape from life, through an imagined death.
I'm being killed to be alive . . . among the dead.
3 . . .
“ . . . don't 'old your breath, child. Dere's nothin' to fear . . . ”
And though her words are soothing, I am totally and completely terrified. Scared stiff, peeling-my-fucking-skin-off panicked!
I see nothing but murky blackness in front of me. My lips are closed, not letting the water in, and I feel my body getting warm. My chest and lungs are burning, and I need air. Need air.
And distorted, calming words aren't going to help me.
2 . . .
“ . . . breathe in da water, child . . . don't fight dis . . . dis is exactly the way it's supposed to be . . . ”
I feel this dizziness, as my lungs fight for a breath. I know that the second I part my lips, that's when the real nightmare begins. My mouth opens, I'm dead . . . end of story.
Period.
Full stop.
“ . . . quit strugglin' wit dis . . . ”
My air is gone. The fire in my chest has grown epic. I don't have a choice, now. I can't fight it. I'm shaking and quivering, and in so much pain that I can't feel the roar anymore. I lose. That's it. I can't win.
And so I take a breath, and in doing so, the warm water rushes into my mouth, traveling down my throat and into my lungs. I'm drowning now, and the burning has now been replaced with an intense stabbing pain. Like sharp sticks being thrust into my chest and lungs.
Stabbing, stabbing, stabbing!
I try to scream, but nothing comes out of my mouth. This losing battle with life and death, it's in vain. Now comes the truly ghastly part of this . . . while the pain starts to collect each and every cell in my body—like a cancer—all I can do is wait.
I'm watching me die. Full horrifying, tormenting suffering.
This isn't Death Lite, this is the original, with all the original flavors.
And there's no point fighting at all. The pain can't get any worse than this.
So I give up.
1 . . .
“ . . . look for da light in da darkness . . .” Ms. Josephine's voice says. It's her again. That soft, sweet voice made of honey and flowers. Her comforting words. I trust her. I have to. Because I'm not dead—or I am—but peacefully.
The warm water that was killing me slowly, calculating my worst fears and expanding them to the depths of my madness, that water is like a warm blanket now.
“ . . . find da light, child . . . and swim to it . . . ”
I don't see any light. It's all dark, and I'm alone. Just her words, that's all I've got.
“ . . . find da light!” she said sternly, “ . . . you can do dis, you're da one. Find it, now!”
Man up, or back down. Damn this! I'm stronger than this. I have to be.
I start turning around, in every direction. I start swim
ming, around and around. And then the thought hits me, I don't need the air, anymore. I'm like the sharks. I'm not a victim. And so I begin to change my mindset from that of a helpless human, to something that more resembles a predatory animal.
Side to side I swim, my body gliding along in this darkness, and I am no longer afraid. I have beaten my fear. And the moment that this thought coalesces in my mind, I see a tiny ray of light, filtered from somewhere to my right. I swim towards the specks of light, and they grow brighter and brighter.
They change from little bits of light, to a thin line. And that line becomes brighter and brighter until I can almost reach it.
When I get to the line of light, I notice that it seems like a surface to something. A rip in a large piece of black fabric, maybe. A tear in the dark backdrop of my reality.
“I found it . . .” I say to Ms. Josephine. I hope she can hear me.
“ . . . good, child,” she says, and I can hear the relief in her words. “ . . . now reach through dat tear and into da light . . . ”
Chapter 34
Ms. Josephine's Shop, Deadside.
Moments later . . .
She told me to tear into the light . . . and that is exactly what I do. I reach my arms into the light and pull myself outwards. The bright light, it blinds me at first, but I keep pulling until my head is free. Then my chest and stomach.
Then my hips and thighs are out.
And then my legs escape and I fall to a hard surface. Suddenly, I am embraced by both cold and gravity. This place is so cold I can't explain it.
As my eyes adjust I notice that the bright light is little more than a dim blue glow. I get to my knees, squinting as I look around. I am still in Ms. Josephine's shop, although the colors are gone. The brown and white symbols on the wall are grey and greyer. The candles, they burn a soft greenish-blue.
The furniture, it is twisted and bent. Like her words as I was drowning, chairs and bookshelves are stretched and elongated. Every thing is off. There isn't a perfect 90 degree angle to be found. I am the only thing in this place with symmetry—at least, I hope I'm still symmetrical.
I stand, still unsteady from my time in the water, and I look around. I turn and I see the barber chair. And I see . . . me.
I'm still sitting in the chair, my arms at the rests, my head lying back with my eyes closed. My shirt is still off, but all is not the same. There is this giant opening in my body, the gash formed by the gatherers as they cut at me, tugging at my soul.
“Ms. Josephine,” I say, “ . . . where are you?”
“ . . . I'm 'ere, child. I'm right 'ere . . .” Her words, even though they're clear, it's like they're having a difficult time finding me. Bad reception.
And I don't think AT&T gets coverage here.
“ . . . can you see me?” she asks.
I'm looking around her shop but I can't find her. I can't find Ricky either. Are you still there, I ask.
“ . . . I'm 'ere, right beside you. Ricky's 'ere, too . . . ”
I turn back around, looking at the gaping hole in my body. I have the urge to throw a towel over it so birds don't land in it and build a nest. But then, there probably aren't too many birds in this place.
As I look at me, I notice two faintly glowing orbs, just beside and behind my inanimate head. I squint, blinking several times. “Ms. Josephine, is that you?” I walk closer.
“ . . . yes, child . . . I'm 'ere . . . right beside you . . . ”
I want to touch her, I want to hug her. To feel something warm and alive. Every part of me is saying, this place is dead. And always has been.
“ . . . look at your arms . . . are da marks still dere?”
I raise my arms, looking at myself. And those spider-gut, chicken-blood emblems, they're glowing. I turn towards the front of her store, towards her darkened windows, and I see the glowing reflection of me.
I am not my face, or my pasty arms.
I am not the bags under my eyes, or the scar on my head.
No longer am I that guy.
“ . . . are da talisman still in place?”
Oh, yeah. They're here, alright. And they're glowing.
As I look at the reflection of the dead me—which is a version of the half-dead me—I notice that I am more solid. My body, this body, is without age and fat. This body is lean and efficient, like a sprinter. This is the best version of me.
The newer edition.
Faster, stronger, better than before.
The glowing symbols and markings all over my arms and chest, they glow a cool bluish-white. My pants are my only clothing. My boots are still on my feet. My skin is dark grey, almost the color of shadows.
And my eyes, they're the only part of me with color. That same brownish-green. I like this me. This me is formidable. I bet I could punt one of those little spooks about 200 yards with this me.
This is a real multiple-personality disorder.
“ . . . it's time for you to go outside, John . . . you need to see da world as it is, there.”
John. She called me John. Over here, I am John. This could get confusing.
So that's what I did. I walked to the front door of her shop, unlocked the bolt, and pushed open the door. I walked out into the place between dogs and wolves and sharks, and I stood on the sidewalk.
The sun, it was a big dim green ball in the sky. Darker than the moon ever is. There are no cars. No airplanes. And my assumption about there being no birds, it is accurate in that I don't think the things in the air are avian in nature. But large flocks of some kind of creature are gliding through the distant sky. Actually, swarms may be a better description.
The buildings all around, that used to make up Deep Ellum, now they're contorted and off camber. The roofs and windows seem crooked and wrong. But I'm the one who's wrong. My world—the Earth plane—it's long gone, now.
On the streets, there are few things. Some trash bins, though there's nobody to empty them. And there are bits of old rags and paper blowing here and there. This is a ghost town, of the real Deep Ellum—which was a ghost town of its former self.
A skewed copy of an old copy.
The world through death-tinted glasses.
What I don't see are any people. I expected to encounter monsters and goblins, but I see nothing. Just empty streets. The wind is cutting down between the buildings and it's howling as it does so. I wonder if I'm going to suddenly be attacked by a mob of zombies? Or if they're all watching me from a distance?
I wonder if they knew when I was coming? I suppose that if a dead girl named Kristen could hunt me down from this place, then it's possible they could have planned all of this out.
Part of me wants to call out for anyone that can hear me. But another part of me—the part that tells me not to walk into oncoming traffic—it says keep your trap shut. When you're taking your first steps in a place called Deadside, it's best to err on the side of caution.
The same little voice that says, don't feed the tigers at the zoo by hand, it's telling me to get my back to a wall, and carefully observe the scenario. That's the Todd Steele way. So, back-to-a-wall it is.
Ms. Josephine, I whisper . . . there's nobody here. This place is empty.
“ . . . only by comparison,” she answered. “Remember, of da billions of people livin' on da Earth plane, only a tiny fraction of dem will be on Deadside. Only dose dat 'ave been taken.”
More comforting words.
I made my way to the corner, and I had a brief flashback of last week. When some guy in a red truck asked me to please get out of the street. Actually, the words were, “Get out of the way you homeless piece of shit!” But that's neither here nor there. The point is, now I missed that. I missed the energy of the living.
This place, with its cold and bellowing winds. With its infected structures and green sun, it's lonely. It's starved of energy. I bet I couldn't even find a piece of bacteria here. It's been sterilized of humanity.
Of biology.
Of life.
> Along with the color, they also sapped this Land of Sorrows of its lifeforce. I'm not sure what remains. If it's just an empty wasteland, then I'm not certain where I fit in to all of this.
I look around the street, a couple of blocks in each direction. As I walk the wind is biting at me, and I am starting to feel very cold. Like my fingers are freezing.
I curl my hands into fists as I walk. The next time I come, I'm bringing a coat.
Ms. Josephine, I say, this place is empty.
And then a voice startles me, “Almost empty, John. Almost.”
Chapter 35
Deep Ellum, Deadside . . .
“Who said that?” I ask calmly, hoping a giant grotesque undead monster is not standing behind me. And if it is, I hope he's not attracted to me. I don't want to even ponder the undead rape angle to all this.
As I slowly turn I notice this thin man—gaunt almost—his skin as grey as dirty ice. He's only about five feet away from me. He has no hair, and his arms are obscured by a tattered poncho that he has draped over his bony shoulders.
“You are him, aren't you? You are . . . John?”
“In the flesh,” I say, “ . . . I think.”
The thin man, he just stares at me for a moment, looking me up and down. He's looking at me the way Ricky did after I got all these markings painted on my skin. The eyes of this man, they're green. They're the only bit of color on him. If his eyes were closed I would swear I was looking at a cadaver waiting for autopsy.
He could be lying flat on his back, waiting for the linoleum knife, except for those eyes of his. There was still life in this man.
“Who are you?” I ask carefully, not sure about the proper etiquette in this place.
He took a step closer, “My name is Thomas.” And then he lowers his head, almost like he's paying me respect. Reverence, even. I fell awkward.
See Jack Die (Part 1 in the Paranormal Series) (See Jack Die Series) Page 17