“And that was how you died; you were stabbed?” Helen asked.
“Yeah This guy was beating up on his girl. I tried to split them up and that was when he stabbed me. The blade must have gotten under my vest. I just bled to death in the street. It all happened real quick. I know it sounds like a standard movie cliché, but it is the truth.” Marcus paused for a moment, looking down at his own hands, which he saw were clasped into tight fists. He ground them into his thighs as he spoke. “The last thing I heard was the baby screaming,” he added absently. ”My wife was at home, packing for our holiday. I never got to say goodbye, or hug my kids.” Marcus stopped, his tale done. It was the condensed version but it had been said nonetheless. It had left him feeling sore, as if someone had scrubbed his soul with a wire brush – but it was said and he did feel better. Even if the sudden mention of his wife and children, the realization of the withdrawal of his role in their lives, reduced him to tears.
“I’m sorry,” Helen offered. “I know it doesn’t exactly help, but I am.” She rose to her feet and both her knees gave a loud crack. “My life wasn’t anything like that. I was just at work, and then the next thing I know I was naked and hanging upside-down. The first time I was in a warehouse. There were large hooks everywhere. Like a meat factory, I guess; a slaughter house. I was alone and these large hooks had been put through my feet. That was when he came.” Helen paused to compose herself. She had moved over by the window , and as she peered out into the grey she thought she saw a shadow float across the street. No, not a shadow but a figure, someone else. She blinked, clearing her eyes, and it was gone.
“Who?” Marcus asked. He had moved beside her. He didn’t push her for an answer. He knew that she would tell all when it was time, when she felt ready for it. Together they stood in silence and stared out of the window, simply enjoying the feeling of company. It was quite some time before either of them spoke, and it was Helen who broke the silence, continuing her tale as if she had never stopped.
“Luther. It was always him. Every day, for years on end he would come.” There was a slight pause as Helen fought to find her words. Her voice sounded embarrassed by the admissions she was about to make. She could feel her cheeks beginning to heat up with a blush. “He would do all sorts of things to me, always smiling; sometimes he would even hum some Hell tune to himself. It was strange because he was… well, charming. When he spoke he was a real gentleman. He was never crude or vulgar, but the things he did…” Helen stopped, unable to go on any further without having Luther come forward out of her mind, a shining steel blade in his hands, his eyes glowing with Hell fire yet pining at her absence with the same longing lust as a couple reunited after a period of separation.
The click startled them both, although Helen was the only one who let out a startled scream. The atmosphere of wherever they were seemed to eat their words, but that sound, whatever it had been, thundered in their ears like cannon fire. Helen and Marcus both spun around, Marcus’s hands coming up in front of his body, fists clenched; his body weight moved onto the balls of his feet; his eyes narrowed. He was ready for anything.
Helen was startled. She shrank within herself. She brought her arms up and wrapped them around her chest. Unknowingly she had taken several steps backwards, behind Marcus.
Or had he stepped in front of her? It didn’t matter.
The room was still empty.
“The door.” It was Helen who saw it first. The booming sound they both heard must have been the lock turning. The door, a large windowless point of entry, swung open a few inches. It wasn’t much, yet at the same time it was just enough. A beam of bright, powerful yellow light squeezed through the opening. It looked like something from an early Technicolor movie where most parts were still in black and white, and any color that appeared seemed far too powerful and brilliant to be true.
“We’re not alone,” Marcus responded. His gaze was focused on the door, but his body was more relaxed: if there was a threat lurking out there, it wasn’t ready for the fight just yet. First it wanted to play.
“Well, you’ve been here longer than I have, but I’ve already had enough of this place. So let’s get out of here while there is a doorway we can use. Please,” Helen said, making the statement but not wanting to be the first one to make a move.
“Stay close to me; we don’t know what’s out there,” Marcus said, his voice quiet, his words slow and steady. His eyes never left the door. They studied it the way an artist studies a slab of clay or blank canvas before beginning their masterpiece. He took a gentle hold of Helen’s right arm, moving her even further behind him, and then, together, they headed toward the door.
II
The yellow light was not only too bright, but it was too thick, displacing their air, hanging like oil. Marcus raised his hand and gently prodded it with his middle finger. It felt like jelly. The surface didn’t break but pushed inwards.
“It’s like a balloon,” Helen whispered. Both of them felt the strange yet certain sensation of being watched, or at least eavesdropped on, and so automatically they began to speak in whispers.
“Something like that,” Marcus said, puzzled. It was unlike anything he had seen before, but a balloon was a good enough description for him.
Carefully, Marcus opened the door, expecting for some strange reason for it to creak like an old haunted house. It opened smooth and silent. Together Marcus and Helen stepped out into the hallway.
“Good God.” Helen caught her breath as she spoke. The yellow light hung close to the ceiling, and travelled along the corridor before making a ninety degree turn to the right. “What is this place?” she asked the air, echoing Marcus’s thoughts to the letter.
“It’s like a Tardis, or the theory of one,” Marcus remarked. He felt his age when he saw the blank look of Helen’s face. “It didn’t feel this big when you looked out the window.” Marcus backtracked and redirected when he saw his Tardis comment would need extensive explanations.
The corridor stretched out in both directions and disappeared into the distance. The floor was carpeted with what their minds told them was a rich ruby red carpet, but in reality – or the reality they were in, at least – it was a faded pastel, pink. The walls were decorated in two styles; the lower half was covered in wallpaper, embossed with a floral-cum-tribal design that swirled around in semi-hypnotic patterns. The longer Helen and Marcus looked at it, the more convinced they were that the patterns were moving, swaying in some invisible current. Above the wallpaper was a wooden rail, not a feature of decoration but more of a handrail to guide those who might get lost in the labyrinth. The rail stood proud of the wall, held by regularly placed brackets. Marcus wrapped his hand around the bar and gave it a series of swift sharp tugs, and when it didn’t give he seemed to loosen up just ever so slightly. Helen could see in his naked torso that his shoulders were anything but at ease; his muscles rippled with every movement he made. The top half of the wall was painted what they thought to be cream, but it could just have been a dirty white. The color of the wallpaper was dulled beyond recognition, but they assumed miniature chandeliers hung at regular intervals from the – supposedly – whitewashed ceiling. The yellow beam swerved effortlessly around them like a slalom skier, first to the left and then to the right. To finish the look there were delicate ornate wall lamps placed between each of the chandeliers. Yet in spite of all the lights, the only illumination was that emitted by the strange yellow beam, which seemed even more vivid in the watercolor corridor.
“There aren’t any doors,” Marcus noted. It was a poor attempt to strike up a conversation and coupled with his expression he was surprised Helen answered him at all.
“No, wait, take a look at that,” Helen said, pointing to the opposite wall.” Marcus looked, following the guideline laid by Helen’s outstretched arm and finger.
At first Marcus saw nothing; the swirling design of the wallpaper stole his attention – but then just as he looked away he saw it. A faint outline –
Just a shadow
– against the wall. Marcus looked back at the door they had just walked through. It stood out like a sore thumb. Its mahogany coloring seemed completely out of place amid the faded kingdom that they found themselves trapped in. Marcus turned his attention back to Helen, who had moved away from him. She approached the wall, her left arm raised; she made to touch it. It looked to Marcus like nothing more than a thin crack. Granted it just happened to change direction at the crucial moments, creating the appearance of a door.
Helen had moved forward, unaware that Marcus had remained standing. The closer she got to the wall, the clearer the image became. The outline thickened, taking form with each step Helen took until she stood before it. She could do nothing but stand and stare. The door was plain, naked, untainted by stains or paints. There was something about the number 937 that spoke to her. They hadn’t been that high, assuming the hotel was numbered with the same principle as every other hotel she had ever known.
“I told you there was a door,” Helen called. She looked back at Marcus, giving him a look that only a woman can give properly.
“What are you talking about? I can’t see any door,” Marcus began. He walked over to Helen, his attention no longer focused on the wall, but rather he surveyed the scene as a whole, looking for something, anything.
It was then that Helen looked past Marcus, over his shoulder at the wall where their door had been. Only it wasn’t there. It was gone, vanished. All that was left in its place was the wall, uninterrupted, as if it had never been there.
Marcus looked at Helen and saw her pale as she opened her mouth to speak. Her eyes widened as if she had seen a ghost or some other spectral figure. The change was so sudden that he even felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Acting on instinct, Marcus took a look behind him, expecting to see some Hell beast which Helen had yet to find the right words to use as warning. When he saw nothing out of place, Marcus moved forwards once again, walking over to her, watching as her face didn’t change; the look of slight horror held firm. It was only when he got close enough to Helen that Marcus realized it wasn’t horror, but sheer puzzlement. The kind of bewildering speechlessness had come over her that affects a child when someone pulls a coin or a small toy out from behind their ear.
Marcus opened his mouth to speak but then saw part of the riddle for himself. The door. It was right before him. Marcus closed his eyes, squeezing them shut until they itched with cramp. When he opened them he expected the door to be gone, but it wasn’t. Marcus did everything but rub his eyes with the heel of his hands but the door remained fact. He reached out and touched it, expecting it to disappear, to burst like a balloon, but it remained solid. Marcus even made a fist and rapped three times on the door’s hard surfaced; the booming clouts of each blow echoed on the other side of the door and simply confirmed that the door did in fact exist, and so did the room behind it.
“I don’t get it. This place, I mean. What on earth is this place?” Marcus turned to look at Helen as he spoke. He noticed that her face had regained a measure of color, although it would never be what it once was. It was the atmosphere of the hotel; it was draining them of their color, just as it had drained the building.
“That’s not all,” Helen began, but before she could finish speaking Marcus saw it for himself. The door that they had only a few moments ago passed through was gone.
“That’s interesting,” Marcus offered, unsure of what else to say. He was more surprised to find that he wasn’t surprised.
“Wait a second. Let me try something,” Marcus said, his voice distant, not really there. In a way, he wasn’t. Marcus had retreated, crawled deep inside his own mind. He acted, he didn’t overanalyze or underestimate. He simply acted with an innate knowledge; it was carved into his bones and had saved him on more than one occasion. Both in and out of the ring.
He turned his back on Helen once again and walked back towards the original door. His eyes were focused on the wall. As he had expected, every step he took brought the door further into focus; first the outline, then the shadows, and finally the substance. Marcus reached the door just as the handle appeared. He turned around and looked back at Helen. She was still there, in the same spot. However, the door to room 937 was gone.
“Can you see me?” Marcus asked.
“Yes,” Helen answered him, confused and uncertain why had would ask such a simple question.
“Can you see the door?” he asked again.
“No,” Helen responded.
Marcus raised his right arm, and with firm strokes rapped against the door three times. Although Helen could not see any door, she heard the unmistakable knock of wood, of visitors requesting entry.
“Your turn,” Marcus called. He had a hunch that he would hear the same sound when Helen knocked on the wall (as he saw it). He was sweating; he could feel the droplets forming on the top of his head.
Slowly, Helen raised her arm and knocked on the door. Her hand shook – all her strength was gone – but Marcus heard it clear enough. Satisfied with the conclusion he had reached, he walked back over to Helen, looking over his shoulder with each step. He walked as if he was walking down the aisle.
Left foot forward.
Look at door 937.
Feet together.
Look over shoulder.
Left foot forward.
…
And so it went. One door disappeared and another came into being.
“We’re not going in, are we?” Helen asked once Marcus had returned to her side. She wasn’t sure if she wanted her words to sound hopeful or hesitant.
Marcus looked at her. His bare chest twitched as he thought, and despite herself Helen couldn’t help but give him the quick once over with her eyes.
“I think we are supposed to follow this light.” Marcus realized how corny it sounded when spoken out loud but he meant it.
“I guess you’re right; I mean, it does seem to be going somewhere,” Helen agreed. They both knew that following the trail of bright yellow floating jelly was the right idea, but neither was ready to put their complete trust in it.
“Do you think this is another part of Hell?” Helen put the question out there. It had been resting on the inside of her lips ever since she woke up, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to raise it, but now seemed like as good a time as any.
“I don’t think so. From what you told me, we were in two different places. Two different… what was it, chambers? I’m no expert on Hell – I don’t even think I believed in it all, not to this extent – but I don’t think you just get moved around. Judged is judged. That whole process seemed damned official. If you ask me, I think something pulled us out.” They walked as they talked, Marcus always half a step ahead as they followed the yellow bubble of light. It was that half step which allowed Helen, with help from the yellow glow emitted from the beam, to see the mark on Marcus’s shoulder. It was as clear as day in the strange light. A bright red burn covered Marcus’s shoulder; a hand – an enormous hand, but a hand nonetheless.
“Jesus, you’ve got a… um… you have a hand… hand print on your back,” Helen stammered. The print was enormous; easily three times the size of a normal man’s hand, but it was unmistakable.
“What?” Marcus stopped. It wasn’t so much Helen’s words but rather the vision they seemed to create.
He was falling. The bodies around him cried out, laughed at him. A few threw lumps of molten flesh in his direction. Then the hand grabbed him, just as those beasts had flown away. It had grabbed him by the shoulder and lifted him to safety.
“I remember,” he said before Helen could say anything.
“What, what do you remember?” Helen asked.
“Turn around,” Marcus told her. Reaching out with his hands as he moved, he pulled her shirt upwards. Her shoulder was bare, the flesh unblemished, flawless. “Shit. There goes that theory,” he said to himself out loud.
“What are you…?” Helen asked, her words catching i
n her throat as her own vision broke through into the forefront of her mind. A hand had reached out nowhere – light – and grasped her by the ankle. “Wait… wait…” she said, kicking off the shoes – which, much like the clothes, had been placed upon her between her rescue and her waking – and rolled up her trouser leg. “I was upside-down. They grabbed me by my leg,” she said, her voice filled with an excitement she couldn’t explain.
Marcus saw the imprint, but only once Helen stood in the glow of the yellow beam. The large red hand print that wrapped around her ankle. The imprint was not as clear as the one on Marcus’s shoulder, but it was clear enough.
“Do you...” Marcus began.
“Yes, I remember,” Helen finished.
“Okay, well that gives us something we can go on at least. We were pulled out of Hell and placed here, so that means in theory that this is, what... some sort of safe house?” Marcus pondered, his mind busy working through a number of different theories.
“Okay, then why us?” Helen asked. Questions bounced around inside her head, desperate to be spoken. Not because she expected Marcus to offer her anything other than a thoughtful observation, but because she had missed having somebody else to talk to, and wanted to make the most of it should everything fall apart. Sure, Luther had talked to her, had broken the loneliness, but that wasn’t company; that was just his fun and games.
The only sound was a strange, electric buzzing noise, like when you stand too close to overhead power lines. It came from the yellow light. Neither of them was surprised.
“Beats me, it really does, but my guy tells me that if we follow this path long enough we will either find either the beginning or the end. Either way there has to be a way out.” Marcus looked over his shoulder at Helen; he could feel her nerves and felt sorry for her.
The emergency lighting, as they liked to think of it, took them down the corridor and then turned right into a second corridor which was just as long as the one they had come from. Impossibly long given the size that they had gauged based on the other buildings in the street. The meandering corridors appeared and disappeared much like the doors, which they now passed at regular intervals. Even numbers on the right and odd numbers on the left. They made yet another turn, when Helen stopped; frozen, she looked over her shoulder, certain that someone was watching them; there was nothing. No sign of the corridor they had just left. Instead she stood but a few feet away from a wall. She reached out and touched it. It was real. Marcus, who had felt her fall behind, stopped and turned to face her. While he wasn’t surprised by what he saw, he still let out a startled grunt.
Highway To Hell Page 17
