Struggling With the Afterlife

by Ronald Stanley Jr.

  He had a dream to one day be a writer, but for now, had settled with a construction job (wood working; from all the Summer’s he’d spent working for his stepfather, something good had actually come out of it).

  He knew his Master in the sky wouldn’t have been proud of his writing, any more than murdering his wife, unborn child and childhood “friend.” He was probably going to Hell no matter what way he sliced it (and would be seeing the bitch and Mr. Sanchez there as well) but still, in that moment, he didn’t care. He dropped the knife on the corpses, then sat in a nearby chair, thinking of what was to come.

  The cops would be coming, no doubt. In 24 hours or less , he would be in an orange suit. Maybe he’d even make it on Investigation Discovery on people who snap and kill their significant others.

  A funny though occurred to him then. Would Marcus have been disappointed in him? He had to stifle a laugh. Then, realizing no one was there to listen, laughed out loud.

  Covered in his victim’s blood, he was too tired to go into the shower. He’d read in a book somewhere that murder was work. How true that was! Covering up a mess like this was unlikely, especially with 2 corpses instead of 1.

  Betrayal - that’s what changes people, he’d thought. That’s how he went from a boy who played with spiders and Nintendo games into a killer. Right before he zonked out on the chair, the news came on about the Bathroom Killer striking again. The Bathroom Killer that he had unknowingly summoned with his ball at age 9 in ‘ 84.

  He was now 35. It was 2010. He had time to think maybe he wouldn’t make it ‘til 36, and he zonked out on the chair.

  He’d woken up to the old familiar sound of tapping on the wooden floor. He looked ahead and saw the closet door was ajar and a wooden ball was hopping towards him. He then got up to move and couldn’t. He looked down and saw why. His body was covered in old-fashioned blood stained quilt interwoven with teardrops and barbed wire.

  With strength he didn’t know he’d had, he’d ripped whatever of the barbed wire that was holding him down, got up from the chair, and put his hand in the air.

  The wooden ball magnetically came up to it.

  Johnny threw it at the wall above the corpses. It bounced on the wall, then the center of the room, then right back into his right hand.

  The song “Bitch” by Sevendust was playing somewhere in the house.

  How true that song was.

  An instant later, the song stopped and was replaced by an old familiar sound. The loud horn. When it faded out, along came the violins. The sad violins that brought the feeling of the end being near.

  And maybe it was, he’d thought. For him anyways.

  He had time to think how many Hail Mary’s it would take to get out of this mess. Then something else caught his eye. It was on the nearby wooden table.

  A bird-mask. One with a strap, painted white with shiny yellow hair. Johnny put it on. Then he felt the full change come.

  He felt wings spread out from both sides of his back. As far as they were allowed to spread in this room; he made them fold up and back when they touched the two walls to the left and right of him without fully being able to spread.

  “Bitch,” he muttered, looking at his deceased wife with her long black hair covering her bloodstained face.” Bitch, there are more like you out there, cheating on their significant others while they’re away and hard at work. They think it’s okay to do that. Not knowing they are responsible for hatching serial killers by doing that. But you’ll never hear THAT on any channel. Because it’s never the victim’s fault.”

  He then looked down, studying the shiny knife in his hand. Stainless Steel, he’d thought.

  He threw the knife across the room. It stuck right in his ex-wife Tara’s skull, causing fresh blood to spill from it.

  Johnny then jumped out of the nearby window as he heard the sounds of sirens approaching. As he jumped, he felt his wings spread again.

  Johnny flew up to a nearby tree, looking at the scene below him. Two cops were breaking down the door to his apartment. They muttered disgust at what they saw. The muffling turned to alarm; make sure no one else is in the apartment!

  Johnny chuckled to himself, then flew off into the night.

  For the next year or so, he spied on the women having affairs with their husbands while they were away. He would make sure that they weren’t innocent. He would then swoop down and blend in their apartments or houses. He’d shape shift into a piece of furniture or blend into the couch.

  When the timing was right, he’d grip his victims as they sat down. By the time he was done and flew off into the night, the crime scene was always the same - a mass of blood, bone and feathers scattered about. It was his signature.

  The cops had even nicknamed him The Bird Killer.

  Every time he killed a whore that reminded him of Tara, he’d make sure to take his mask off and spit in their face.

  Then he’d eat something in their fridge.

  Then one night, he’d taken his mask off and threw it on the ground before going over to his victim and spitting on her face.

  He heard it crack. Thought nothing of it at first. That was, until he went to put it on, and it fell off in 2 pieces on the floor.

  Then, hearing the sirens, he made a jump out of the window. Normally, his wings would spread, and he’d fly out to the nearest tree.

  No wings came at all, and Johnny fell on the sidewalk, almost breaking his legs in the process.

  The strength he once had was fading also.

  Johnny ran, feeling his body getting smaller as he did so. He loosened and took the quilted suit off as he did so. By the time he’d ran 2 blocks away, he was literally 9 again.

  What the fuck had just happened?

  Johnny thought, shaking badly now. Suddenly, he needed his inhaler. He hadn’t needed that since...fuck, he couldn’t remember!

  He went for his left pocket and found it. He inhaled deeply, noting it was almost gone.

  Yet so wasn’t his life here.

  The sirens were closing in on him now from behind him.

  Up ahead, he saw a park with beautiful green grass and a wooden merry-go-round for kids.

  God, I miss those days! He thought. No bills, no debt collectors, no whores cheating on you with your best friend-just you on a merry-go-round spinning ‘til you couldn’t spin no more.

  Up ahead from the merry-go- round was a giant oak tree. Attached to one of the long thick branches sticking out was a noose.

  The sirens were getting closer. Johnny knew what he had to do. It wasn’t surrendering and getting fucked in the ass every night by Bubba. As he heard the cops get out of the car and yell to him to come down, Johnny jumped from the tree, noose around his neck.

  The violins and horn were replaced by the lullaby of a troll. Johnny slipped into Elsewhere.

  Chapter 6

  Troll, And Man

  Now what? Johnny thought, walking on the street of abandoned houses, sad clowns and furniture.

  Do I just leave Jenny behind? Do I venture farther into places I don’t even know of here?

  The answer to the first one - no. He would return and take care of Jenny as best he could (and she him). Even though he’d been a serial killer in his past life, it didn’t mean it was too late to turn a new leaf. Did it? He had the power to heal, had a heart of gold and just the presence of being here, felt he was given another chance.

  Plus, he’d only snapped because his wife cheated on him with his “best friend.” Sure, he’d gone overboard after that, killing anyone reminding him of his ex, but it would have never happened had she been loyal to him.

  From somewhere in the pants of his pockets, Johnny brought out the 2 gold shiny coins the troll had given him.

  “It’s not over,” a voice whispered in his mind.

  What wasn’t over? He wondered.

 
“He’s not dead,” that voice came back. The troll. He had just killed him after church. Well, what this place posed as a church anyways.

  From somewhere far off, he heard the sound of organ music playing. It sounded either like church or organ music. Either way, it gave Johnny the chills.

  Then, up ahead as the smell of sea salt filled his nostrils and the sound of crashing waves were audible in the distance, he heard something that brought a smile to his face. It was the sound of typing. It was coming from up ahead in one of the houses. Only this one wasn’t abandoned, he saw. It was just one he might have missed on the way to “church” because the Sad Clowns had distracted him.

  The house was on the right among the other rundown houses, sticking out like a sore thumb. It was new, golden colored with white sidings. Happy upbeat music played inside, sounding like the oldies his mother used to play (and maybe it was). The typing was followed by the reset swing of the typewriter.

  In the yard was clean cut grass and a gold- plated porcelain toilet with wide eyed and happy cartoon eyes. It was shiny and nicely polished, about ten feet tall and three feet wide. It had a giant mouth at the bottom - almost like a bathtub save for the flusher on top. Orange strands looking like hair blew in the back of it in the wind, giving it a lively look. But not a scary look; a happy, lively look.

  He didn’t know if it was instinct or part common sense, but Johnny found himself once again taking out the 2 giant gold coins the troll had given him and going over to the golden porcelain toilet.

  He saw a hole going to God knew where inside the giant mouth of it. Johnny put the gold coins in. They made a CLANG! noise and seemed too big to fit inside of it. Then Johnny flushed the golden flusher. The toilet seemed to breathe inward as he did so (did it really breathe? He thought) then the hole became big enough to swallow the coins.

  He heard an ch-ching! noise as it did so.

  From inside, the upbeat music and typing came to an abrupt stop. He heard footsteps coming down the steps a moment later.

  The golden door with the golden knob opened, and Johnny once again smiled.

  Dressed in a red fine - linen silk shirt with polished black shoes and black pants was his old friend Marcus Rowen The Writer.

  His skin was still pale, hair still jet black, but he was alive and looked happier and healthier than ever before.

  “Well, well, well - welcome my friend Johnny!” he said , going over to him and shaking the man’s hand (he wasn’t a boy anymore , he had to keep telling himself, though sometimes he still felt like one).

  “Were you expecting me?” Johnny asked , to which his favorite writer nodded heartily in agreement. “Yes, yes, yes, my friend! I knew you’d be tested here, but … something told me you were a survivor and would make it somehow. Some of the others, however...”

  The Writer needed not say more; Johnny thought of the giant beast that he saw murder the boy with the Poison shirt on. He wasn’t sure if he was a survivor or just lucky.

  “I know,” Johnny said to him. “I saw a boy get murdered the other night. It wasn’t fun to watch.” He bowed his head in disgust.

  Marcus tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

  “Yes, indeed, Johnny - some things here can bite! However, not all is bad. It’s a horrible world, but also has its fair share of goodies, if you look hard enough.”

  Johnny thought of this house, then the large gold coins. Then the somewhat abandoned shack with all the locked doors to which he’d delivered the mail just days ago.

  “Come inside, Johnny,” Marcus said. Johnny went with the Writer, excited at what he would find.

  “So supposedly, you died of a heart attack “ Johnny mused as he stepped inside the writers house. “Yes, I did - in your world, Johnny,” Marcus said.

  “They brought me back to life again here.”

  “They?” Johnny mused , to which the writer gave him a smiling look with his blackened eyes.

  “A writer never gives away all of his secrets. A good writer, anyways.” “Ah,” Johnny said. “Which means a lot of my questions won’t get answered - such as - did you create this world, or do you just write about it?” Marcus cackled at this.

  “Yes, yes, yes! Precisely, Johnny! Or - is Marcus Rowen even my real name?”

  “Ah - gotcha! The mysteries of this world will never truly be known - that is, if you’re a good writer”

  “Precisely, Johnny!”

  Marcus showed him around the house. Everything was neatly polished and there were knick-knacks and furniture about (but not quilted -all clean and tidy).

  Basically, it was a lot like the trolls’ house, but no hint of macabre. It was actually a lot like his great grandmothers he’d remembered in the 80’s visiting before she passed away.

  Marcus showed him upstairs. He had to use the bathroom but was afraid one of the porcelain beasts were inside.

  They weren’t. All the bathrooms were normal looking and polished up. Then he saw the room that interested him the most. The writing room with his typewriter. It was in the middle of a neatly polished wooden floor room, in the center on a round table by a chair.

  There were piles of paper stacked; he was writing a new book it looked like.

  Johnny went over to it, excited.

  The Second Struggle, it was called.

  Before he could start to read it, Marcus took the manuscript swiftly, putting it into a giant brown folder. “Ah - ah - ah!” he said. “Best not to read it - no spoilers! Just remember Johnny - you will be tested soon!” He then gave Johnny a wink and headed off, putting the folder on a nearby desk in the corner of the room.

  “So now what?” Johnny asked The Writer, who smiled.

  “Jenny has dinner for you - but first, explore more. Find more of those gold coins. Do you like this house Johnny? I’ll bet you do - no killer toilets or furniture, just lots of nice things. Well, somewhere here is your house, waiting to be unlocked. You just have to find it and earn enough gold coins to get it. “You’ll see the giant porcelain toilet outside once you do. Put enough coins in there and you’ll unlock your door.

  “Who knows, maybe you’ll have a normal life here after all. But you will be tested,” The Writer said, winking at him again.

  “I can’t tell you the ending - a good writer never does that.”

  Johnny wasn’t completely shaken by this; it was hard to believe his life was already written ahead of time and he had no control over the outcome whatsoever. Even if he had manuscripts of his life, Johnny would surely have changed the pages. He was more of a free will-ist than a predestination believer. Either way, he did agree on one thing The Writer told him - he would be tested here.

  He thanked the writer for his time, to which he was invited in again should he pass by (and have enough coins? Johnny wondered).

  Right now, it was getting darker out. He would explore this place again another time.

  Right now, he was hungry.

  And as he got home, he saw dinner was waiting for him.

  “Thank you, Jenny!” he said. “And sorry for the mess I made earlier. The bastard was abusive and had to go,” he said, regarding the troll. “It’s okay,” Jenny said, sounding more human now. And maybe she was. Maybe her robotic side was wearing off and that was his healing talent here. A healing talent despised of by certain entities.

  “Chances are, he’ll be back.” She then sighed at this, rolling her eyes.

  Now she really did sound human.

  Was that sighing part of her before?

  He thought not.

  Johnny stopped eating for a moment.

  But not for too long; it was steak, medium-rare; his favorite here. “Back?” to which she sighed again. “Don’t worry Jenny - if he does, I’ll protect you. I’m not a boy anymore, remember.”

  “Thank you so much Johnny,” she said, sounding again more human. “You�
��re welcome Jenny. Someday we will have our own house here.” They both smiled at this. No killer toilets or furniture, no Creepy-Crawlers - just the two of them in their own house, living a normal, peaceful life where no thief could break in.

  He thought of meeting the writer today. It all seemed like a dream, as if it never happened.

  If it was, at least it wasn’t a bad dream.

  Not all was bad in this world, he’d said.

  How very true - he just had to get over the other humps to get there. One day he would get what was his, and Jenny her share too.

  Chapter 7

  The Doorway

  The year was 1983. The book was buzzing in the air, yet his parents weren’t too fond of it (or the writer for that matter).

  He’d gotten an autograph when he went out with his friends and father and hid the book later on. The meeting and handshake were brief, yet The Writer gave him a gift within that handshake. It was a silver skeleton key.

  “You’ll figure it out,” he’d said to Edwin, who smiled and hid the key in his pants pocket.

  He’d gotten home and hid the key in his bureau and book underneath his bed. His parents were very strict, but they knew he also had a creative mind and one day would decide what to do with it.

  The book really did start giving him nightmares when he got 100 pages or so in. He’d put it down for a while, then forgot about it during the Summer as he’d gone off to the beach and did other fun things.

  Then one night, shortly after school started, he remembered the key again, going through his bureau.

  There was a spare room in his house, filled with antique jewelry and blankets covering old fashioned chairs and furniture. There were stairs from it leading up to an attic. Edwin opened the door leading up to the attic once, curious at what was inside. Old collectibles his grandmother had collected - marbles, knock-knacks, more jewelry.

  Then one night when everyone was asleep, Edwin tried something. He took out his shiny skeleton key and opened the door (it was never locked; it would have opened without the key, but something told Edwin to try it anyways).