by Bruce Blake
“Where’s my father?” Trevor asked, the syrupy feeling in his head slowing his words as they exited his mouth.
“I’ll show you, if you like.”
Trevor’s head bobbed like a cork floating on a lake. The many-named boy with no name gestured for him to follow as he strode across the room. Trevor struggled to his feet, dragging his heavier-than-usual head with him as he went, and followed the boy. Crossing the room, he noticed some odd ornamentation he hadn’t seen during his first cursory glance at his surroundings. An ornate cage with bars made of intricately carved wood sat on a table, its bottom covered with fine-grained sand, a volcanic rock formation in one corner; a long, leafless branch extended the length of the cage. The skeleton of the gecko one might have expected to find in such a cage sat in the middle. Trevor stared at it as he passed the table; the skeleton-lizard snapped its jaws at him and shuffled to the bars to watch him go by.
On the wall behind the table hung a grisly rendition of the comedy and tragedy masks, each of them broad, stretched, as if peeled directly off someone’s face. Trevor thought if he examined them close enough, he’d likely find them actually made of flesh and chose to direct his eyes ahead, fixing them on the boy’s back.
The boy had reached the other side of the room and stood facing a tapestry, his back to Trevor blocking his view of the depiction upon the cloth. Something fluttered in the corner Trevor’s vision, but he kept his on the boy.
“Hmm. This is interesting,” the boy said. “Perhaps you should hurry.”
He wiggled his fingers and the rubber cement which had filled the gaps in Trevor’s brain evaporated, freeing his thoughts and movements. He made his legs go faster and propelled himself to the boy’s side to see the scene woven in the tapestry.
The hanging showed a partial bird’s-eye view, to the right of which was a complicated pattern, like the mazes Trevor used to do in the puzzle books his mother bought him in his youth. He’d never been good at them, and the one embroidered on the cloth looked like it might be the most complicated he’d ever seen, its complexity heightened by the fact its walls seemed to shift every time Trevor moved his eyes. He blinked rapidly to dispel what he thought must be an optical illusion and found it changed with each flutter of his eyelids.
“Look here,” the boy prompted and Trevor shifted his gaze away from the labyrinth.
At the end of the maze was an open space in which hundreds of stick people milled about. No doubt about the movement of the depictions this time; tiny people walked back and forth aimlessly, bumping into each other, wandering to the wall bounding their holding area then turning around and walking back like scores of miniature zombies.
In one spot, the scene differed. A group of slightly more fleshed out stick men gathered around another who kicked and struggled on the ground amidst them.
They appeared to be eating him.
Trevor’s lip curled in disgust. His eyes wandered back toward the labyrinth but the boy’s hand on his arm diverted his attention back.
“Did you see this?”
He pointed at the two figures on the tapestry directly in front of him, one considerably thicker than the other, a detailed rendering of a man who, in life, would be well muscled and stocky. The second figure stood a bit taller, not as broad, but equally as well detailed.
“Dad?”
“That’s him.”
Trevor leaned in, squinted at the figures as Icarus gestured, held up his hands. The other man flexed in menace, his muscles visible even in the tapestry’s thread.
“What’s going on? Where is he?”
“Right there.” The boy pointed at the hanging.
Trevor extended his finger, intending to stroke the lines of thread depicting his father, but the boy grabbed his hand, stopping him less than an inch from touching the cloth.
“Not a good idea,” he said.
His grip was strong enough to keep Trevor from moving his hand forward or pulling it away. The boy held it in place as the stocky figure clothes-lined the miniature, embroidered Icarus to the ground. Trevor gasped. He didn’t know exactly what he was seeing—an illusion? A portrayal of events happening now, past or future?—but he felt his father was in danger.
The stocky man bunched, crouched, then jumped into the air over the Icarus figure.
“Okay. Touch him.”
The boy guided Trevor’s finger forward and pressed it against the thread-man. It didn’t feel of soft cloth, instead Trevor felt something alive squirm beneath the fleshy tip of his finger, like he’d trapped a bug. It wriggled momentarily then burst like he’d pressed too hard on a grape. He jerked his hand away and the boy released his grip.
Trevor stared at the tapestry. A red smudge tainted the cloth where the stocky figure was a moment before, the smear obscuring the miniature Icarus. Trevor’s heart jumped. He leaned forward, breath held, examining the threads to see if both figures had been destroyed. When the tiny version of his father separated from the stain, leaving behind an outline of itself, Trevor stumbled back from the wall.
“What the Hell was that?”
The boy chuckled a laugh which didn’t belong in the throat of a twelve-year-old.
“You just saved your father’s life.”
Trevor looked at the boy, then back at the tapestry where the thread-Icarus ran across the yard, opened a door in the wall and disappeared. The teen shook his head trying to rearrange his thoughts.
“What?”
“You saved Icarus. That man would have killed him. For real, this time.”
“That really happened?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“I saved my father.”
“Yes.”
“That means--”
“You killed the other man, yes.”
“But...isn’t he already dead?”
“Mmm. To a point. Now he is all the way.”
Trevor’s throat tied itself in a knot and he stumbled back a couple of steps, head spinning. He looked at the tip of his finger, then wiped it vehemently on his pant leg, wiping away debris which didn’t exist.
I killed him.
“Sacrifices must be made, Trevor. Choices. It was him or your father. Would you prefer it the other way? I can change it.”
The boy raised a hand toward the hanging but stopped when Trevor shook his head.
“No. You have already lost him once, haven’t you? You would not want to be responsible for losing him again.”
The boy turned toward him and took two steps. Trevor backed away until he bumped a piece of furniture behind him. He heard the click-clack of skeletal jaws snapping and knew he’d backed into the table with its caged lizard-thing.
“I told you I would not hurt you. Quite the opposite. It is by accident you are here, so I am keeping you safe.”
Trevor glanced at the stretched flesh of the comedy/tragedy masks on the wall and doubted his safety. He wanted to go home.
“Don’t worry. You will get home soon enough. I need to show you some things first, however.”
He gestured for Trevor to follow again and the teen did despite an urgent desire to either stay put or flee—anything but follow the boy again. They went to the same wall, the same tapestry, but this time it showed a different scene. A church on a stormy night, a man not dressed for the weather seeking refuge beneath its eaves. Across the churchyard, two other figures lurked beneath a giant oak tree, a silver-threaded knife flashing in one of their hands.
“It is time someone knew the truth.”
Trevor watched the thread-version of his father leave the protection of the church’s eaves and head across the churchyard where two muggers waited to kill him.
Bruce Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost
Chapter Twenty-Five
Open the door.
Close the door.
Open the door.
Close the door.
Open the door.
Each time, the door opened on the same darkened warehouse, the same stacks of plastic chairs an
d tables.
How do they do it?
After manipulating the door through its paces enough times to make my arm sore, I saw the futility in the venture and began wracking my brain: where else did I see people go to Hell?
I’d seen Hell the first time in my hotel room at the hands of the archangel Michael. Real as it seemed, I’d assumed it a representation of Hell, not that my hotel room hid a Hellish portal a la The Amityville Horror or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The second time, I’d ended up there because of Father Dominic. That time it had been at the church.
The church.
When we’d brought Beth Elton back, Piper took me through the church, at least what remained of it. Makes one wonder about the nature of the church when it proves the best method of ingress to Hell.
I always knew something was wrong with that place.
I slammed the warehouse door shut one last time with authority so it would know I was done with this silliness, then took two steps across the parking lot and stopped. Before I went any further, I returned to the door and peeked through once more. Chairs and tables.
I headed for the nearest bus stop.
†‡†
The crowd had grown since my last visit to the church. How long ago was it? A couple of days? Time loses its meaning in Hell and the battery in my throw-away digital watch gave up the ghost a few weeks before, so I threw it away.
I surveyed the situation from beneath the oak tree, keenly aware I stood bare yards from where two muggers killed me for a few bucks and an Xbox game: Halo—good game. Every time I came here, the memories sent shivers reverberating up my spine, partially due to the shock and pain of dying, partially because part of me wondered what life would have been like if I didn’t bump into the guys with the knife that night. What if I never met Mikey and took this job? Where would I be? What would I be doing?
Good chance I wouldn’t be hanging around here trying to find my way to Hell. Also a good chance I wouldn’t have reconciled with Trevor. If nothing else, dying gave me back a relationship with my son I’d lost years before.
But now you’ve lost him.
Emerging from behind the oak tree’s broad trunk, I headed across the churchyard toward the tents pitched there, studiously doing my best to avoid the police presence in place to keep the peace like it was some kind of ‘Occupy Heaven’ protest. At the edge of the crowd, I settled in beside a man with a wool hat pulled down to his eyebrows, his hands encased in thick mitts which matched the hat and looked like they’d been knitted by someone’s grandmother.
“What’s going on?” I asked, aiming for a friendly tone but barely hiding my impatience.
“What?”
“I said: what’s going on?”
“Don’t you watch the news?”
I shook my head and the man looked me up and down. I had no coat and wasn’t feeling the cold—a by-product of being in Hell for a while, I suppose—but hugged myself against the chill and feigned a shiver to avoid creating suspicion.
“Jesus.”
“Whoa, tone it down a bit, buddy,” I said leaning toward him. “This doesn’t seem like the kind of crowd that would approve of you using the big guy’s name in vain.”
“No. We saw Jesus last night.”
I pressed my lips together stifling a giggle, though part of me felt jealous. I’d been dead for months, met angels, archangels, demons, but no sign of this Jesus fellow. Didn’t seem right these people should see him before me. The thought bubbled a chuckle to the edge of my lips.
“What? He just came strolling up and said ‘what’s up, Doc?’”
“He was in the window.”
The man’s face remained serious, my poor humor lost on him.
“Has he been back?”
“No. But he’ll come. I know he will.”
I nodded, ending the conversation. My experience with people like this guy told me once they got talking about Jesus, getting anything else out of them was impossible. Probably he wouldn’t be too helpful if I straight up asked ‘have you seen a doorway to Hell around here?’
I skirted the outside edge of the crowd, hiding my face as I passed necessarily close to one of the police officers monitoring the gathering, but his eyes didn’t waver from the stained glass window, apparently counting himself one of the flock. The way they all stared, faces blank with wonder, reminded me of the souls I’d seen in Hell, though their eyes held hope instead of despair. Doesn’t the one often precede the other?
My circuitous route took me through the dilapidated graveyard with its tumble-down headstones. A rime of snow and frost lay atop the cracked and chipped stones, bringing more lightness and joy to the little cemetery than it had seen in years. I followed the wrought iron fence, checking over my shoulder frequently to ensure no one saw me, but the miraculous window held all the onlookers rapt. After a minute, I came directly behind the still-standing section of church and hopped the fence back into the churchyard, careful not to skewer myself on its black tines.
For some reason, the Jesus-seekers stayed away from this side of the ruined church. Maybe out of respect, or fear, or maybe the cops kept them away. Whatever. I crept across the snowy lawn, noticed a couple of sets of footprints mostly filled with new snow, and made it to the church unnoticed.
No snow dusted the ground within the ruins despite the explosion that left the church with no roof. The shattered pews and chunks of stone walls scattered around the one-time nave lay free of the white shawl of winter beautifying the cemetery. I scampered toward the window sending wayward pebbles skittering before me with each step, cursing myself in my head with each sound for fear someone would hear, but I didn’t slow. The closer I got to the window, the more sure I became this would get me where I needed to go.
I felt Hell getting closer.
The pew Piper had man-handled against the wall still rested there, propped up to serve as an awkward ladder to the window. I boosted myself up, the smell of its charred wood entering my nostrils, but it didn’t do so alone. Buried deep beneath it, a hair’s breadth from being unnoticeable, I caught a whiff of cinnamon and fresh baking.
Mikey’s been here.
I grabbed the sides of the bench to haul myself up and got a sliver in the index finger of my right hand. The quick jab of pain it brought made me realize the other injuries I’d sustained had all but disappeared—if I’d healed this well in life, maybe I’d have stuck with football and gotten better at it. Probably wouldn’t have helped.
I stuck my finger in my mouth and chewed at it until I felt the tiny, intrusive piece of wood on my tongue and spit it out. A line of saliva dribbled down my chin; I wiped it on the sleeve of my shirt and continued my climb.
Reaching the pinnacle of the up-turned pew, I perched for a few seconds, my face inches from the stained glass. My breath fogged its surface like it would any glass and the surety I’d felt this was my path back to Hell took a hit. I touched it with my recently-slivered finger: solid, but not as solid as a window should be.
Breathed a sigh of relief, fogging the glass again.
Carefully, aware of the precarious nature of standing atop an upended pew leaned against a free-standing wall, I stood. To make sure my finger hadn’t misinterpreted what it felt, I placed the toe of my shoe against the window. It passed through sending a tingling warmth flowing up my leg. I smiled and leaned closer to the glass. The thick, colored glass of the window hid the crowd gathered on the sidewalk from me, leaving me unsure whether they saw me or not.
What the Hell.
I spread my arms to the sides the way Father Dominic made me do for punishment as a child under his care, leaned my head back and hoped the man with whom I’d spoken got his view of Jesus.
I fell forward through the stained glass into Hell.
†‡†
The shack’s open door gaped at Poe like the toothless maw of a prehistoric beast. Why a building like this stood abandoned in the forest near the railroad tracks, she didn’t know. The neighborhood kids told
stories of a hermit who called it home decades before; a desperate, out-of-work soul banished from his home when the bank foreclosed during the stock market crash. The same kids said his ghost haunted the shack, appearing during the new moon with night at its darkest.
Poe didn’t believe it, not when she was one of those kids and certainly not now. She’d always thought the shack had been erected as a playhouse for someone’s beloved daughter, or perhaps as an over-sized shed which had outlived its use. None of these possibilities frightened her—not even the ghost story—but what actually happened to her here did.
She stared at the splintered boards, the rusted hinges, the weeds growing rampant at the base of its walls, and shuddered. More than four decades had passed since she last saw Hell’s rendition of this horrible place, and two decades before that since she’d actually been there, but the latent memory lived in her body, festered in her mind.
“Piper, I--”
She turned to the woman, intending to ask her to take her away, but her words ceased when she saw the raven-haired Piper no longer stood beside her.
Instead, she looked up into the face of Aaron Baxter.
Poe was always smaller than the other kids, and in the spring of 1946—when the world still breathed its sigh of relief for the end of the war—she stood more than a head shorter than the older boy. She was twelve and Aaron was sixteen. His cousin, whose name she never knew, was older and bigger. He loomed behind Aaron, leering at Poe a look she hadn’t seen before at that point of her life but had seen far too many times since.
On that spring day in 1946, she wasn’t afraid, not immediately. Of all the kids in the neighborhood, Aaron Baxter was one of the few who was nice to her—maybe not nice, exactly, but not mean—and she liked him for it. His wavy blond hair and piercing blue eyes didn’t hurt, either. His unnamed cousin looked like he hailed from a distant branch of the family tree: dark hair and dark eyes, thick chest, a crooked nose, a cruel tilt to his mouth.