Ghost Shadows (9 page)

Winston suddenly feared he might now understand what was going on. He dreadfully suspected this might be yet another new form of torture, one that would start in a place familiar to him, such as his old office, and then quickly morph into another session of agony. Cowed by his time in the countless torture chambers, Winston found himself unable to lift his head to look further at the creature. And the strange way that the creature's flesh appeared as rumpled and ill-fitting as his suit truly disturbed Winston making him certain that at any moment the scene would change and he would once again find himself the victim of an even more unimaginable torture.

The weird man repeated his request, but this time with a bit more impatience in his voice. “I asked you a question, sir! Are you Mr. Winston Peter James? Am I correct in making that assumption?” Winston could not bring himself to answer. He was not only terrified by the potential horror hiding deep inside this current scenario but had learned long ago not to willingly engage these sick creatures in conversation. He simply gave a cursory nod of acknowledgement.

“Well,” the man said, “I suppose you are wondering what this is all about and why you are here with me, Winston. May I call you Winston?” Again Winston gave the slight and suspicious nod. The strange creature continued, “By the way, Winston, it is perfectly all right for you to speak to me. I realize after all you've been through while a guest here, you might be a bit reluctant. But I assure you that no harm will come to you if you choose to reply. In fact . . . I
insist
that you speak and do so immediately.” There was a look of cold emotionless assertion in his cat-like eyes.
 

“All—all right,” Winston said in a thin voice that sounded raspy and barely recognizable as the one he remembered. He had spent countless hours screaming in agony and it had been what seemed like years since he had actually had any opportunity to speak to anyone in a normal conversational voice. “Wha—what . . . is this? Why . . . why am I here?”

“Very good, Winston. Very good indeed,” the being replied. Winston thought he saw the flesh mask on the creature's face slip ever so slightly. The man behind the desk said, “It's so good to have you actively participating in our conversation. It will make everything so much simpler. So please allow me to explain why I have arraigned to meet with you here. Here is the situation in a nutshell, as they say.”

“I suppose you've wondered since your arrival here in our fine little corner of Hell, what it was you might have done during your lifetime to deserve such constant and relentless torture. You probably always assumed such punishment would be reserved for the lowest of the low; murders, rapists, child molesters, and so on. Am I right?”

Winston kept his eyes averted and timidly said, “Y—y—yes . . . I wondered that many times—no . . .  all—all the time.”

“Yes, I'm sure you have,” the strange man said, and then released a loud guffaw of laughter, sending the most ungodly foul stench across the desk between them and directly into Winston's face. Winston felt his stomach turn over with revulsion at the smell of the vile stink. He noticed once again how the strange man's hands never left the top of the desk, making Winston wonder if those hands might be fused together into that pose to make whatever lurked inside that bizarre skin seem more human. Winston's eyes were focused on those hands and he thought for a moment that he saw maggots crawling between the intertwined fingers.

“NOW PAY ATTENTION, WINSTON!” the being shouted, momentarily losing his composure only to quickly regain it once again and instantly return to his calm, business-like demeanor. “Let's cut to the chase, shall we?”

Winston nodded silently once again, then realizing he had not spoken as requested, he quickly said, “Y—yes . . .  please.”

The man said, “All right then,” and he proceeded to explain. “Well, Winston, it appears there was a slight clerical error, which resulted in your coming here. You see, as it works out, you are actually not supposed to be here after all.”

Winston felt his heart thudding in his chest. He thought to himself, How could that possibly be? Could I have really been made to suffer all this time over a simple clerical error?

“Cl—clerical . . . error?” Winston asked cautiously, not believing it was possible.

“Yes. I'm afraid so,” the man replied nonchalantly.”

“Wha—what do you mean?” he asked, confused.

“You see, every so often, the equivalent of one thousand or more earth years, we do an audit of our guests to makes sure there have been no mistakes. And if we do discover mistakes we do our best to try to make them right immediately.”

Winston asked with a bit of uncertainty, “Mistakes?”

“Yes, mistakes,” the being replied. “You see, here in Hell we aren't perfect; nor are we expected to be. Those sort of high and mighty expectations are reserved for that other place.” He cast his eyes upward. “Down here we sometimes have the occasional unplanned faux pas, if you pardon my French. In other words, we have been known to make mistakes.”

“Mistake.” Winston repeated now as a statement rather than a question. He had no idea where this bizarre conversation might be heading, but he had a very uncomfortable feeling about it.

The creature behind the desk replied, “It appears you, Winston, have been the subject of our latest unfortunate situation. Winston expected the man to raise his hands and simulate air quotes when he said the word “situation,” but he did not. He suspected the creature before him might not be able to move his hands at all. The longer Winston studied him the more he realized the thing was not a man but perhaps a higher level demon of greater intelligence than most he had encountered and was wearing some sort of suit apparently made of human flesh to make himself seem less offensive. Winston wondered why a place which had subjected him to countless bouts of humiliation and torture would even bother with such a ruse. It made no logical sense to him, but little had made sense in this place since his arrival.
 

The being said, “So as I said, it appears you not only are not supposed to be here, but I am sorry to say you are not even supposed to be dead.”

“W—what?” Winston managed to stammer. “N—not supposed to be dead?”

“Yes,” the creature replied. “But that particular fact is somewhat irrelevant as you are now both dead and here as well. It appears what happened was one of our minions who was sent to retrieve the souls of the dead—I believe you call them Grim Reapers in your world—mistakenly brought you to us instead of the human he was sent to retrieve. The error was only discovered a short while ago during a routine audit. You will be happy to know the minion who made that particular mistake is currently
being punished for his failure, and I'm certain you can scarcely imagine what we are doing to
him
.”
 

Before Winston could reply, not that he had any idea what to say anyway, the creature asked him, “Do you happen to recall exactly how you died?”

Winston most certainly did recall every detail of his death just as he remembered every single agonizing moment of every torture he had endured since his arrival in Hell.

“Shot.” Winston replied, “I was shot during a mugging . . . a robbery.”

“Yes, that is correct,” the strange being said. “You were shot while being robbed by a very bad human named Wilson Johns, a man who you may recall was about your same age and physical build. You were supposed to overpower him and he was supposed end up dead, but our soul retriever incorrectly interfered and the result was you are here and he is not. ”
 

“But . . . but how?” Winston asked, “How could this have happened?”

The creature explained, “Actually, I see very clearly how something like this might have occurred. Think about it. Two men, physically similar; one Winston James the other Wilson Johns; it makes perfect sense to me. Besides, after a few millennia, all human beings start to look alike to us.”

Winston could feel the anger and hatred build inside him. With more forcefulness than he would have believed possible he asked, “You mean to tell me that worthless bastard has been alive, robbing, killing, raping and whatever else he chooses to do while I've been suffering unimaginable tortures, which were really meant for him? Is that what you're saying?”

The creature looked directly at Winston with his strange, cat-like eyes and replied, “Yes. I'm sorry to say that is exactly what the situation is. So you can see why we are all a bit embarrassed by this unfortunate oversight.”

“Embarrassed? Oversight?” Winston said in a louder voice than he had used in a very, very long time. “This is not an oversight. That is . . . well . . . I don't know what the hell to call it.”

“Yes. You are most certainly correct and have a right to be upset.” The being agreed, “And unfortunately, it's like trying to un-ring a bell. There is nothing we can do to restore you to life. You are dead and will remain so. However, there might be something we can do to help you get revenge against the man you was responsible for killing you in the first place.”

Winston looked directly at the creature, suddenly interested. He was furious and if he had an opportunity to right this injustice he would jump at the chance do so. Then perhaps the man who murdered him would be forced to spend eternity along the Path while Winston could move on to whatever place, presumably less painful than this, he was meant to be.

“How?” Winston asked eagerly. “How can I do this? What do I have to do?”

The creature gave Winston a sly look and said, “On earth it is currently October 31, Halloween night, the night of the dead. It is the one time during the year when we are permitted to allow certain souls to return to earth to take care of any unfinished business, or to do special tasks on Hell's behalf. We have made arrangements for you to return to earth for one night to retrieve the soul of Wilson Johns and bring him back here to us.

Once this job is done you will move on to another place, not heaven—you were never good enough for that, few are—but another place much less unpleasant than this particular section of Hell. All you have to do is return to the world of the living, confront Wilson Johns, take this special dagger, and plunge it into his heart.” Suddenly a long sharp knife appeared in Winston's hand. “You do that and we will do the rest.”

“But . . . but, I can't do that . . . I'm not a killer. I've no idea how to do such a thing.” Winston explained his hand uncomfortably gripping the handle of the dagger.

Looking perturbed the creature said, “Well, Winston. We are sending you back to get Wilson Johns. You will only have a few earth hours to do what must be done then you will be returned to us. If you come back empty handed, you will return to where you left off on the Path and will continue serving out a punishment rightfully meant for someone else. The choice is entirely yours.”

A moment later, Winston found himself standing in an alley in a city that looked very familiar to him. He was wearing the same clothing he had been wearing the night he died. In fact, this alley was the very same alley he had tried to use as a shortcut when Wilson Johns had attacked, robbed, and murdered him.

In the distance he saw someone entering the alley. As the stranger came briefly into the glow of a nearby streetlight, Winston was shocked to see it was no stranger but was him as he had looked the night he died. He then realized that the strange creature had returned him to earth on the exact night he had been murdered. Winston hadn't been murdered on Halloween night but that didn't seem to matter in the strange juxtaposition of time that seemed to exist between the two worlds.

As the Winston of earth approached the ethereal Winston a man dressed in dark clothing suddenly sprang from the shadows. Winston realized it was all happening again and this time Winston was about to actually see himself being murdered. Reacting, not thinking, Winston forced his spiritual self into his earthly body just as Wilson Johns raised his gun and fired. Simultaneously the spirit of Winston lifted his physical right hand and plunged the invisible dagger deep into the mugger's chest, piercing his heart.

Wilson Johns let out a howl and fell to the ground in a dead heap. Winston James floated out of his physical body and stood nearby. From the fallen form of Johns rose a stream of tiny red sparkling glowing lights, which began to flow into the blade of the dagger, causing it to illuminate in a crimson light. Winston knew this was what he had to take back to Hell with him to make things right. He looked down and saw his own dead earthly body lying on the ground. The creature had told Winston he could not undo what had been done, but could only try to make things right.

Without warning Winston started to slowly fade from the world of the living, and within a moment, found himself back in the room that looked like his old office, the dagger still held tightly in his hand.

The strange being was still seated behind the desk with it fleshy gloved hands folded in front of him. “Very good work, Winston. I see you have brought back the knife and have acquired the soul we needed to right this injustice perpetrated on you.” The knife disappeared from Winston's hand the rematerialized on the top of the desk. The creature's hands did not move to pick it up.

“Yes . . . yes, I have,” Winston said, still quite shaken from all that had happened. “I've done what you asked. Now Johns can be punished as you require and I can move on to wherever it is I have earned the right to move on to.”

“Well,” the creature said hesitantly, “about that . . . well, there's a bit of a problem.”

“What are you talking about?” Winston said, now with an air of defiance. “You said I didn't deserve to be here, that I was put here by mistake, and that I could move on to another place.”