I Am the Storm

by Trisha Lynn Halaas

  Love,

  Regina

  I look toward the kitchen. My stomach growls. Fine. Walking through the dining room, I head into the completely white-tiled kitchen. Where there isn’t tile, there is wood. All different types and shades. Dark stains and light stains of wooden grain pierce through the porcelain white tiles blanketing every surface. Some of the tiles have designs. Most do, in fact. Tiny ornate details you wouldn’t notice unless you decided to take a closer look. Some are in the shapes of animals, some landscapes, and tiny flowers. A tiny gleam of light reveals the stencil so quickly you are unsure it’s even there.

  The countertops look to be flattened Arctic glaciers back when they still existed. I’m mesmerized. I spot the wood oven. It’s huge. It resembles an old-school pizzeria oven. It’s surrounded with aged red brick.

  I open the metal handle on the circular latch and see a gigantic plate of food in a wrought iron skillet. The skillet is heaping with a huge cube of lasagna and a chunk of garlic bread that smells amazing. Using an oven mitt in the shape of a cupcake, I pull it out.

  In the fridge, I find a can of Tab. What? How? Tab is my favorite beverage. It’s a 1970s Coca-Cola product that was actually the first diet pop, or soft drink. It tastes the most like Coca-Cola for a diet beverage. But I digress. I always ordered my supply from an obscure soft drink company that had the recipes for the various brands. I could always tell the difference. I grab a can, suspiciously, and head to the dining room. There’s a place set.

  I settle in, pop the top of the Tab, and take a deep pull. Wow. This is the real thing. More mysteries. The lasagna is heavenly. It doesn’t need parmesan cheese. The sauce is homemade and creamy. The bread is crusty and also homespun. I finish rather quickly and leave room for tiramisu. I must have my dessert.

  After finishing the creamy sweet gooey goodness of her decadent dish, I clean up and head upstairs to bed. Walking into the room, I set down my bag. Going back-and-forth in my mind, I finally pull out my Slab.

  “Hey Seph,” I say, waking her up. “Are we secure enough?”

  A second of silence.

  “Yes, Lyvia, we are. I checked. All of Crystal is still good, but I know that we are doubly secured at Regina’s.”

  “Why is that?” I ask, changing into a nightshirt, one of Shane’s. It’s oversized and sports the ‘Beast’ from the old movie Sandlot.

  “She comes from a long line of Darken. You already know that. She’s got this whole house armored up. We good. Ay,” she says with both thumbs up, `a la Fonzie from Happy Days.

  “Okay, Fonz,” I reply, letting my hair down and sitting at the vanity. “What else do you know about her?”

  “Well, everything’s really obscure, Lyvia. The channels are set up to block all angles, all worlds,” she says, examining the outer wall.

  “Heaven, Hell, life.” I look into my reflection solemnly. My eyes. Tired. Sad. Shane’s eyes blink back. Determined. Strong.

  “Yeah, so she’s got communication barriers for all three, which means though…”

  “She’s got capabilities for all three. Which means…”

  “It’s a vortex,” we both say at the same time, eyes meeting in awe.

  “Ahh, okay. So, her house is a vortex.” I pace the room. “I knew it was old. It must’ve been built here because of the spot. But there’s only one vortex left in existence.”

  “Or so we thought,” Seph adds, joining my pace.

  “Interesting, Seph… Interesting.” I slather ‘Lotion’ all over my skin. It smells of Christmas shortbread, savory and buttery, accompanied by the scent of fresh pine needles. Impossibly fresh. It’s amazing. Then, I brush my teeth.

  “Well, it’s safe to say this is our home base,” Persephone says, lying down in the tub.

  “Yes,” I reply, spitting out the last of my toothpaste.

  “And that means we can really get down to business.” She looks over the side of the tub.

  “The rotary telephones…” I trail off, abandoning the vanity. I walk over and sink into the side of the bed. I look at the red historic phone hanging above the nightstand. I touch its round dial warily.

  “You think I can talk to Shane?” I ask Persephone, hopeful.

  She sits next to me cross-legged on the bed.

  “I think you can’t get your hopes up,” she replies seriously. “This vortex isn’t supposed to exist, and there is a ton of spiritual armor. Hell is definitely closed off. I’m just not even sure you can get connected to Heaven. It’s worth a try, though.”

  I stare at the phone as if suddenly it might blow up.

  “Okay, Seph, here goes nothing,” I announce, picking up the receiver.

  I put it to my ear. Nothing. Not even a dial tone.

  “Is there a trick?” I ask.

  “Did you try pound or one for line-out?”

  “No, Seph, you know the one in Dark Shire doesn’t do that. Do I have to with this one?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugs. I look at her.

  “What? This doesn’t exist. I don’t have knowledge of novel discoveries,” she examines the phone.

  I turn to pound. Nothing. I rotate the dial to one. Silence.

  “Try your favorite number,” Seph says thoughtfully. “Both of yours.”

  “But it’s not long enough to be a phone number.”

  “And this isn’t an archaic phone. It’s a spirit phone. Just try,” she replies.

  I put in eight and then six. Zilch.

  “I said, both of yours.” Scolding tone now.

  I place my finger in the plastic finger holder and turn the dial to eight then six then four then one.

  Suddenly, the phone lights up `a la Zoltar in Big, the fortune telling machine.

  “Connecting,” says an angelic voice through the receiver.

  A soft click. Tiny whir. Then I hear it. His laugh. My heart soars out of my chest. I thrust the receiver into my ear willing it to go straight to my brain. I never thought I’d hear that sound again.

  “Is it you?” I ask weakly, tears streaming down my face.

  “Of course, it’s me,” he laughs again.

  I’m half-laughing, half-ugly crying. It’s not pretty.

  “So, you met aunt Regina, huh?” Shane asks, clearly preoccupied—his usual setting.

  “Aunt Regina? Shane, we will have to come back to that. What’s going on? Can you come back? If so, how? How do we do this?”

  “That little bitch took my hammer,” Shane says over the whispery line.

  “Who? Levi? What hammer?”

  “Yeah, him. Lyv, I had him. I closed his portal.”

  “Yeah, what’s with his portal? It’s a man-made vortex, right? Straight to Hell, not ‘New Heaven’ as advertised, do I have that correct?” I ask, twirling the phone cord between my fingers.

  “You are correct, Lyvia, and the prize…” He sounds like a game show host.

  “Your death. Because I figured it out too late,” I reply downcast.

  “No. And stop that, Lyv. None of this is you. God came to me. He gave me a hammer.”

  “Was it like super old?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Yep, Lyv. ‘Bout as old as those nails.”

  “Did it…um, control the weather?” Please. Oh, please let it be his.

  “No, it’s not Thor’s, Lyv. He wishes.” Eye roll, I assume. “It can do a lot more than his. It’s the first hammer ever created. By the way—Thor was real. But he wasn’t a ‘god’ or ‘demi-god’—the mythology is inaccurate and a bit… exaggerated. You know how those things go.”

  I rest my forehead in my free hand.

  “He couldn’t fly, his hair wasn’t actually that long and…”

  “Stop,” I say, putting my palm out to an imaginary Shane lounging on the chaise at the foot of the bed. It’s large, modern, and cushy. I envision his arms bent behind his head, legs draped over the velvety edge of the loveseat-like boudoir bench.

  “Do not ruin this for me. It’s Thor, bro. Thor, the God of Th
under.” Thunder, feel the thunder, lightning and the thunder.

  “You know you’re gonna look it up anyway,” he replies. I roll my eyes.

  “Oh, you just know everything... What does your hammer do?”

  “I don’t know what it’s capable of yet, but I know it’s the Holy Relic of all Relics. The first tool and eventually weapon ever created...”

  “It’s the one that was used to…” I realize.

  “Yup… with…”

  “The nails.”

  “And he says I have to close this portal because it goes straight to Hell—run by Lucifer himself, Levi,” he spits out the name. “So, I go there and close the portal. Yay, easy, right? Nope, definitely not. Because as it turns out, my body has to be reunited with the hammer to come back to Earth.”

  “And, Levi has it.”

  “Yep, ‘bout sums it up, Lyv.”

  “Where is he?”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “Hell.” We both say in unison.

  “How can I get there?” I ask.

  “Lyv,” he starts in a warning tone.

  “No, Shane. No. This time, I’m helping. You tried it your way last time.”

  “There’s another vortex besides this one in Crystal.”

  “Really?”

  “You’ve been there twice.”

  “What? Seriously?” My eyes light up in recognition.

  “Yes, it’s barrier-free. You can even see and feel my spirit form there. It’s all kinds of weird, really. This whole thing is... Remember when we would sing in the car?”

  “Of course, I do. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing, that was fun though,” he says.

  “It really was, especially when I didn’t know the words.”

  “Which is all the time,” he teases. “But the best was just listening to your made-up verses. Somehow just better.”

  We both start singing “Rock Star” by Nickelback, butchering the words. We laugh uncontrollably.

  “Okay, you need to get to the tomb. I can help you out as much as possible with going to Hell and back, but it’s not as easy as just standing in the tomb. You need to do some research at the library and Aunt Regina’s. I don’t know all the specifics. You will need your nails, that’s for sure. Ask Seph for guidance. Tell her I love her, and I think she’s hilarious.”

  “Heard that, Boss,” Persephone says with a salute toward the phone. “Both back ‘atcha.”

  “Okay, so research vortexes and crossing planes. What about Hell, Shane? What’s that like?”

  “I saw it briefly before I got here, Lyv,” he says ominously.

  “Oh my gosh, I don’t even want to know.”

  “No, but you have to. It’s a scary place. Your worst nightmare 24/7. Literally—your worst fucking nightmare,” he speaks the last four words slowly with deliberation.

  He continues, “It’s kind of like Heaven in the sense of transcendental planes, but whereas Heaven is an infinitely better realm of endless possibilities, Hell is identical to Earth, just much worse. You’re aware of your past, present, and future, yet as you re-live your life’s events, minus the good parts, you can’t change anything.

  Levi personally selects every good memory and removes it. You’re aware of that too. It’s as if you experience an open lobotomy with no anesthesia. You have no power. Helpless. All you can do is sit back and undergo it all over again.

  Each harrowing loss. Minute of humiliation. Fight. Nasty word. Drunken escapade. Bad decision. Death. Wound. Surgery. Relapse. Disappointment from others. Disappointment in yourself. Hurt. Heartbreak. Each soul-crushing shock. Stab of pain. Every ‘worst moment of your life’ on repeat, at his amusement.

  Every letdown. Bullying, victim and culprit. Hurtful notion. Terrifying second of true fear. Every person you ever hurt. Anxious moment. One-way love. Suicidal thought. Every single, horrible repressed and forgotten memory back to life to revisit. Each self-deprecating minute. Abandoned moment. Powerless second. Missed opportunity. Traumatic experience. All of them. Lost, empty. Utterly and completely alone.

  It’s black and white unless he adds color to the gore. Sometimes he changes things in certain ones, makes them worse. Slower, scarier. You don’t expect it. And you still have no control. He feeds off sin. All the bad decisions you made because of his influence; you have to relive.”

  “It’s his fun house, Lyvia. There were creepy clowns on repeat. Clowns, Lyv,” his voice sounds severely traumatized.

  “Oh shit,” I respond lugubriously, putting my hand to my forehead.

  “Um, yeah I know you feel the same way about them. Try to prepare. It’s bad. Imagine the worst. It’ll be worse than that, but it gives you a starting point,” he says with a shaky breath.

  “How long were you down there?”

  “Not sure. Time doesn’t make sense there.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “During one exceptionally terrifying clown-day… He switches shit up, Lyvie,” he says this nickname with especially reserved tenderness. “There just aren’t words. It’s endless. Then, during one particularly horrifying experience, I felt a hand grab my arm. I was nine-years-old in clown-hell, then I was thrown sideways for an impossibly long time until I tumbled onto a field on the Spirit Plane back to my actual age.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “Weird. See-through. Hard to explain,” he sounds distant.

  “Did you find Mom and Dad?” I ask.

  “No, not yet. It’s different than you’d expect.”

  “Like how?”

  “There’s really no destination. No one-place stop. No ‘Heaven’ plastered on a giant sign made out of sun-rays. A giant free-for-all. Nope. I guess there are levels. I’m not really sure where I am. It’s a lot like Earth, although more beautiful and flawless. Even though things are solid, they’re semi-transparent, if that makes sense. I think the higher up you advance, the clearer things get. Right now, I’m in a fog, a blur. Grainy, almost. Still, I can see you. You can’t see me. See, from your point-of-view, you are surrounded by so much fog, you can’t see anything from the Spirit World. You can’t see me even when we’re right next to each other.”

  “Which is when?” I ask.

  “All the time,” he says through a smile. Then he laughs. I soak it in with greed, start to share a smile. Taste of copper. Flash of white feathers. Silky speckled orange flower petal between my fingertips.

  “Even right after…”

  “No. Not then,” he cuts me off.

  “That’s when you were in…” I say with dawning realization.

  “Hell,” he finishes.

  “Well, we both were.”

  “You speak the truth, sis,” he responds.

  “I’m gonna need weapons, Shane.”

  “So far, you have three. Your hair-tie and shoes. You’re gonna need more. Aunt Regina’s got some background on that.”

  “You talked to her?” I ask, a little betrayed.

  “No, jeez. Relax,” he says. “She’s got other sources up here. I just need to know what’s going on.”

  “Of course, you do,” I reply, laughing.

  “Okay, I can’t talk much longer. I have lines open on Levi, and I need to check on them. I can’t have him doing anything unexpected, such as coming back up from Hell anytime soon.”

  “When can you talk next?”

  “Not sure, Lyv. I’m super busy up here with keeping an eye on Levi. I gotta figure out his next move. You know he’s got a backup plan,” he replies. “Oh, yeah, and you’ll need my skates.”

  I know he’s talking about his hockey skates. He skated professionally when he was Leader of the Dark Shire.

  “Why? What will those do? It’s not as if I can wear them,” I respond.

  “No, you won’t need to wear them. I just need you to bring them to the tomb.”

  “You can skate up there?”

  “Sort of. I can’t explain it, really. Just bring ‘em
,” he says.

  “Okay. I love you, Shane. I miss you,” I say, not wanting to hang up. Ever.

  “I love you, more, sis,” he says. “This much…”

  I picture his huge arms stretching out high above my head. Arms that were once attached to a roly-poly toddler. A wisp of blonde curls. Taste of smooth puréed banana baby food. Flash of a baby pacifier attached to tiny denim overalls.

  “Remember, I’m right ‘dere’ with you, Lyv,” he says ‘dere’ the way he said ‘there’ when he was tiny.

  “Okay, love you, Nane,” I say.

  “Love you, Lyvie,” he replies, his voice growing fainter.

  A whir. A tiny click.

  “You are now disconnected,” that same angelic voice from earlier speaks.

  As I hang up the phone, Persephone and I stare at each other, our eyes widened to capacity.

  12

  “Whoa,” I murmur, pacing the room.

  “You have a lot to do,” Persephone takes the words right out of my mouth.

  “Ya think?” I ask sarcastically. “Sorry, it’s just... That was a lot.” My pace has quickened—a beeline around the entire suite, bathroom included. Persephone lies on the fluffy couch. I think she’s looking at a magazine.

  “Are you kidding me, Seph? A magazine at a time like this?”

  “What? It’s a good issue. It’s Retro-Photo. You know the one with ancient photography? Well, there’s this ancient site, prehistoric, and I think if the photographer had just waited another twenty-seven minutes, the light would have really been perfect.” She has one eye closed and holds the book out, turning her head.

  I stare at her incredulously.

  “It’s just the sky would have been a little darker, so the blues would have really stood out, and the light from the sun—”

  “Per-se-pho-ne,” I say, standing next to her, hands on hips. “Stop. We can save that for another day. We need to strategize.”

  “Fine,” she rolls her eyes and evaporates the magazine. This is what I get for creating a Slab with a personality.

  “So, first things first,” I say, ending there.