by S. B. Niccum
From a distance I check on Robyn, making sure I stay far enough away to not alert her of my presence, and also far away from Jase’s and Katie’s accusatory eye. I don’t want them to see me, stuck as I am. I’ve already asked them for help in getting back, and they simply said that I needed to find my own way back. I have done as they suggested, but have failed. I have even followed after several spirits who had just died, and tried to sneak in after them, as they went toward the light or the darkness—at this point I didn’t care too much where I went—but none of those tricks worked; the rift admits only one.
At first, Robyn’s life spirals out of control. Then I watch as her guardian angel parents patiently help her put her life back on track. As the years fly by, I witness her recovery and how she slowly gets back on her feet, and starts doing productive things again. Her son grows into a teenager and finds her. This relationship seems to change Robyn’s life for the better, and she finds the strength to fix her life for good. At some point though, I lose track of her, and I start to feel like I’ve lost all my tethers to this realm. Maybe Robyn has passed too.
I’m not sure why, but I find myself roaming familiar places that are now being inhabited by strangers. As I make my rounds of these old haunts, I find myself back at the cemetery. I see a grown man with a small child. He looks somber and sad, and as I float to them, I realize that they are standing around an old grave. The headstone reads, Robyn Mallory-Preston. I look around to see if by any chance I might see her spirit, but no, she’s gone, and with her, Katie and Jase, the last of my family. This man might be family, but I don’t know him.
If I had been feeling cold and empty before, I’m more so now. I feel like death itself has settled in on me. I feel so lost. I have nothing to anchor me to this realm anymore; all my ties to this realm are gone. Who is left that I know or have a bond with? No one. All my attempts at trying to make a connection with someone in the spirit realm fail. Is there no one looking for me, or wondering where I am and what I’m doing? Is my case really this hopeless? Have I committed some unpardonable sin that is keeping me here?
Suddenly I’m seized with the desire to push some sort of rewind button, to go back to my body and reenter it. I want to do my death all over again and do things differently. I close my eyes and try to go back, back, back. When I open them, all is dark. Maybe my eyes are not open, I can’t tell. So I will my eyes open again, but the darkness is pervasive. Slowly my sight adjusts, and when it does, right away I wish it hadn’t. I’m staring straight into a hollow eye socket—my eye socket—putrid and decaying, along with the rest of my skeletal remains. I’m trapped in my own casket with my carcass. That is me! Screeching and screaming like a banshee, I try to scratch and claw my way out of my own tomb, but it’s all to no avail. I’m in here, trapped it seems.
“Please,” I plead to whoever might hear me. “Please! I want out.” As if I were Lazarus, as soon as that plea is uttered, I’m released from my prison and let out into the fresh turf of the cemetery. Next to my grave is Alex’s grave. I throw myself on top of it and give in to my misery.
I’m not sure when, or for how long I stay there, wailing, whimpering, and bemoaning my wretched state—but I see people come and go, I see day dawn and set—and at some point I start to wander again. I try my best not to interfere with the natural course of things. But a new stupor has settled over me, that last outpouring of misery has purged my soul of all feeling. I’m empty.
I glide and see, but I don’t seem to feel or really register anything. I can tell that the world is different, things are changing, and something is amiss. Dazed as I am, I can’t quite put my finger on the problem, but things are definitely different.
“Hello,” a friendly voice addresses me directly, for the first time in what seems like ages. “We meet again.”
I stare at him for a while, trying to bring him into focus. After some time a vague recollection strikes me. “John!” I say with awe. He looks exactly as he did the first time I saw him when I was a teenager and he was investigating Agatha’s disappearance. His timeless appearance hits me anew. Here he is—decades, or centuries, later—still here on Earth, still young and vibrant, still performing his duties as an Aeonian. John the Revelator had chosen to stay on Earth until the end of the world, as he saw it in his visions and recorded in the book of Revelations. He’s no longer a mortal, but is not yet an immortal being. He’s an Aeonian, and walks the world, helping out in whatever way he can, until the world ends.
“Hi, Tess.” He grins. His hands are tucked in his pockets and he looks casually around, to see if anyone is watching him talk to thin air. “So…of all spirits to find here,” he says with disapproval in his voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I—I—was pulled in,” I frown. “Or out. I don’t know exactly. I was—I was…” Have I really forgotten why I’m here? What’s wrong with me? “I was looking for Alex,” I say, happy to have gotten that much right. But the truth is, I feel slightly disoriented, like I’m sleepwalking through an endless dream.
Sensing my confusion, John’s mouth turns into a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you follow me to my place, where we can talk without blowing my cover?” he suggests reasonably.
His place was a small run-down apartment with scant, old-fashioned furniture, which had seen better days a few decades ago. His small kitchenette only has one plate, one cup, one glass, and a single set of utensils. “You don’t entertain much, do you?”
John smiles over his shoulder, as he works on boiling some water on a kettle. “No, never really have. Not part of the job.”
“I didn’t know you liked tea?” I say, as John pulls a tea bag from the cupboard.
“A habit left over from my days in England while I worked with William Tyndale on the translation of the Bible.”
“Really?”
“Yep. You, in fact, assisted me one time while on one of my many stays in that country. That was much later of course, the eighteenth century if I recall. I’ve come and gone quite a bit,” he admits.
“I helped you?”
John nods. “You were an unborn spirit then. Your mind has been veiled from that life. That’s why you can’t remember it.” He waves his hand in front of his face signifying a veil.
“Mm…” Something does ring true about that. “I do remember a creature telling me that I had made some promises, and then she gave me that fire that didn’t burn me, but burned Agatha’s house down.”
John nods again, and once his water is ready he sits down in a very uncomfortable looking chair and sips his tea daintily. “What else do you remember about that part of your existence?” he asks, sounding like Dane did when he was in “shrink” mode.
“Not much,” I say evasively.
“Why don’t you try? Tell me anything that you remember about any part of your existence.”
I think about it for a while. I mention remembering him, and his first visit when Agatha had run away. And a few other inconsequential details about that time, but the harder I try to remember, the less I do. Something is keeping my mind perfectly blank.
John is insistent though, and probes and prods until he has me retelling him my whole life story, all the way up to my death.
“Oh…” is all I can say once I realize, again, what I have just done. “I—I let Agatha come over here.” I say, as if it were news to me. “How could I forget?” I say perplexed.
“Yes, you did.” He looks at me like a parent who is displeased with his misbehaving child. “I think you’ve been trying to block your own reality.”
“I’m sorry,” I say childishly. Honestly, I am. But the whole situation is so overwhelming that I have no idea what else to say or do.
“Do you know what Agatha’s been up to?”
“No,” I admit.
“She has joined forces with the cast-outs, and they have been letting the worst of the imprisoned spirits out by way of your rift, and together they have seized control of all the mortals who rule the nations o
f Earth. They are in the process of making a new world order, one where, if you don’t join willingly, you’ll be made to join by force. There are a few groups of people who are resisting here and there, but communications are being monitored and these rebels—as they are called—are completely isolated from each other. If any of them are caught, they are put to death.”
“My rift?” My brain struggles to quantify the scope of this deed, but it all sounds so bad, that I can’t even feel guilt. “My rift?” I ask again, now feeling a little bit of hope. “Can I go through my rift?”
“Haven’t you tried already?”
I think back to that day in the hospital. I did try, and couldn’t. I nod in response, ashamed for being more concerned about leaving, than the actual problem that I have caused. “I’ve caused this?” I finally ask, remorsefully.
“Well, no. You didn’t personally cause Agatha and the Second One to organize, but you opened the rift that allowed them to join forces.” Seeing the stunned look on my face, John sighs. “But it was bound to happen. If you hadn’t opened the rift, someone else would have; you father maybe, or your mother, and there are others too.” He sighs. “Agatha was determined enough, even if none of you had done it—who she knew for sure could do this thing—she would have searched and searched until she found someone else who could.”
“But it was me…”
“Yes, it was.”
“What will happen to me now?”
“Well, that I don’t know. I do have to add though, that this was bound to happen. I mean, I did foresee this. This is the start of Armageddon.”
“And I’ve caused Armageddon?” I mutter incredulously.
John doesn’t answer. He remains quiet and somber, looking down into his empty cup.
I opened the rift, I let Agatha join the Second One, and I have brought about the end of the world! I know that panic should start to set in any minute now, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t set in while John finishes another cup of tea, or when he washes his cup, or even after he excuses himself and goes to bed. It still doesn’t set in when he wakes up and finds me still hovering in that same spot. Not after he assures me that the timing for this awful event is right on schedule, and that the end is supposed to come now. Nothing he says adds or detracts from my complete lack of feeling. I know that I should feel something, guilt, sadness, shame, anger—but no—I feel nothing.
“You’re welcome to stay,” John says at some point. I’m not entirely sure how many days have gone by for him, but I think I remember him coming and going a few times, and sitting in that chair, drinking something, or eating something, then going to his room, then coming out again. How many times has he done this? I can’t remember. But when I see him walk in again, I know that I have to go. He doesn’t look mad, or annoyed at all. He looks…disappointed. Is it possible to haunt an Aeonian? “I—I—will go now.”
“Where?” he asks, suddenly worried.
“Don’t know,” I admit.
“You have to get back to where you belong.”
“I wish I could, but I don’t know how. And—and,” frankly, I dreaded going back to Prison. I know now that that’s where I belong, due to my colossal mistake. But the thought of going back there roots me to my current spot.
“Don’t you want to find Alex?” John asks, curiously.
“Alex?” I murmur, distractedly. Then a mild guilt over forgetting him, and leaving him alone in Prison this whole time, envelops me. But it isn’t nearly enough to ignite any sort of spark of action in me.
Ashamed and despondent, I glide out of John’s apartment, and resume my wandering. I no longer recognize any of my surroundings. Everything looks colorless, gray, dirty, and run-down. The dark figures that zoom past me now and then no longer bother me. The spirits who roam free regard me only long enough to make up their minds about something, and then pass by me, like I’m a pariah. I guess I’m of no consequence to anyone.
Spirits—there seems to be a lot more of those around here lately. One in particular catches my attention. He’s tall, has dark hair gathered at the base of his neck in a ponytail, and is following a mortal dressed in uniform. When the spirit sees me, he turns to me with interest, leaving his mortal to follow me. At first I think nothing of it, but then, his trailing me starts to get annoying.
“Leave me alone,” I say dispassionately, suddenly stopping, and turning to face him.
“I’m not bothering you,” he says, lifting his hands up like he’s surrendering. “I’m just curious to see what you’re doing.”
“Nothing. I’m doing nothing,” I say defensively. Perhaps too defensively, because he smiles broadly and gives me wry, unconvinced, look. “Who are you?” I finally ask, after several unsuccessful attempts at shaking him off my trail.
He regards me for a moment. “That’s right, we never did meet in life. I’m Eros, your uncle.” He bows graciously and extends one arm. Instinctively, I give him my hand, and instead of shaking it, he kisses it. “It is so nice to finally meet you. Though, I must say I expected....” He takes a minute to come up with the right words, while looking theatrically thoughtful. “I guess I just expected more,” he finally declares with a mocking grin.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Uncle,” I say dryly. I’m not in the mood for games; I’m not in the mood for anything actually. I just want to be left alone. I want to bide my time, and do as little damage as possible until I find a way to leave. So turning sharply, I fly off, hoping that—as disappointed as he is in me—he will leave me be. But I guess I’m not so lucky.
“What do you want with me?” I ask him exasperated, after a few more attempts at ditching him.
“Since you’re here, you might as well come with us,” he suggests sensibly.
“No.”
This seems humorous to him and he laughs. “Agatha always made it sound like you were such a go-getter, so active, so involved. Why are you going against your nature?”
“I’m not where I should be,” I respond simply, not really knowing where the right place for me is anymore, but clearly knowing that Earth is not it.
“Cut a hole in the veil, and you can go anywhere you’d like to go. Why, with your ability, I would certainly take advantage of that. I would explore pre-mortal earth! I would sneak into Paradise! I would…” He thinks about it for a second, closing his eyes, and picturing the joys of moving from realm to realm freely. “I would turn all the realms into a great big colander.” He smiles, obviously pleased with the image he painted for me.
A group of mortals dressed in military attire pass through us, and they each in turn shiver. I find it odd that soldiers would be roaming in this manner. They look so official, yet their uniform doesn’t have the American flag on it. John must be right. Armageddon is starting. The thought should spark something in me, a desire to help, the need to be useful, or at the very least, the wish to be forgiven for what I had unleashed on Earth. But no, I feel nothing. I’m perfectly despondent. I simply stand there like a statue, mute, inert, empty. Even Eros gets tired of my inactivity and leaves me, shaking his head and laughing to himself. As he glides away, he mutters something about me having been a complete disappointment, so easily broken.
I suppose he’s right, I am finally broken. At some point I drift away from that spot and move somewhere else, a room I think. People move about me—in and out, in and out—mortals move so quickly, they remind me of squirrels. Then, for a long time…nothing. People stop coming and absolutely no one, and not a single thing stirs.
“This is enough, Tess, you’ve got to stop it.” A bright, blinding light shines in front of me. It’s so sudden and so bright that I have to shield my eyes. “Come on! Snap out of it!” the voice demands, but it means nothing to me. It does sound vaguely familiar, but there’s something wrong with it. So I stare on, ignoring his pleas. This, however, does not seem to deter him from his discourse, and he keeps on talking as if I were an avid listener.
“Interesting,” he rambles on. “That you chose to
shut yourself up in this old place. Of all the places that we’ve lived in, you decided to come here. Consciously or unconsciously, you must miss me.” He smiles a bright, toothy smile that warms me. “Somewhere in that troubled head of yours, you made a silent plea—for me!” He sighs and looks distractedly around. “But now you’re ignoring me, so…”
“Who are you?” I finally ask, perplexed by the incessant chatterer before me. His dark skin is only made more startling by the whiteness of his clothes and the light that radiates from him. There’s something that is very familiar about him, yet something is very different too.
Startled by my sudden question, he turns, and a smile spreads widely over his face, changing his features again, from familiar to foreign. “Dorian,” he says.
“Dorian?”
“Yeah, in the—well not flesh—but in spirit anyway.”
“But, you’re…different.”
“I’m me.” He nods reassuringly.
Curious and puzzled, I find myself at his side, inspecting him from all angles. “Yes, yes, it is you,” I remark as I look him over. “You’re Dorian!”
“You’re funny!” he laughs, then grabs me by the hand and sits me on his lap like a child. Instantly, some of the coldness I feel inside starts to melt. Looking deep into his eyes, I see it. That glint that I used to see buried deep inside his eyes, that memory of someone forgotten or someone trapped. That person is now free and whole.
“Dorian, it really is you!” I waste no time in wrapping my arms around his neck and hug him tightly. We stay like this for a long time; I don’t want to let go of him for fear of losing myself again.
“I’m afraid,” I confess. “I’ve done something terrible.”