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The Strange Tale of John Strickland
Part One
I have no name. I had one once but I forget it now. So many years have passed since then. So many lifetimes; lived, stolen, released.
When I was alive in the flesh, I thought there there was honor in fighting for what I believed. I thought that honor made a difference. I was a twenty-year old living in England during the Revolutionary War with the Colonies overseas. I secretly supported the rebels. I decided to support them vocally. One thing led to another and I was hung for treason. So much for youthful ideals.
That was the beginning of my adventure.
My first glimpse of death was no different than the life I had known. It was like waking from a dream. I was standing in an old tower, much like the base of a bell tower of a church. I could see a noose hanging from the beams above, but it meant nothing to me. I had no recollection of the part it had recently played in my death. The church was empty. I looked out the window. The sun was shining. The day was clear. The streets were empty. I found another window, and was somehow surprised to find the same empty streets. I wondered if it were late on a Sunday and all good families were home. It took me a while to find a door. I'm not sure why something like a door was suddenly so confusing, but nothing was intuitive anymore. I could stare at the oblong piece of wood for quite some time without recognition, perhaps for a very, very long time, and then finally the recollection surfaced. I went outside and stood in the street. It was vacant. The buildings trailed off into the shadows, reminiscent of how I remembered them. It was quiet. The air was unnaturally still. In fact, there was no air at all, but I did not realize that yet. I began to think it was as if this place had become a ghost town. I did not realize how accurate was my musing. I thought, "There's nothing left but ghosts." It chilled me. I wondered if England had lost the war and this town, my town, had been vacated... or the people captured and executed. I thought I saw something stir in a window across the street. I went to investigate.
It was dark inside, but I opened the door and entered. I called out politely, to avoid frightening anyone, or to be shot as an intruder. There was no one to be found. I walked from room to room, noticing that the furniture I had thought I had seen through the window did not seem to exist in the rooms themselves. It was as if they had been painted into the window glass. I called aloud timidly, brushing my finger along a pile of dust on a sill. The dust evaporated on my finger as if it had existed only as long as it had been in my immediate thought. It could not withstand the scrutiny of reality. Something was wrong with this town, but it was impossible for me to understand what it was. I walked slowly, deliberately, through the rooms, seeking answers, guidance, a fellow survivor, anyone who could answer the many questions now churning through my head.
A man wearing a dark cloak stepped out of the shadows as I entered a long narrow room. The sun filtered through the strange windows, lighting only parts of the stranger.
I told him hurriedly, "I'm glad I found you. Were you hiding? Where is everyone else? Are they all dead?"
He did not reply. The sun moved up his body as if rushing to cross the sky.
I stepped closer. Even in the light, his face had no distinguishable features. The light seemed to stop at his neck. His face was a blur of flesh, shadow, and dust. I asked again, "Where did they all go?"
He pointed out the window, and I followed the trail of his gloved finger. The streets were no longer empty. People wearing clothes from different ages walked the streets, staggering, as if lost; passing one another, as if blind. They acted as if they were all alone, even when they hovered in groups near the windows of shops, or seemed to be huddled in conversation on street corners. There was a complete disconnect. Life did not exist as a unified strand; it was random, and painful to watch; bitterly alone. I told him, "They weren't there before. Where did they come from?"
He stepped further into the light, and for a moment, his face remained featureless. Then, the strange blur reorganized like a swarm of black flies smothering his skin. He became tangible. Wavy black hair curled down over one eye. His mouth was cracked in a smile that might have been a malicious sneer.
I asked, "Can you speak? Why don't you say anything? What do you want with me? I am only here looking for answers. I don't mean to be trespassing."
He went to the window. There was something evil and foreboding about him. His silence was unnerving. When he glanced outside, I had a sense that his emotions were equally part sorrow, disdain, and hatred. When his hand landed on the window sill, I could see the wood through his glove. He was not flesh and blood. He was a troubled spirit.
Part Two
I felt drawn to the image of the man. I had the urge to step forward and rouse him, to force him to address me. He seemed to shimmer in and out of time; one moment, here and real; the next, gone or transparent. I wondered if he had waited for me. I wondered if he had seen me coming and chose the moment to appear. Could he have died in the war? I was not afraid of a ghost. A ghost, after all, was still a person; less the body. Why did he turn away? He had pointed to the window, but then he had ignored me. The thought of touching a ghost was slightly more troubling than the thought of seeing one; but still, I resolved to step closer and make contact.
As my hand was about to press down upon the apparition, he tilted his head and seemed to lay eyes upon me. A wicked sneer crossed his twisted lips. I hesitated. Evil emanated from his spirit. What did he want, I wondered? He was waiting, like a snake hidden in the grass. I became determined to stay my course; I would not back down from my decision to make contact. Again, my hand moved closer, but before I could grasp at the misty vapor of his being, I was startled by a face in the window.
Her eyes were as wild as they were beautiful. She had been formed of the paradise that dripped down from heaven, and forged in the fires of hell. Her vaporous arms reached through the glass and pushed me away. The soft blue light that doused her skin hovered in the air between us. In her presence, the other specter faded and vanished. We were alone, in a room of our own imagination. The floor, now polished like smooth glass, reflected her beauty. I was attracted and terrified. I wondered why she had entered so abruptly, pushing me away from the other visitor.
"Why?" I asked.
"Don't you know?" she asked. She seemed to posess infinite patience and understanding, but I sensed such great power within her.
I shook my head. "Has the town been destroyed? Has everyone else died?"
"Who?" she asked, leading me slowly, step-by-step, to her conclusion.
"Everyone. The people outside. That man. You."
"Who?" she asked again, curiously, waiting for me to say it.
I laughed. I understood what she was suggesting. I knocked on the wall, and heard the faint thud of flesh on wood echoing in the silent room. "Not me, if that's what you mean," I told her. The light outside the window began to flicker, a black strobe.
She smiled. "Days pass while we ponder," she admitted.
As I glanced at the window, the flicker slowed and steadied. The sun slowed and froze in the plastic sky.
"Alright. I'm dead," I told her without conviction.
"It's not enough to say it," she told me. "You must comprehend it. I'm here to help you."
I saw random spirits outside the window, scurrying through the town, trying to experience moments of their past, unaware that they had expired. "And them?" I asked.
"When they are ready, the truth shall find them."
I knocked on the wall again, but this time there was no sound. My sense of conviction had been replaced by doubt. I stared at the wall. I noticed the flicker of days passing quickly, somewhere behind my shoulder. The blue light of the apparition bathed me. I put the palm of my hand in front of my mouth and exhaled. There was no breath to feel. I touched my face. I felt nothing. Facing the wild and beautiful spirit, I asked her, "And this room?"
"You see what comforts you."
Tentatively, I pressed my hand against the wood before me, and then pushed further. I slid into the illusion. It disquieted me, to see my hand dissolve into the wall. Pulling back, I asked, "Where did it go?"
"There are neither walls nor hands here."
"But you see what I see?" I was confused. If this were an illusion, how could she know I had put my hand through a wall?
"You project your illusion. Others may confuse your illusion for their reality. It is no different in life."
I asked, "Then why are you here?"
"Because you are ready."
Part Three
It is peculiar to realize that you are dead. You feel no different than when you were alive. The world around you is as real as you imagine it. Your reality, what you see, is a mixture of your own thoughts and the thoughts of those around you. Often they blend to form an 'accepted truth', though sometimes there are discrepancies which are simply ignored and forgotten. I am told it is no different in life, though I don't recall witnessing the experience while still flesh and blood. Once I was prepared to accept the truth of my new condition, my guide had come. She led me quickly from an awareness of doubt to the perception of the new truth. Like a beautiful and terrifying blue angel, she opened my eyes.
Watching other spirits in this illusionary realm, I had to wonder how long it would take before they knew what they had become. As they approached an area, I would see the face of a building appear, as it materialized to meet their expectations. They continued to go about their daily lives, oblivious to the dramatic changes. Certainly they were not interacting with images of living people they once knew, but they, as I had also done when I first entered this realm, probably assumed that those they once knew had died and were gone.
The notion that I was not human continued to evade me. I saw myself as a man. When I looked at the ground I saw my feet and legs. I saw my hands and arms. When I looked into a window or mirror, I saw the face that I remembered, or at least saw a face that I thought had been mine. It seemed an impossible task; to let go of humanity. If I ceased to exist based on what I had been, then what would I become? What was I now? I grinned and asked my guide, again slipping back to the crude silliness of mortality. "Are all guides beautiful, or is it only you?"
She smiled. She would argue that she did not smile, of course. She would say that I projected a smile onto her face because that is what I wanted to see. But I saw her smile. She replied, "I don't even know what you see when you look at me." I believed this to be true.
"Where do we go from here?" I asked. "What do we do? Is there some place we gather once we know we are dead, to begin our cheerful eternity? Are there social halls, and churches, and angelic choirs for us to join?"
"Those thoughts are still anchored in the life you have departed," she reminded me.
"It's all I know," I told her.
"There is that much more for you to learn, then. But you have already taken your first step."
I paused. The convenient amnesia of the details of my life troubled me. "Who was I? How did I die? I see myself as young. Was I really young, or is this simply how, as you say, I project myself?"
She answered only part of my question, but gave no indication that she knew or was willing to answer the rest. "You were hung. For treason. A very human notion."
I squinted my eyes, recalling the rope I had seen hanging from the rafters when I first became aware of my new surroundings. Lowering my voice into a growl, I asked, "And that ghost I saw in this room, before you pushed me away, did he have something to do with my death? I felt he was calling to me. I was moving closer to him, and you prevented it."
She shook her head sternly. "He was not a ghost. He was one of the living. We see them from time to time in our realm."
"Alive?" I was speechless. He had flickered in and out of existence with as much ease as the ghosts mindlessly crossing the imaginary streets outside.
She explained, "There are some in the world of the living who have second sight. And other talents. It allows them to cross into our realm in a way. They are usually seeking to control us, or to contact a lost loved one, or to have us teach or bestow upon them some great power. These are not ours to give."
"He seemed evil. Did I project that as well?"
She shook her head and the color of her shadow darkened. "No. He was evil. It is better for everyone concerned that we not make conact with them, and that they do not make contact with us. Nothing but sorrow can result from such unions."
The mere fact that I had been hung for treason suggested that I was the type of person who often thought 'contrary' thoughts. It was therefore no surprise that when she told me that 'contact between the living and the dead only would only lead to sorrow,' sparked an immediate greater interest in me. It reinforced the entertaining notion that the living and the dead could, indeed, make contact. Craftily, I asked her, "When we see these rogue specters, how do we tell the difference between the dead of this world, and the living, stepping slightly over our border?"
I was transparent to her. She knew my thoughts as clearly as if they had been written in blood on my imagined military jacket.
Part Four
She indicated it was time to leave this room. I realized the shape of the room was vaguely familiar. It resembled my family's parlour, when I was a child. I could not remember much detail about the place, but I had obviously chosen it as a place of comfort, a harbor in disquieting seas. The blue woman with the wild eyes and flowing white, black, and grey hair began to lead me through the wall, but I hesitated. Even though I knew it was a technicality, I could not get used to the idea of passing through a wall, so I found a door. I did succeed in passing through the door without opening it, but the cocnept of passing through a 'wall' still offended my lingering humanity.
When we stepped outside into the street I had already seen, it was even more chaotic than I had seen through the window. Everywhere I looked, I saw bits of people's hopes and dreams, creations of the lives they believed, or wished, they were still living. The heads of horses followed by the torso's of proper gentlmen glided by, oblivious to the fact that their coach was only partially formed. Doors, walls, building facades, and conflicting skyscapes appeared all around me like a great hall of mirrors, casting impossible combinations. A park bench appeared for a lover who would wait for eternity for her mate to appear. The gangplank of a ship lowered through the sides of a bank, allowing the dead crew a way to finally reach the shore. Even though I saw more and more of the population of this realm, my initial observation did not change. They acted as if they were the only ones present. They did not see the collection of ghosts I saw. They did not interact. They were in their own private denial. It was fascinating to watch. It occurred to me that until a few moments ago, I had probably been one of those cluless specters, going about my business, oblivious to my own death. Of course, to me, two blinks of an eye might be long enough for a dog to age and die, and then for the bones to wither to dust. Time had no meaning here. If you did not focus your attention on the moment, the moment fled, and ages could pass without notice.
My beautiful guide waited patiently while I took in the environment with a certain amusement. I commented to her, "This place would be easier if there were a guide-book." I glanced to my right, and a small round table had appeared, large enough to hold a leather bound volume which was titled in gilded letters: 'Guide Book.' I laughed, and lifted the book. "It's that easy?" I asked. My guide said nothing. I opened the cover. The first page simply said, "Before you can move forward, you must know where you are." I turned the page. The next page was blank. I thumbed through the remainder of the book, but all the pages were blank.
My guide asked me, clearly amused, "Have you found the rules you hoped to find?"
I returned the book to the table. Having no further use for it, the table disappeared. With a hint of disgust, I replied, "It only told me what I already knew." As an after-thought, I commented, "Of course, since the book came from my own imagination, it could not hold anything else, could it?"
She smiled. I was learning. Nodding her head slightly, she explained, "You can not see the truth until you understand it. By the time your guide-book is full, you will have no need for it."
A pigeon appeared from nowhere and flew past my head, dropping a heavy white wad as it flew. It vanished before striking anything.
I asked her, a moment of despair creeping into my heart, "Is there a point to any of this? Life had meaning. We lived. We grew. We learned. We built cities and held jobs and loved and died. What do we have here? Mindless illusion?"
My question troubled her. I had already noticed that the shade of the blue glow which encompassed her form grew darker when she was troubled. With a cold tone in her voice, she corrected me, "The past world had no more meaning than what you see here. Your so-called life was no more than these specters chasing after pieces of pottery which only can be seen from the front, and floating heads wearing newly-purchased hats."
"But there has to be a point," I pressed.
Cautioning me, she warned, "If you look back, you can only find what you already had, but never have again. This leads to despair and self-destruction. Avoid this trap. Move forward. Embrace the unknown. Seek something extraordinary and you will find it."
I nodded. A sly grin crossed my own face, reminding me of the expression I had seen on the face of the evil man from the oblong room. "Yes," I told her. "Embrace something extraordinary."
Part Five
She warned me, her eyes ablaze with a fire from within, "Rebellion is the act of the immature. Those who do not understand - or are incapable of abiding by the rules of the beauty and simplicity of the master plan - seek to tear it down. Rebellion is a dark presence in your soul, and brings only turmoil. You must understand what I am telling you."
Sharply, I asked, "And the Colonies? Did they win their war of independence against England?"
"It has no bearing on us or our world."
"But do you know?" I asked, refusing to let the answer slip away so easily.
"Yes. I know," she told me. Then, seeing I would not be satisfied until I had heard, she replied, "They have won their battle."
I smiled, a sense of elation rising inside me. As if trying to wave this fact in her face, I commented rudely, "So you see, rebellion has its time and place."
She was not amused. "On the contrary. All rebellion is nothing more than a passing storm. All things return to state in time."
My imaginary body felt hot. I was suffocating. I knew that my emotions were tied to a human life that no longer existed, but I argued with myself, "If I still feel these feelings, then that is who I am. Even now."
She watched as the image of my own form become more solid and defined. She knew what was happening. She continued to caution me, like a teacher losing patience with a disobedient student. "If you refuse to let go of a past which can never be, you will never become what YOU are meant to be. Others spend lifetimes caught in these traps. Only by looking beyond can you be free. I see that you are having dangerous doubts."
Coldly, I replied, "If we fail to see eye-to-eye on such core issues, I do not understand how you could be an effective guide."
She hesitated. I do not know if her intent was to be cruel, but she warned, "Do as you wish. After you have exhausted your paths and found yourself hopeless and alone, unable to touch or enjoy the things you most desperately crave, you will understand, and wish that you had not dismissed me so abruptly. Why do so many people assume the past is hallowed? Because there are cryptic fragments of writings which suggest they had secret knowledge? Because the world of the past is full of ruins which inspire mystery and awe? Or simply because there is so much left unknown and open to interpretation? There is nothing in the past you do not have before you now. Open your eyes."
While I was reviewing her taunt in my mind, thinking, "I did not dismiss her;" she vanished into the shifting scenery of the night.
For a moment, I was frightened. I reviewed the world around me, full of ghosts lost in reveries of lives they could never live again. Worse, I now noticed new spirits I had not seen before. They were experiencing the deaths that sent them to this place. Terrified people were being hung from gallows; shot by firing squads; having their throats slashed by thieves and murderers; burning in their beds while partial images of their flaming homes surrounded their frantic spirits. I saw them experiencing their torments over and over, as if they were trying to find a way to prevent their own death. What could they have done differently, they wondered? With just an ounce of hindsight and a second chance, they were certain they could escape this fate. As a result, they were destined to repeat it and suffer for eternity. They did not have a second chance. I shuddered. Was it my destiny to become a shadow without purpose? Would I find some fond or painful moment and let it consume me like an obsession? In the depths of my soul, I knew my guide had been right. The past was gone. To dwell was foolish. But I was not quite ready to shed my lingering humanity, and a part of me embraced that foolishness. I began giving myself my own guidelines, such as, "Be careful not to think about painful or terrifying moments, lest you become anchored to that experience for eternity. You can not move on, if you can not break free."
The small round table appeared beside me once more. The guide-book was open to page two, revealing my recent revelation. I laughed. I did not need a guide. Or a book. I was determined to find my way through this maze on my own rebellious terms. I dismissed the book and the table and told them, "Don't bother returning. I don't need to be told what I already know." ANd they were gone.
Once again, I stood watching a world full of increasing chaos and suffering. "Where would I go?" I wondered. "What should I do?" Everywhere I looked, I found this canvas of illusion. Trying to look to the peripherals, or beyond the horizon, did not reveal any hidden doors, or secret portals. I was surrounded by a world full of suffering, injustice, and conflict. I was entrapped by a world remarkably similar to the one I had left behind. "My god," I thought. "I've already done it to myself. I've trapped myself in my moment. But instead of it being a specific moment, it is the condition of the world I once knew." I became fascinated by the ghosts doomed to repeat their deaths. They could not escape their fate because they could not let go of the moment of their conflict. They could not see beyond that moment. But I could watch them. I could learn from their mistakes. If I could discover how each could move out of their trap, and help to set them free, then I might uncover how I could do the same.
Many wise people have said that the best way to learn, is to teach someone else.
Part Six
If you have ever known someone who is caught in a pattern of self-destruction, and you try to point out to them that they continue to end up in the same disasters because they continue to make the same wrong choices, then you already know that it is impossible to steer them peacefully off that path. I entreated the lover who went daily to the park bench, expecting someone to return to her. Her repetitive behavior made her the target for a stalker who kills her, by cutting her throat. For eternity, she experiences that horror, over and over. I sat with her. I told her that no one will come, that she must move on. I warned her that predictable routine, sitting alone day after day in the same place at the same time, exposed her to the madness of others. When I had become so familiar with her hell that I could predict when the attacker would appear from behind, I even tried to pull her away, or intercept and stop him. But she was a ghost, and this was in her mind, and I merely passed through her torment. On it went. I tried to explain to her that she had already died, that she had been the victim of both rejection and murder. My words fell on deaf ears; she was not prepared, or not willing, to listen. It was odd. I had a moment of recollection from my own life. I had tried to spread a wave of support for the colonies across the sea, in their fight for liberty from England. My words had fallen on deaf ears. People were either prepared already to sympathize with that cause, or they were not. My words made no difference. That's not true; it made one difference. The difference it made was that someone presented me to the military police who then had me executed for treason. I was doing it again; repeating behavior from my life, as if anchored to my human past. I could not convince others to change. I needed to remember that. I laughed for a moment. Even though I had told my imaginary guide-book to go away and never return, I could imagine a third page being filled with my latest revelation.
So, if I could not convince others to change, then I would only waste time and effort by observing them and trying to end their moments of continual destiny. I realized that this would be a good time for my guide to return, and at least help me with this next step in my post-life existence. But I refused to welcome her back. I was proud, and determined to do this on my own, in my own way. There are many paths that one can take. Admittedly, not all of them will lead where you expect. But only by trying can you make the mistakes required for deep learning. Or so I told myself.
Where do you go when you have nowhere to go? What do you do when everything is already pre-destined to be an established pattern from your former life? Is it possible for a ghost to deliberately go through the act of killing itself? Could this symbolic act set something in motion? I considered it, but could not follow through. I was afraid to attempt a suicide. I wondered, "What if I can somehow die in this afterlife? What if death from this realm sends me to some even darker realm, from which there is no return?" I found it odd that - even as a ghost - I was still afraid to die. I wondered - as a human - had I gone to the gallows with quiet dignity and honor? Or had I been crying, shaking in my boots, and soiling my uniform. There is no right way to die. Any of those reactions would have been reasonable.
All I could do was to walk. I picked a direction, weaving in and out of the death, disaster, and calamity; and I walked. I imagined the sound of my step on the artificial earth. The sound was comforting, like the ticking of a clock. The clock image reminded how desperately I seemed to cling to my former life. This reminded me of the man I had seen in the oblong parlor. The guide had told me that he had been alive, reaching out to draw me toward him. She had said that the living sometimes did that, found ways to cross parts of the border into this realm. If that were true, wouldn't it also be true that the dead could sometimes cross that border into the realm of the living? I know I had heard ghost stories when I was alive. I did not know whether or not I should believe them, but now I was leaning toward the possibility that they had been true. Perhaps the next step in this world was to navigate that peculiar sea that separated our realms.
I glanced up and saw a strange shadow. It was concealed beneath a disembodied wall; the wall leaned toward a graveyard of trees. The sliver of shadow almost resembled a doorway, with the grey outlines of a path behind it. I was intrigued and went to investigate. As I stepped beneath the shadow, I could see the world beyond. It was dark and wild. The terrain was a mixture of frozen mist, and the debris from abandoned memories. The light was lost behind the haze. The way was lit by wooden barrels spewing flame and smoke into the air. If I were still alive, I would think that this was a path best avoided. It looked dangerous and of questionable value. But the way it had appeared, ever-so-slightly, making itself differentiated from the rest. It was worth the chance. I followed the darker path which led deeper into the shadows.
The longer I walked, the darker it became. From time to time, I saw fleeting images of others in the gloomy ruins that shifted in and out of sight. They reminded me of ghouls I had heard about at Halloween. Red eyes, sharp teeth, deep guttural gruntings, and slobbering sounds accented the gloom. I had left the place where innocent people were bound to the memories of their past or moment-of-death. I had found a place where sinister things hid and bred. I wondered if they could hurt me. I wondered what would happen to me if I approached them. They did not seem to be bound by the rules of the realm outside these shadows. As I walked deeper into the night, there were many that intimidated me. I checked myself on several occasions. The first time I had the courage to approach one of them, I saw him leaning over a puddle of green steaming ooze. He wore dark clothes from another age, and appeared to be trying to scoop up the mess on the ground.
"Excuse me," I called. There was no reason to abandon common courtesy. He stood upright, and turned to face me. His mouth was sewn shut, and his eyes were vacant holes where eyeballs once peered. Green ooze dripped from his nose, as if he had recently sneezed and his brains had been ejected from his skull. I looked at the puddle on the ground and shuddered.
Part Seven
Something bubbled from between the stitches that held its mouth together. It almost seemed to be trying to talk. If this was an example of liberation, then it was not painting a very positive picture. The world in the shadows had a nightmare quality, as if "rebellion" meant "free to be damned." Refusing to be frightened, I asked, "I'm looking for answers. I'm seeking the truth. On my own. Without the use of near-sighted guides." I wanted to sound street-savvy. I wanted to sound confident. I wanted to sound at least a little bit unruly. But my voice was trembling and weak, and my choice of words; full of naiveté. The monster raised its arm. I thought it was grabbing for my throat. I backed away uneasily. It pointed to a copse of dead trees which wound together to form a knotted mausoleum over a dark stone building. No light or sound came from the building, but I could see the blackness, as the entrance of a crypt. The monster vomited through the stitches in its mouth, most of it splashing from its nose in quick, chugging gushes. It coughed and gagged, and seemed to beseech me for help. But I knew there was nothing I could do here. Embarrassed by my cowardice, I silently excused myself and made my way for the building in the distance.
At first my steps were quick, to put distance between myself and my recent acquaintance. But the nearer I drew to the building of stone, under the web of trees, the slower my pace became. How would a creature like that interpret my question, I wondered. To what sort of place would it direct me? Did I want to take the chance of having my eyes removed, stuffed down my throat, and my mouth sewn shut so that I would endlessly be gagging on my own body parts? Somehow I knew that this is what had happened. Who had done it? How had they done it? As a ghost, aren't we impervious to such attacks? Or had that monster been tortured in just such a way before its death? An unthinkable and inhuman fate, either way.
The cold of the crypt beckoned me. The sounds of whispers and mysteries bled through the shadows and nibbled at my ears. Despite the dark and stillness of the doorway, I knew that there was life within. I lingered for a moment in that hazy archway, knowing that I had found the crossroads. I had found it intact. I was not a monster. I was not a demon or ghoul. I was still the man I had been. But I was here. In record time, I was certain. With little resistance or peril, and undeniably without a guide, I had come to the place where answers were concealed. And I had come of my own accord. For a moment, I shuddered. Memories of hell crept out from hiding places in my soul. I had heard stories of fiery and dark places where lost souls were sent for eternity to be tortured and damned. Was this such a place? Was I walking freely into my own unending nightmare? It was too late to be cautious. I had chosen this path because I had rejected the lies I was being fed about what constituted a proper afterlife journey. I would not be herded meekly like a deaf, dumb, and blind lamb, being led to the field and farm of some great keeper, who would do with me as he saw fit, being forced to submit to rules that were neither just nor wise for the common man.
I took a deep breath. It was unsatisfying without air to fill my lungs. I felt hunger gnawing on my bones with a deep sense of disquiet. The only way to end this fear was to take action. I waved my hands in front of me to clear the imaginary cobwebs, and I marched inside. To my curious wonder, the building was enormous and timeless on the inside. Instead of being a crypt, it had more in common with a palace, and a library. The walls shimmered like wet green marble. Candles, which resembled the ghosts of cherubs, cast uneven glows throughout the hallways. Shadows were like white light, blown carelessly by the whistling skeletons lining the walls like statues. Urns, vases, caskets, and pyres decorated the palace creating a spiral walkway leading down into the depths of the library. Books from all the ages lined the walls from floor to ceiling, casting strange glows, and uttering mournful sighs.
I thought I heard a girl's voice, soft and seductive, asking, "Are you lonely yet?" It hadn't occurred to me until I heard those words. Yes, I was. I followed the direction of the sound, but I quickly discovered that my sense of direction was misleading in this underground temple. The hunger within me increased. I heard her again, like the sigh of crickets carried across the summer grass in a gust of wind, "Do you crave the things you can not have?" I did. I felt a void growing within me which needed to be filled. I was not whole. I was not at peace. The desire for something greater began to overwhelm me. I marveled how I had no flesh, yet I remembered this sensation as if I were alive. I wanted to touch, and to taste, and to smell, and to feel. I wanted to know the warmth of food in my belly, and smell the hair of a young girl, cuddled against my neck. I longed to feel the heat of the sun baking against my skin as I stood bare-chested in the field. I wanted to swim in the icy rivers, and fight with wild dogs in the abandoned lots. "Down here," she said. It was not a command. It was not an invitation. It was simply a fact.
And I followed the path that led me further below.
Part Eight
When I arrived in the ventricle chamber, the walls were glistening with phosphorous ooze, like sour honey and lime. It dripped down the walls to the floor. In some places, it dripped from the floor to the ceiling like feathers being blown upward in a careless wind. It splashed a sticky web throughout the air, before strands settled down like strings of molasses settling back into the top of a cake. My feet did not move freely in the viscous gel. Although it only covered the tops of my shoes, I could see further into the room; there appeared to be bodies writhing beneath it, suffocating, struggling to break free, or be born. The walls here were also lined from floor to ceiling with endless columns and rows of books. The books were coated in the strange permeating glow of sludge that covered everything in sight. There was a hum in the air, a quiet droning buzz. The analogy of bees came to mind once more. This was a hive, but not of insects. I wondered if the gel was liquefied bone and flesh. I knew I was violating one of my earliest rules: not to think unpleasant thoughts, lest they take form and become reality in this world that defied physics.
The sound of a young girl singing a lullaby greeted my ear; most likely something her mother had sung to comfort her while helping her fall asleep on dark and stormy nights. I saw the shape rise up out of the floor, bending upward as if the room were being tipped to the front. This was no young girl. This was a young woman. Despite the strands of iridescent webbing which covered her, I recognized the blue glow beneath. This was my guide, but she had changed. The warmth and innocence had vanished. It had been replaced by something corporeal and sultry. She cast a glance at me with those dark narrow eyes, flames crackling like the glow of burning logs behind her pupils. Her hair blew around her head like tiny dark fingers, inviting me to join her. I could see her lips, the only red in the enormous hall. She wore a dress which clung to her, as if embracing her breasts and waist and legs. I wanted to be her dress; I wanted to wrap myself in her hair and arms. I wanted her in ways I could not admit in my present condition. Trying to sound seductive, I suggested, "You came back."
She turned away and began to arrange some volumes of new books lying on a stone altar. Without facing me, she replied, "There are other paths, and other guides. You chose here. This place. It was not entirely unexpected."
"What is this place?" I asked. "What are all these books? What is this liquid covering the floor and everything?" While she neatly arranged a stack of books, as if the sequence were of the utmost importance, I stepped closer to a wall. I noticed that not every book was covered in the strange glowing gel. While waiting for her answer, I began to spy the bindings, seeking a symbol which indicated what was within them. Apart from the ornate bindings themselves, there were no markings. Some books were thin, others quite broad. Some were tall, and others small enough to fit in my pocket. The covers seemed to be made of flesh; different colors and textures of perfect human flesh. Some of the ones which were not covered in gel had gems which resembled sparkling eyes, blinking at my ignorance. A handful of books stood out from the rest, extending beyond the depth of their shelf. The covers parted slightly like eager lips, waiting to be kissed. I stopped to examine one volume which had a bent cover; it almost seemed to sneer at me, a shadow darkening its blinking gem of an eye. I touched it and felt a buzz vibrate through my hand and into my body, coming from the book.
Without looking, she replied, expressionlessly, "This is the hall of souls, of the living and the dead."
Curious, I lifted the book I had touched and removed it from the shelf. I asked, "Do we each have a book here? Is it the story of our life?"
"Yes," she replied, busy with her work. "The record of past and present is contained herein. But it is more than a story."
I wondered if I had been drawn to the book of my own life. I opened the cover and began to turn the pages. They were blank. The buzzing increased, charging its way into my fingers, through my arms, into my chest. "But how do you read them?" I asked, becoming nervous as the intensity of the feeling increased.
"You must not touch them," she warned. "Only your own."
Not willing to admit that I was frightened, I asked, "How would you know? Which one is your own?"
She answered calmly, as she lifted a book and began to turn around. "That is why you come to me. I find your records and bring them to you. This way..." She faced me and saw that I was holding someone else's book wide open, resting against both palms. She shut her mouth in mid-sentence.
I felt the strange vibration rising into my head. My eyes fluttered, and a sting of pain and heat coursed through my body. My eyelids dropped shut, and I waited for more instruction. I opened my eyes, and saw the book was no longer blank. Inside the front cover, in burnt gold lettering, was the name, John Strickland. "Who was John Strickland?" I asked anxiously.
"Is," she replied, with apparent displeasure and remorse. "Unlike you, he is alive. And now you have mingled with the essence of his life."
The pages began to appear, one after the other, scrawled in burnt grey ink. The pages flew as if the history were racing to write itself before I could have a chance to read. I closed the book, but it was too late. I already knew that John Strickland was the man I had seen in the oblong room. He had summoned me here. He had led me astray for his own purposes. He had possessed me. The living had possessed the dead.
Part Nine
I do not remember how it felt to die, so I can not compare this experience to my death.
I felt an urgent panic coursing through my body. I knew at all costs that I had to break free, and I believed that somehow I would. I struggled with single-minded purpose, to save myself. It was as if a tide were rising around me, weakening my arms and legs, forcing me down with the sheer pressure of spiritual gravity. I could feel the cold, dark eyes of John Strickland bearing silently down upon me, sneering as he did. He had led me to this trap, and knew I was too inexperienced to escape him. "What do you want with me?" I screamed. "Why are you doing this?"
The cold steel echo of laughter ran down my spine. He was mocking my resistance, taunting my ineffectual resolve.
It felt as if his thoughts and feelings were forcing their will upon me. It was as if he were a physical presence bearing down on my body, grabbing me, confining me, binding me and then blanketing me with his body. His hot breath sprayed on my soul. His laughter rang in my ears. I felt the darkness of his heart suffocating me, subduing me, bending me to his will. I remembered hearing of Mediums who called the spirits of the dead and had them speak through their mouths. I wondered if this man were doing that. Was I being channeled? My intuition informed me otherwise. This was something self-serving and evil. The notion occurred to me to overpower him. I had been concentrating my efforts at resisting him, but that was playing a defensive role I could not win. I began an offensive attack. I searched for weaknesses. If the revolutionary colonies overseas could break away from the motherland of England, then there was hope for me as well. I would not be oppressed.
I began scanning for ways to attack. His arrogance was a blind spot. His pure evil, and his intent to consume, crush, and assimilate me made him single-minded in his purposes. He was not minding his peripherals. Perhaps he had done this effectively before, and did not believe he could be overpowered. I stopped resisting. I felt his stranglehold tighten upon me; he seemed to sigh with satisfaction. But I remembered something I had already learned. I was imagining myself as a body, something from a life that no longer existed. In truth, he could not grip me because there was nothing to grip, not unless I gave him something to grip. I became vapor, a black mist. I squeezed through his fingers. Holding me had become as elusive as containing a handful of water. I sensed the change in him; the moment of being startled, tricked, subjected to the unexpected. I would not bow down to the oppression of his shallow will. And I would not sit up and play the role he expected me to play while trying to conquer me. Great generals had been defeated in the battlefield by those who were simply so ignorant of the rules of battle, and so full of passion, that they caught the offenders completely off-balance. As a vapor, I sought not to escape, but to attack. If he could assimilate me, then I could assimilate him. If a medium could channel the dead, then the dead had a path they could follow to possess the living. I felt my energy charge. I had become a misty mould, seeking out the dark corners away from his frontal assault. I fixed myself in shadowy niches, and gained ground. He could not fight me because it was a ground war. I was everywhere, but in no place did I present a front obvious enough to attack. I knew that I would win. It filled me with a surge of zealous glee. He felt my confidence; I know he did. The tide had turned and he did not know why. I was infecting his peripherals with my ideas. I was weakening him from the outside, and the inside, making his war-machine less effective. This was the way to win wars ... the battle of words, of ideas, of concepts that win the support and sympathy of the attacker. I knew that, with this peripheral approach, I did not have to defeat him on his own battlefield. I could simply weaken him until he caved to his own doubt.
As I found new and more effective ways to infect him, my strength increased. At times, we became one, his darkness and my darkness mingling in a swirling pool of rage. He wanted me for my power. I felt that as we clashed. The dead see and hear things differently than the living. Their sense of time is also different. They are sensitive to subtle changes in the fabric of society that the living can not glean. How he intended to use me, exactly, I do not know, but I was not a tool. If he were a typical man, he was looking for power, immortality, and the ability to control others. The simple fact that he had attempted to possess the dead was a testament to that. "So," I asked myself, "Why am I trying to possess him?" Wasn't it obvious that this was self-defense? I could not resist him or set myself free, so I began a counter-attack. These words rang true, and yet, I knew they were the magic of self-deceit; the most effective lie is based on truth. I knew, even then, that I was fascinated by what was happening. I had abandoned the accepted path and had led a rebellion against death. Strickland may have thought that he had ensnared me, but in the end, I had ensnared him.
I felt my own imaginary smile curl into a sneer as I laughed with the icy echo of cold steel.
Part Ten
In hindsight, many many years later, it is difficult to say what actually took place. There is no question that John Strickland, a fledgling practitioner of the dark arts, did indeed try to capture and possess a ghost for his own purposes. That ghost happened to be me. But it is also clear that I was able to resist him, and turn the tables. I was able to gain control and force my will upon him. In short, like an evil earth-bound spirit, I managed to possess him instead. But after that point, the line blurred, because my motives became his. Once I had control of his body, his thoughts and feelings merged with my own. Had he, after all, found a way to accomplish his goal? I don't think so. I think that what happened was equally a surprise for both of us. Because of undisclosed mutual interests, we found a way of co-existing. We became two beings in one temple of flesh. For me, it was a way to return to the life I had known. For him, it was a way to tap into some of the strange psychic energy that I unquestionably brought with me. I walked in the light. I lived in the world. Twenty years had gone by since I had died. I had not noticed the passing of time while I was on the other side, but it didn't matter. I could let my emotions reach out into his body, and control his arms, and legs, and lips, and eyes; just as if they were my own.
I walked him in front of a mirror and examined my new suit of skin. It was adequate. He looked cunning and disagreeable, but other than that he was attractive enough. With an ounce of effort, I could turn his twisted sneer into a flirtatious smile. I could guide his tongue to say such things that would woo the ladies, who were not chaste with self-doubt. It was liberating being in another body. I felt free to do and say things that I never would have dared when I was alive in my own flesh. It was as if this wasn't really me, so it didn't really matter. It was a mask. A life-sized costume. And I was an actor. I was a magician, bringing this chunk of flesh and bone to life, like a marionette without strings. Sometimes, I found myself wanting something that meant nothing to me. Sometimes, I found myself burning candles in a dark room, dressed in cloaks, uttering meaningless soliloquies in strange tongues, calling to the spirits of the darkness and the damned. At those moments, I knew I was more Strickland than myself. At times, I found myself walking in disreputable parts of town, seeking recreations I had never known. Was this Strickland, or was this me in the mask of his face? I was not sure. I knew that I lusted the women I found when I pressed my lips angrily against theirs, but I felt nothing. It was a hollow act. Touching, eating, drinking, dancing, loving, fighting... these were all hollow acts. Was Strickland incapable of feeling? Or was I? Sometimes, I felt compelled to reach out to other spirits and consume them, as if I had a hunger which could not be satisfied; I sought to satiate myself on the living frenzy of souls.
But my guide had been wrong. I did not mind that I was disconnected from the life I had resumed. It did not bother me that I could not experience the actual sensations of the flesh. I felt that Strickland felt it, and that was somehow a reasonable consolation. With an icy cold sneer, I laughed. I had cheated death. I had cheated mortality. I had cheated the very rules of existence. And I noticed that Strickland did not seem to age as quickly as those around him. It was as if having an immortal in his soul, somehow slowed the decay of flesh. I also learned another curious trick, or was taught this trick by Strickland; it is still not clear. If there was a personality trait, or philosophy, or some other side of ourself that we wanted to add, but did not have, all we needed to do was to find someone who had it, and then reach out and connect ourselves to their spirit. Between the two of us, we had learned to possess the living and the dead, to make them a part of us, to grow, and flow, and adapt with the power of the world around us. After a while, we became comfortable with one another. At times, I could let down my guard and take a backseat, letting Strickland lead his life. At times, he became bored or acquiescent, and urged me to lead, as if I brought more excitement into his world. He was a poet, and philosopher. I was a man of action. He questioned the mysteries of the dead, I questioned the ways of the living. Between the two of us, we wanted to experience everything there was to experience; in the flesh and in the spirit. I even began to find that I could change the appearance of his flesh, ever so slightly. The soft malleable skin was putty to the sculptor in me. We played with our features; trying new chins, and new noses, new cheeks, and new eyes.
But I had begun to grow tired of him. I wanted to leave. I had done what I could in his name. It was time to do something more. I began scouting the world around me for those weak enough of will to submit to my suggestions. The very young, or ill, or elderly were all easy candidates, but only the young offered the opportunity for a life worth living. I had to be careful. To choose too young would leave me under the control of adults. Teenagers were ideal. Full of emotion and uncertainty. Full of self-doubt and physical feelings that raged within them. They could not distinguish my voice from their own. I could become the shadow that whispered what they really wanted to hear, but was afraid to admit they were thinking. I learned to identify the ones most easily assaulted. They walked with a defeated air, as if they were victims even before being submitted to my dominance.
And then, without warning, John Strickland was involved in a coach accident, crushed beneath a wheel of the carriage. I had not had time to choose where I would go. He was dying. In the flurry of fear and confusion, we renewed our bond and fled together, seeking a victim I had been considering for some time before that.
[ to be continued ]
Part Eleven
The moment of this death was amazing; Strickland's. As a bystander in his body, I was able to witness what my own memory had erased. There was a loud rushing sound, like waterfalls, growing louder and closing in on us, suffocating us in a claustrophobic embrace. I watched, enthralled, as he clung to me in terror. Together, we were pulled down beneath the shallow fabric of earth and life into a dense dark void. At first, I thought it was the ocean. It was like a great black sea, swirling and foaming in its wrath. For a moment, misunderstanding what was happening, it seemed almost ironic to me that we would be spared the death from the carriage accident, only to die by drowning in this fantastic tumultuous wheel of water. Caught up in his death, it took me a moment to remember that I could not suffocate or drown. As our heads broke the surface and we bobbed above the crest of the waves, I also realized that this was not water, and Strickland was already dead.
The sky above us was burnt purple, with white swirling clouds, souls lost in transition, fleeing in chaos. Lightning flashed, the dead struck down. Winged beasts, like dark angels with scythes, flew throughout, pursuing, striking out, and harvesting the souls that could not escape their blows.
This was the moment, I knew. I had to act. There was no time left to watch in fascination. I grabbed Strickland and made him look away from a planet of star-like faces which were moving steadily toward him. His eyes met mine, and at once the spell was broken. He understood. He knew where he was and what was happening. I told him I had prepared a person for eventual possession. I pictured the person in my mind. It was all I needed, since my sense of space and time was different from that of the living. Strickland and I wound together around our victim, like two lethal serpents wrapping their bodies around a pole. Our victim had no chance. His voice was subdued and instantly sent to the back of his own consciousness.
In our new voice, I laughed out loud. "We are LEGION!" I shouted for all to hear. We are the demon horde that has learned the secret to escape the clutches of death and subjugate the will of the living in the world of the living! And now, we had a young body. Handsome. Strong. Virile. And completely at our disposal.
I felt Strickland laugh. His voice gained strength and rose above mine, pushing me down. "Very good," he said with evil mirth. "Very good. This is why I chose you. With your desire for rebellion, you easily fell under the power of my suggestions. Only through you could I achieve this end! This is the beginning of an endless life of lives And with each life, the power and the voices of the many shall be silenced, and I shall rise up and conquer. My spirit will grow to fit this stolen flesh."
Final Note: The short-story version of the tale ends here, but the story and life of John Strickland lives on....
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