by Brian Rella
“Sorry,” I whisper. “You’re sorry!” I roar. “She made you do it? She made you? No! You had a choice!” I move closer to him and he cowers against the headboard. “Just like I’m making a choice right now.”
I point the gun at his head. Evil grips me. The darkness eclipses the last bit of light I have left in myself. I don’t want it to be quick. I want it to last. I want it to be painful. I want you to hurt like I hurt. I lower my aim to his knee and fire. He screams. Before he’s out of breath from his first scream, I shoot his other knee. Then things go blurry. I’m outside of myself, watching someone else again. Some other person that looks like me, but is not me, empties the gun’s chambers, firing into him everywhere except those places that will kill him quickly.
I drop the empty gun on the bed. His breath is weak, but he’s still alive as I pull his chin toward me so he can see into my eyes. I climb up on the bed and sit on his legs, taking the box from my bag and placing it at his side. I take the knife in both hands and raise it over my head. I chant the words in the strange tongue the fortuneteller made me memorize as I drive the knife into his chest and his last breath is pushed from his lips.
The bone is hard and I have to saw with the serrated edge of the knife to open his chest and get to his heart. It’s finally over after a few minutes. I place his heart in the box for her, my breath calm and steady.
I put the box back in my backpack, sling it over my shoulder, reload the gun, and run out of there, heading for the stairs. I take them three at a time as the unnatural calm leaves me and questions swirl around my head about what madness is really happening to me with this fortuneteller woman on eighteenth street.
Images flip around my mind of what I’d just done and I shudder. What have I become? Who am I? Anger and sadness and hate and remorse wrap me like a cocoon. My wife is dead and I just killed and butchered the man that killed her. Was that me? I want this nightmare to be over. I want to wake up with Gwyn lying beside me, telling me it’s all been a bad dream.
But it’s not a dream. I’m in my car, back in my neighborhood, back at the fortuneteller’s store. She’s sitting in her chair with her cat. It’s your turn to die. Once I have Gwyn back, you will breathe your last breath. “Inside,” I say, showing her the gun. She moves in, and I follow close behind.
“You’ve done well,” she wheezes.
My heart sinks at her words, but my anger fuels me. We are back in the room with no windows, where she first showed me how to call my wife from the in-between. “Now bring her back!” I shout and stick the gun at her.
Her laughter is like thunder. “You can’t kill me, fool,” she growls. She steps closer and grabs my arm. Her strength is unbelievable and she pulls me to her like I’m a doll.
“Go ahead,” she scowls. “Pull the trigger.”
She howls with laughter that doesn’t sound human and I squeeze the trigger. The gun reports, but she just stares at me, a devious grin spreading across her face.
“Now let me send you to your wife!”
I feel her grip crush the bones in my arm and I scream in pain. I pull the knife from my belt and stab her in the neck. My eyes are wide and on the knife that sticks out from her collar as she lifts me in the air and throws me to the back of the room, my ribs breaking as I slam into the wall and crumple to a pile on the floor.
The room grows dark. Fire and smoke rise around her and swirl through her clothes. She grows taller in front of my eyes, her head almost reaching the ceiling. She catches fire, the flames blistering the paint on the walls. Dark wings unfold behind her and spread the length of the room and horns grow from her head.
I shrink back away from her in terror, scratching and crawling on my hands and knees, looking for a way out or a place to hide. The demon fills the room, gnashes its teeth, rolls its head back, and roars.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
It lifts its foot and smashes it down on my legs, which break like toothpicks. I howl. Through my agony, I feel something slip from my pocket. The ring box. The engagement ring I use to call my wife back from the dead. It’s between me and the beast and I manage to snatch it from the floor with my one good hand just as the demon’s flaming, claw grabs me by the shoulder, lifting me in the air again. I cry out as I feel its fingers dig into my shoulder, piercing muscle and crunching bone. The trickle of blood tickles down my arm, dripping from my finger onto the floor. My shirt catches fire and my skin burns. The foul stench of death fills my nose as I face the demon.
“Where’s the box?” it shouts at me.
I can’t speak. I can’t feel my limbs anymore. I feel myself slipping away. “Ahhhh,” it says. “There, hmmm?” It points to my bag on the floor and drops me. I’m barely conscious as I watch it rip open my bag, open the box, and devour the heart inside.
After its meal, the fiend picks me up again, and pulls me close. Its fiery breath touches my face and I can feel my nose and lips melting.
“Your wife is waiting for you!” it bellows. “Are you ready to see her again?”
The demon opens its mouth toward me. The world goes gray, then black, and the last thing I hear before I slip away is the ring box hitting the floor.
***
I feel as if I am sensing my surroundings with an organ previously unknown. It’s dreamlike, yet I know it’s not a dream and I’m not alone. There are others here; I can sense them and can see echoes and images of them, if I am truly seeing. I can hear their wails and shrieks coming from all directions; see their tortured faces and bodies. I understand this place. This is the place where the sullied souls spend eternity. Hell.
There’s a dark energy in this place. My echo is dark, too. So are the others’. I feel like I’m being stabbed and broken from within, like a thousand knives stabbing outward from my core in all directions, piercing me as if I still had muscle and bone and flesh. The pain starts small, and then grows in endless waves that rise and rise, crest, and then crash all over me. I hear myself screaming. I am fused with the pain.
I see images of Gwyn. I see her murder. Her killer straddles her broken body on the floor of our apartment. He raises the knife and stabs her and then cuts out her heart. This scene plays over and over and I cannot turn it off. It mixes with the sounds of the others’ torments and I understand Hell is a cacophony of suffering, blackened souls.
I feel madness overtaking me and I try to move away from it, searching for a place to hide, a quiet place, but there is no place to hide. Agony, despair, and dread consume and surround me. I’m a murderer. I killed a man to be with Gwyneth. I became like the monster that took her life. What does that make me? It makes me just like the demon. It makes me evil. I am where evil is infinite. I know where I am…and I belong here. I deserve this…and much worse.
An ominous, dark presence comes toward me. Its evil is pure and I can feel it sucking me in, and I hear the sinister laugh of the demon resonating all around me, overwhelming me, merging with me. I am losing myself to it. This is how it will be forever. I will be one with the demon for all eternity. My fall is complete.
But from above, another presence moves toward me and its light is blue and blinding and pure. It hurts me to look at it—but I sense Gwyn within the light and I cannot take my focus from her and I try to pull away from the dark force that wants me, to move toward Gwen and the blue light, but I stretch only so far and am pulled back.
I despair, knowing I will perish in the flames of Hell, imprisoned in an infinite cell of torture and agony for eternity and think this blue light above me with Gwyn’s essence, that tempts me to reach for it giving me false hope, is part of my torture, my punishment. I continue to slide into the ominous presence, becoming one with it and the demon’s laughter grows louder. I smell death and rot, feel its claws in me, pulling and tearing at me as I sink lower.
Despite my certainty about the blue light, I try one last time, and submit to the blue light. I am prostrate in this form, submissive, sorrowful, and remorseful. Please forgive me. Please
forgive me for my sins. I am sorry for what I have done. I beg for your forgiveness. Please.
A tendril extends down from the blue light and Gwyn, touching my form and I see the blue light merge with me where we touch and something begins to change in me. Slowly, the sense of dread and despair dissipates, my form begins to shift, and I become brighter and purer as I sense Gwyn giving a part of her ethereal form to me.
The demon begins to lose its grip on me and its laughter fades. I am able move up, toward Gwyn and the light above.
Finally, I pass into the membrane that surrounds her and I become part of the benevolent light with her.
Hello, John.
I see her with my new senses, an airy, glowing, echo of her physical self. She’s young and beautiful and pure, just as I remember her.
Gwyneth!
I’m here, John. I’m with you.
Our echoes embrace, pure energy entwined. Relief and love and…remorse spread over my form.
Gwyneth… I’ve done something horrible. I’m a monster. I’m evil. I’m so sorry! Gwyn…I…
I withdraw my form. My light energy shrinks away from her as I am filled with self-loathing and I feel my light dim, my energy shifts, and changes.
You are forgiven, John. We forgive you. I still love you.
I feel her form move close to me and embrace me. My energy shifts again, my light brightens. I wish I could hold her in my arms, but I’ll settle for this small comfort she has given me.
She forgives me for my sins. I’ll settle for that. I can live with that.
HARVEY
ALEC YAWNED AND shuffled back into his bedroom, sure he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep tonight.
“What was wrong this time?” Christine asked.
“Same as last night,” Alec said. “Nightmares about that clown again. Where did he see a clown?” Alec wasn’t aware of any clown toys in the house or Mason having been to a circus or anything. Why was he having nightmares about clowns, then? “He’s pretty upset,” Alec said. “He says the clown has too many teeth. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“I have no idea,” Christine said. “Maybe there was a clown at Kevin’s birthday party last week? I think I remember they had a clown making balloon animals for the kids, but he seemed fine after. He didn’t seem upset or scared or anything.” She sounded tired.
It had been a long week with Mason. Up until now, Mason had been an amazing sleeper. Well, OK—the first few months after Mason was born had been tough on the both of them. Alec didn’t get paternity leave from work and even though he tried to help with bottle feedings at night, they’d barely made it. But then Mason seemed to settle in after about the fourth month, and he’d been sleeping through the night since. Occasionally he’d get sick or scared and would come into their room and wake them, but that was rare. Other parents with kids Mason’s age still complained about how their kids were keeping them up at all hours of the night, but not Christine and Alec. They were lucky. Mason had always slept well until last week, when he started having these terrible nightmares about some damn clown. This was the fifth night in a row he came in and woke them up screaming and crying, and he took forever to go back to bed. Alec could go on a few hours of sleep several nights in a row, but Christine really needed her eight hours every night.
“Maybe it’s the new house?” Alec said. They’d only been in the house a couple of weeks. Alec had read a parenting article on the internet that said sometimes kids acted out when they moved.
“I don’t know, babe,” Christine said. She sounded like she wanted to drop it and go back to sleep so Alec let it go. He rolled over on his side, still wide awake, mind racing, eyes blinking in the dark. It was already three AM and he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. He was anxious about Mason’s regression, or whatever was going on and lay there thinking about it until his alarm went off at five thirty, then he got up and got ready for work. By the time he was in his car driving to the train station, his mind was on spreadsheets and powerpoints.
***
“Mace,” Alec said. “You’ve got to stay in bed, OK?” It was night number seven of Mason’s clown nightmares and now Alec was tired and irritable and losing his patience quickly. The kid’s got to learn there’s nothing to be afraid of in the dark. God, he’s just gotta let us get some sleep. Damn it!
“Daddy,” Mason said, whimpering in his Alec’s arms. “Can you please sleep in here with me? Please, Daddy?”
It broke Alec’s heart to see his son like this, but Mason had to learn to soothe himself. All the parenting articles Alec read had advised nightmares were normal and Mason would eventually grow out of this phase. He didn’t want Mason getting into the habit of sleeping in their bedroom. He’d heard those horror stories from other parents; little feet poking your back all night, being slapped in the face with a flailing arm, and the worst: no sex. No. He and Christine had agreed early on that Mason would sleep in his own bed unless he was really sick. Alec knew he had to be patient and help Mason learn to be able to soothe himself when he woke up at night, and put himself back to sleep.
Alec had already been in the room with him for a half hour and was nearing the end of his patience though. He needed his sleep, too. “No, buddy,” Alec said. “You’ve got to be a big boy and sleep in your own bed. I said I’ll lay down with you until you fall asleep and if you wake up and your tummy hurts or you feel sick, you come and get me or Mommy, but otherwise, you need to sleep in your own bed.”
“But, Daddy, I’m afraid! The closet keeps opening, Daddy. I think the clown is in there!”
“There’s no clown in your closet. See?” Alec walked over to the closet and opened the closet door. Inside, Mason’s closet was neatly organized with clothes on hangers hanging from the horizontal pole and old toys and books organized on the shelves.
“But Daddy, it keeps opening. There’s something in…”
Alec lost his cool. It was three AM and he’d shown Mason there was nothing in the closet. He’d been trying to make him feel better for thirty minutes and was tired. How does he not see there is nothing in the damn closet! I’m not debating this with a four-year-old at three in the morning!
“Look, Mason,” Alec said sternly, raising his voice, “there’s nothing in there! Now you stay in this bed unless you feel sick! Do you understand? Look at the clock.”
Alec had bought a clock and a nightlight for Mason yesterday to help him through this. The clock had two colors to help children stay on a sleep schedule. Blue meant it’s still nighttime; stay in bed. Yellow meant it’s daytime; it’s OK to get out of bed. The nightlight changed colors—red, blue, yellow, purple. It was supposed to be soothing for children when they woke up in the middle of the night—at least that’s what Alec and Christine had read, anyway.
“The clock is blue, Mason. That means it’s sleep time. When it turns yellow, you can get out of bed. Otherwise I want you in bed unless you feel sick. Do you hear me?”
Mason looked down at the ground and a sob shuddered through his little body. Alec immediately was sorry that he had yelled. He rarely lost his cool with Mason, but he was tired and irritable and just wanted a good night’s sleep.
“Listen, buddy,” he said, sitting next to Mason on the bed and putting his arm around him. “I’m sorry I yelled, but Daddy’s tired and he needs to get his sleep so he can go to work tomorrow. You gotta help me, buddy. OK?”
Mason looked at the floor, squeezed his bunny, and nodded his head yes. He sniffled as Alec tucked him into bed, kissed him on his cheek, and left the room.
Alec went back to his bedroom and slumped back into bed.
“Is he OK?” Christine mumbled.
“Same shit again. Fucking clown nightmares and now they’re in the damn closet too! I’ve had it! I’m tired and I have a big meeting tomorrow. You get up with him the next time!”
“Fine, but don’t yell at me!” Christine snapped. “He’s only four and you’re tired!”
Alec bit back
a reply, and then sighed. She was right. He’d just yelled at Mason and now he was yelling at her. “You’re right. I’m exhausted. Sorry. I need to get some sleep. We can talk about it in the morning. Hopefully he stays in bed the rest of the night.”
Alec rolled over and fell right back to sleep, though it felt like his alarm went off just after he closed his eyes.
***
The next night, the closet door in Mason’s room creaked open and Mason opened his eyes. He clutched his bunny close to his chest, kneading the bunny’s torso with his hands nervously. He sat up, and looked at the closet. The nightlight changed from red to blue, distorting the shadows in his room. He stared at the blackness beyond the closet door. He could see partway inside from his bed.
Oh, not the door again! Daddy needs to fix my door. I’m scared. I need my door shut. I’m gonna go get him. Mason looked at the clock. It was still blue. He knew that meant stay in bed. Daddy said not to get out of bed until the clock is yellow unless I’m sick. Am I sick? My tummy doesn’t hurt. Maybe I have a fever? I don’t feel sick. Daddy’s going to get mad at me if I get out of bed and wake him. I don’t want Daddy to be mad. I’m a big boy. I can close the door for Daddy.
Mason swung his legs over the side of the bed and slid down until his toes touched the floor. He dragged bunny off the bed with him and held him to his chest tightly as he eased his way to the closet door. The nightlight turned from blue to purple as he reached for the doorknob. He grasped it, his four-year-old hand barely big enough to cover the knob, and began walking the door closed.
Mason saw something move in the back of the closet and stopped. His little shirts and sweaters hung in a neat little row above his head. The purple light of the room didn’t reach behind the hanging clothes and Mason couldn’t see what was back there. He squinted, trying to make out what he was seeing and then heard music playing softly. It sounded like merry-go-round music like he had just heard when at the mall last weekend. He got on his tippy toes and tried to look behind the clothes in the back of the closet. A white glove appeared through the clothes and spread them to one side, startling Mason. The shape came into focus. It looked like a clown. Mason jerked his hand back from the door and ran back to his bed.
