Endless

by S. B. Niccum

  ENDLESS

  “Oh death, where is thy victory?”

  by

  S. B. Niccum

  Endless

  Copyright © 2014 by S.B. Niccum

  Published by TreasureLine Publishing

  ISBN: 978-1-61752-167-6

  Cover design by Laura Miller

  www.anauthorsart.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted electronically or mechanically. Neither photocopying nor recording are permitted without permission of the author.

  All the characters, names, and events in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to actual people or occurrences is purely coincidental.

  Digital Editions produced by www.BookNook.biz.

  Table of Contents

  Endless

  A note to the reader

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Book Club Discussion Questions:

  Endless

  “O death, where is thy victory?

  O grave, where is thy sting?”

  1 Corinthians 15:15

  “The works of God continue,

  And worlds and lives abound;

  Improvement and progression

  Have one eternal round.

  There is no end to matter;

  There is no end to space;

  There is no end to spirit;

  There is no end to race.”

  1William W. Phelps

  1. If You Could Hie To Kolob. p.284, verse 3. Hymns Of The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints.

  A note to the reader:

  Once again, I want to remind all those who might be reading this book, that this story is a work of fiction and not doctrine. I use my imagination to illustrate biblical concepts, but my interpretation of them is purely speculative. That said, please feel free to open your mind and have fun speculating with me. I always welcome comments and ideas through my web site www.sbniccum.com or my Facebook page www.facebook.com/silvina.niccum

  Sincerely,

  S.B.

  Acknowledgements:

  I’d like to give a very warm and special thanks to Liliana Riboldi, Larry Sidwell, Naomi DeLaTorre, and Jody Jarvis for spending countless hours going over my manuscript and polishing it. They are wonderful, dedicated, and talented. They are selfless and kind. Thank you so very much, from the bottom of my heart. I’d also like to thank my husband and my family for their continued support while I pursue my dreams.

  Prologue

  When you run away from the light, you are left in total darkness. Not just darkness, but an unnatural black void, vast and still, that has left me with a distinct feeling of foreboding. It’s also deathly silent here. It feels like a warning, and it permeates the air, amplifying my unease. This feeling, of being left this desolate, and this isolated, is a rude awakening from the last peaceful moments of my death.

  Celeste, my dead grandmother, who I could hear while I still lived, had once explained to me that spirits don’t really go to Hell, but rather exist in a state of being called Spirit Prison. Immediately after death, the spirits of the guilty are engulfed by the darkness they have created, and imprison themselves in a self-imposed cage of sorts, a purgatory-like state, where they are forced to reevaluate their lives; and their guilty consciences force them to relive all their misdeeds. What happens after this? I don’t know. She never said. I guess I’ll soon find out.

  Chapter 1

  Celeste’s screams have faded some time ago. I completely disregarded her pleas—no—shouts that I go toward the light, and defiantly, I flew straight into this darkness. I walked away from the warmth and the peace that the light offered me, and deliberately came here, so that I could find Alex, my soul mate, and my father, Leo.

  I feel no physical chill, but my soul feels cold, and the emptiness of this space is pervasive. The blackness is unlike anything that I have ever experienced. It’s not like a moonless, starless night, nor is it like a room without a light; it’s more like a storm, inky black, with a heavy dark fog, that clings close to the ground, giving you the distinct feeling that you are in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  All my instincts tell me to get out, and quickly. I’m almost tempted to, except—I feel him. Barely, but I feel him. Alex is here. I know he is. He’s weeping for me, crying inwardly, with a soul wrenching groan and howl that immediately robs me of my calm.

  “Alex?” I call to him, hoping to reach him through the nothingness. But there’s no response, and his cry fades away into the emptiness. Like a feather blown by the wind, the feeling that Alex is near, starts to feel just out of my reach. It moves aimlessly in the darkness and I try to grasp it, thinking that I feel it pass by me again, but I can’t quite hold it—it’s too elusive. Determinedly, I keep floating aimlessly in this bottomless darkness, and something like desperation creeps up into my essence—or whatever I am—for I’m no longer corporeal. But I’m still alive, living, present, existing, or whatever you call it. One thing I know for sure: I’m frustrated, for this is not going as planned.

  Having no body makes me feel oddly detached from reality. All I feel is what my mind tells me to feel, and instinctively I keep waiting for a signal from my body, so I can react to the sensation of fear accordingly, but no signal ever comes. No hair ever stands up on the back of my neck, no goose bumps raise my skin, no shallow breathing, nor quickened heartbeat—nothing—and somehow this is worse.

  I never doubted that I would still exist after death. I’ve had too many encounters with the realm of the dead while I was mortal. In life, I had a gift—a sixth sense—that allowed me to hear voices from other realms of existence. I was able to hear my dead grandmother, Celeste, who had been assigned as my guardian angel. I could also hear other voices, vicious ones that Celeste taught me to tune out, to block completely, because they were destructive. Then there was Alex’s voice. I heard him in my dreams when he was alive, and when he died, I heard him as a spirit. At first I loved it, but soon the bane of being separated by the gulf of death wore on me, and his presence almost drove me crazy. His guilt over having almost ruined my life trapped him in this place, and that’s why I have come to rescue him. However, something seems wrong about the whole thing. What made perfect sense to me the moment I died, has now become disjointed and blurred by the darkness.

  I had a plan: Find Alex, and my father, who has also inadvertently locked himself here, and get out. But now I see that the finding will prove to be a lot harder than what I first anticipated.

  Something stirs in the distance. I’m not sure if I see it, or feel it. I don’t even know if my eyes are open. I try blinking, but it makes no difference. There! Something! I definitely see something this time. It’s moving! Toward me! I stay put, telling myself that I’m already dead. What harm could come to me now?

  Whatever it is that is coming toward me looks like it has something inside of it. After further inspection, I can see what looks to be a crystal ball filled with a scene of sorts. I’m too focused on this particular sphere to notice the others. Not just two or three, but millions and millions of spheres, just like the first one. They’re all clustered togeth
er like a giant beehive filled with cells, and as they move closer they seem to grow in size. Each of these balls encapsulates what looks to be someone’s reality, apparently projecting whatever the inhabitant wants it to project. Whole scenarios change, as the person moves and interacts with its little environment.

  I stand and stare, dumbfounded, wondering what it all means—when suddenly they start moving toward me a lot faster. They are coming at me from all angles—top, bottom, and all sides—there’s no escaping them. I’m not sure if this is good or bad. I just hover here and watch them come toward me. I brace for the worst by closing my eyes and shielding my face, but nothing seems to happen. I feel no impact, or any type of change at all.

  “You don’t understand!” an emaciated looking girl with gaunt, hollow eyes and a shabby prom dress says, grabbing me by my clothes, and shaking me as if I were a rag doll. As soon as she sees that she could grab hold of me, she lets go, startled. Then she looks around, stunned, looking wildly around as if she smelled foul play. “Who are you? Are you a doctor? I won’t go back to that hospital. I’m fine! I’m fine!” she shouts viciously.

  I stare back at her with dumb amazement. Her dress is in complete ruins; her puffy pink sleeves are covered in dust and cobwebs. Her hair, that at one point had been skillfully done up, is now disheveled, yet most strands still hold its original intended form, thanks to some serious hairspray action.

  “I—I’m not a doctor.” I look around and notice that all the other spheres have disappeared. All I can see is what looks to be a high school gym that was decorated for a dance a long time ago, but now is cobwebby and looks more like Miss Havisham’s house, complete with rotting refreshments, and blanketed by dust and mold. A part of a song from the eighties plays in the background like a broken record, and scattered groups of teenagers cluster together around the dirty bleachers, while some others dance maladroitly in one spot. Only one girl looks radiant, clean, and beautiful. She has a crown on her head and is holding hands with a boy who also has a crown on his head.

  “No!!!” the ghoulish girl that attacked me shouts when she sees them together, heading to the dance floor like two wooden puppets. She charges toward them like a mad bull, and knocks the pretty queen to the floor, like she would a chess piece. “I’m the queen! Me!” Then, the ghoulish girl, turns her attention back to me, “I worked hard for this you know!” she accuses with one finger. “I starved myself so I could fit into this dress! I’m the pretty one, not her! He’s mine!”

  “But, you’re dead,” I point out the obvious.

  “I most certainly am not!” she shouts, distorted and grotesque, and I think her jaw dislocates in the process. “I’m not dead! Why does everyone keep telling me this?”

  “This—is not real.” I point to her dance, and she charges toward me again, shoving me hard.

  “I didn’t go through with it! I didn’t jump!” she shouts, and gives me one more push. All of a sudden, I’m somewhere else. This new place is horrible, not at all like the harmless goblin girl’s dance. Here there are bodies strewn all over the place. There’s no blood, just bodies lying inert, some are bent over chairs or sofas, others are leaning up against the wall barely holding themselves up, some are sort of stacked on each other, like they just fell over and never bothered to move. Their eyes are open and glazed over, staring at nothing. Seeing me, a heavily tattooed guy starts coming toward me with shock and curiosity carved on his features.

  “Do you have some?” he asks hopefully.

  I frown, confused. “No,” I say, not sure of what he’s asking.

  “You! I need more, you hear!” he shouts, bringing his hands up to his face and scratching himself compulsively. Then he shakes his head violently from side to side, and starts screaming at the top of his lungs. I start to back away, trying to avoid the bodies. “W—what’s wrong with them?” I stammer, not knowing what this psycho can do to me.

  “They? They’re in nirvana.” He looks down at them enviously, “but I can’t get there.” He looks up at me with a wild look in his eyes, “I beg you,” his voice trembles and the scenery changes. We are now in a hospital of sorts, a deserted dark hospital that gives me the creeps.

  He extends one arm toward me, and I can see needle marks in his veins. “I can’t endure this. You understand? I c—c—can’t quit cold turkey.” He sweeps his hands over his face and starts shaking uncontrollably once again. The lights in the desolate hallway start to flicker on and off, and I’m running out room to back into. The hallway seems to end right behind me, and I feel like I’m trapped in a horror movie.

  “This is not real, you know,” I say tentatively, echoing the words I just got done saying to the ghoulish girl. “You—you can move on.” I assure him, not really knowing if this is true or not.

  “Move on?” he yells, and looks up again. “I need a fix! I can’t move on until I get my next fix! I’m dying here!” His features contort and twitch, he tries to control them, but can’t.

  “You’re already dead, you no longer need a fix.” This last comment somehow angers him and he too, starts coming toward me.

  “Don’t tell me what I am or am not! Don’t tell me what I need or don’t need! Don’t you come here pretending like you know what it’s like to feel the way I feel, and tell me I’m not really feeling it!”

  “It’s all in your head! All of this!” I inform him.

  “Get out! GET OUT!” he shouts. I back away further and further from him, then trip over something, and suddenly find myself in the backseat of a car. The driver is a young boy, sixteen maybe, his eyes are puffy and red as if he’s been crying.

  He mutters something angry and spiteful that I can’t quite make out. I turn and look forward and realize he’s at the edge of a cliff. He puts the car in gear and steps on the gas. “This will show her!” he declares, like a child throwing a tantrum.

  I can’t believe it! He’s driving us off the cliff! When I sense that the front wheels are no longer touching the ground I start to scream, and the car plunges forward in a nosedive. It’s not until now that the full realization of what he’s doing hits him. His eyes grow big and he starts screaming too.

  “Oh no!” he yells, panic stricken. “No, no, no! I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry! Go back! Go back! I don’t want to diiieee…” Those are the last words he utters before we hit the ground with a splat.

  I get out of the smashed vehicle unharmed, but seriously freaked out. He’s still inside the car, lying there, broken, his eyes open—perfectly still—with fear and regret registered in them.

  I walk around to the driver’s side and tap him on the shoulder. He doesn’t stir. He just sits there crushed, staring at nothing. I want to say something, but I’m not sure what. I have no advice to give him, I feel so inadequate. I can’t tell him everything will be okay because…it’s not. I can’t tell him that it’s not too late, because it is. He’s dead. I can tell him to stop reliving his death, to move on, but how? I don’t know.

  “Leave…” the boy groans, still unmoving. “There’s nothing you can do, leave.”

  So I do. I walk right out of there, feeling incompetent and discouraged, and a nagging thought creeps in. What is my plan here? Even if I did find Alex or my dad in this sea of anguish, self-deprecation, and torture, I wouldn’t know how to escape. This aspect of my plan never crossed my mind.

  The next reality looks like a Civil War re-enactment. So I take to my heels and start running, or flying rather, unwilling to see what sort of nightmare this is. I don’t stop until I cross over into several realities. The scenes change, and change, and change, and there is no end to these self-imposed prisons.

  I used to think that Hell was more of a communal place, where a fire was constantly burning and it stank of brimstone. I imagined a place where all the tortured souls felt a constant burning over their guilt, gnashed their teeth, and complained about their regret to each other, but I was wrong. This lonely, solitary place is far worse than a big bonfire and a group of angry people
. Here you’re alone, completely alone, lost in your own head—the worse place of all—because how do you escape yourself?

  The scenes that I pass through range from the brutally violent—people who relished their evil acts and recall them over and over again for their own sick pleasure—to the ones who are literally imprisoned by their guilt, and relive their mistakes in order to punish themselves.

  Other souls look like they are in complete denial. Knowingly or unknowingly they have created a virtual life where they simply escape, and bide their time by going through the every day motions of living. But like in a dream where you’re aware you’re dreaming, and willingly change the outcome, this virtual life feels hollow and fabricated, and yields no satisfaction. Even so, these people who are biding their time seem less harmful to me. They seem to be working through their own mistakes and appear to feel actual guilt for what they’ve done.

  The realities also range in time periods, encompassing scenes from the dawn of man to modern times. I think I might run into Cain soon, and this thought sobers me. How am I going to find Alex and my father, just two souls among so many?

  It feels wrong here, as it should, I guess. It doesn’t help that I’m an Empath, and I can sense their guilt, sadness, and pain. I can even feel the thrill they get over their disgusting deeds. These thoughts and feelings are all mine too now, thanks to my gift. Having the gift of discernment feels more like a curse here. It’s torturous, and it makes my old perception of Hell, with the never quenching fire and the stinky brimstone, seem like a party. Perhaps the never-ending-fire rages inside of them, and the brimstone is the bad taste that I have in my mouth, or the memory of having a bad taste. Either way, I hate it here! Whatever here is, Purgatory or Hell, it doesn’t matter.

  I stop at a reality that looks less hideous to me. It’s just a forest, and thankfully no dead bodies. It must be an old place because it’s too pristine to be from more modern times. I know it’s not a good place, because I feel the lust in the air like a thick cloud that permeates this bubble. But as I sit here and rest my mind, I let the full realization of my own predicament work through me. I will have to sift through all of these realities in order to find Alex—and discouragement hits me like a ton of bricks.