Doug stood in front of the Psychic Parlor, Ardy’s home and business, under the ramshackle awning that served no protection from the torrent of rain coming down. He studied the face of his watch until a lightning strike illuminated the dial. 5:44 a.m.
“It should be light by now.”
A crash of thunder rode a silver bolt out of the black sky. The flash lit up the rain which glowed in waving sheets like the Aurora Borealis.
Soaked through his skin, rapidly blinking the warm summer rain out of his eyes, Doug let it wash over him. Through him.
Back inside, Ardy huddled with Munson on the couch, the two of them still weeping uncontrollably over their shared experience in what he could only assume was a sleepwalker’s journey back from Hell.
The memory of Munson’s re-forming face, the inverting pocks of pellet-impact, the cratered eye socket, kept re-playing in Doug’s mind. As awareness flooded back into the re-animating corpse, Doug had glimpsed something terrifying in the killer’s face — just before Munson realized he was back.
It was like looking into the lifeless face of Medusa’s freshest victim. A face that had absorbed all the worst fears of all of humanity in one collected — what was it? Thirty minutes or so–?
The sound of a rare vehicle in the dark storm raised his attention and Doug moved around the corner of the building. The semi tractor-trailer roared past cutting sprays of rainwash into the air, then vanished into the dark, its series of yellow trim lights and red-eyed tail lights slowly diminishing as it headed out of town.
“We have to get out of here,” Doug observed aloud. Another crash of thunder-lightning seemed to agree with him, or ward off such thoughts, he couldn’t be sure which.
Continuing to argue with himself, or the night, Doug explained, “It’s t-t-too dangerous to stay here. That kid from the pi-pi-p-pizza place. He’ll call the c-cops. Or his friend will. We’re all gu-gu-g-guilty of ssssomething.”
Doug looked down and watched the machinegunning drops of rain splash the muddy puddle that oozed into his shoes. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Or m-maybe we’re all dead, have been dead all n-ni-night, and this is some sort of hell right h-here.”
This time the lightning didn’t answer, but a sudden gust of hot wind pushed Doug back. He stumbled a half-step until his back hit the building. Slucking his feet out of the puddle, he moved back to the porch front.
He looked through the front window and saw nothing he could recognize around the glow of the table lamp resting on its side on the floor. The rivulets of rain blurred the scene inside, but he didn’t really need to see. They were still on the couch.
But he had to wonder. How long would this last? If they had, indeed, come back from Hell together, what would keep Munson from deciding that’s his fate anyway; he might as well have a fun killing spree while he’s back.
Heck, Doug thought, I’ve seen enough horror movies to know demons might want to hitch a ride in his soul, come back incarnate to God’s green earth just to lay waste to creation.
Or is that ridiculous?
No more ridiculous than seeing two people come back from the dead right before my eyes.
Doug went back inside and replaced the makeshift doorstop. Then he pulled off his muddy shoes and socks. The rain was more quiet in here but still played out a drum solo on the roof. Ardy and Munson still huddled on the couch in each other’s arms, both still dry-crying and breath-hitching between sniffs and groans.
He crossed to the bedroom and closed the door. Then he padded barefoot to the closet and looked through Ardy’s clothes. On an upper shelf he found an oversized HOMER ACADEMY t-shirt. Everything else, even sweat pants and shorts, were too small for him. Stripping down, Doug took his pants into the bathroom and wrung them out in the sink. Then he hung them on the back of the door to continue drying. He leaned into the shower and started a steamy stream that rivaled the torrent outside only by its temperature.
* * *
The shower felt good, the massaging spray on the hard lump on his head made it smart, but it felt good on his aching shoulders. He used the same lemon-sweet shampoo Ardy had used earlier and scrubbed himself raw with the bar soap.
When he emerged from the shower he checked his watch on the sink. 6:21. Outside the bathroom window, though glazed, he could see it was still pitch dark.
* * *
After pulling on the HOMER ACADEMY t-shirt, Doug slipped back into his damp pants and buckled the sodden leather belt. He rolled up cuffs on the bottom and sat on a chair near the closet door. With his head in his hands he tried to weep but couldn’t.
Funny, he thought, how long Ardy and Munson were crying when he couldn’t manage a single tear despite the lighter version of hell they’d all been through tonight — well, last night.
Stretching and rubbing his eyes, Doug went to the door and opened it. Munson was laying on the couch, apparently asleep, his leg twitching like a dog’s during a nightmare about fanged rabbits. He was sucking his thumb.
Ardy was gone, but the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room.
Doug turned toward the kitchen in time to see Ardy’s tear-streaked face appear with two steaming coffee mugs.
“I’m sorry,” she said handing him a mug.
Doug sipped gratefully. He touched a hand to her shoulder. “It’s all r-right. I understand.”
Her chin quivered, threatening a new batch of tears, but she sucked it in, composed herself as best she could. “No. No, Doug. You can’t understand. I pray to God you never have to come close to understanding.”
He cleared his throat softly and, asking the only question he could, he said, “W-What happened, Ardy? What happened to him?”
She touched a finger to her lips to shush him and directed him back into the bedroom with a nod of her head. He obliged but turned to face her only when he sat on the edge of the bed. He was too exhausted to stand any longer. Ardy stepped up to him, looked down at him.
“We were in Hell.” Her gaze lifted and trailed off. Doug watched her eyes as they remembered the visions. She cringed, chewed her lower lip. Her bloodshot eyes watered anew. “Oh, God, Douglas, it was Hell. It was really –” Her chest hitched and she sobbed, “– Was horrible. Horrible.”
An avid watcher of horror films and science fiction, Doug knew the artistic versions of Dante’s Inferno. Hell was a huge lake of fire, demons prodding suffering souls with pitchforks and raping them over and over while the devil, all red-skinned and horned, laughed at the suffering.
Doug reached up and wrapped his arms around her waist. She hugged his head as he leaned forward and rested his cheek against her chest.
“Oh, God . . . . Horrible.”
“D-Don’t, Ardy.”
“I can’t erase that time from my head, Doug. I can’t.”
“You have to t-try to at least dampen it with new mu-mu-m-memories then, g-good memories.”
She released him, sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Looking into his eyes, she said, “How do you feel in church?”
He frowned not getting the question.
She said, “You’ve felt fulfilled at times, haven’t you? I mean, like there’s someone there, listening?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
Her gaze trailing off again, she said, “This was a million times worse than the opposite of that.”
Doug added that to his sci-fi image of hell. When you considered being so un-fulfilled, all the pitchforks in the world wouldn’t matter. Doug put his arms around her again and squeezed her as she convulsed with fresh tears. She wailed into his chest and he wondered if the crying would ever stop.
Eventually, he was able to get her to lay down in bed. He snuggled up beside her but just to keep her company, give her someone to hold on this earth.
As her sobs faded, traded for soft snores, Doug’s mind became more alert.
Something occurred to him with a flash like the lightning outside.
If Ardy was with Munson, psychically projected into his mind, his thoughts, his soul’s flight . . . .
How could she have resurrected him?
She hadn’t even touched him.
Who or what brought R. Lee Munson back from Hell?
And why?
The storm dramatically answered Doug’s thoughts with a cannonade of thunder and white hot flashes.
August Winter. 