The Realms of the Dead (6 page)

“Have a good Walk, Chuck.” Control's voice came as if from a great distance, fuzzy and comforting. “You come back safe, you hear?”

And then the physical was gone. There was no sense of movement or travel, no sudden rush of speed or the sensation of falling like other Whisks reported. For him, the break was always instantaneous, an entire reality set supplanted as he seamlessly transitioned into The Divide. Normally, Chuck saw trapped souls as a faint glow in an expanse that couldn't be described as either light or dark. On occasion, he'd even caught a blur of movement in his peripheral vision, a flutter of pale wings that vanished upon further investigation. The Divide was nothing and everything rolled into one, a gestalt of probabilities where there's no past, present, or future. There was only an endless state of Now.
Usually
. This time, however, Chuck didn't hover within the ultimate Zen; this time, he'd set down squarely within a Cutscene.

Storm clouds flickered with lightning above a scorched panorama of cinders and ash; hot winds belched the stench of carrion, leaving an oily patina over what he thought of as his skin, and smoke roiled from fissures in the baked earth, bottomless chasms that burrowed into infinity. The landscape was ringed with mountains, each boulder suggesting the features of a tortured face within its shadows and crags as waterfalls of acid bubbled ravines into dissolving stone.

A castle stood in the distance, and its soot-stained walls looked as though they'd burst, full-formed, through the ground, hurling rubble in a starburst pattern as they ruptured the earth. Towers rose from each corner of the castle and their stone facades were perforated with windows shaped like glowing tombstones. Halfway up the south tower was the silhouette of a man. Though the distance was too great to make out anything more than a vague impression, Chuck felt the person's gaze burn into his soul: anger, hatred, resentment, and cruelty…every base emotion known to man concentrated into a beam of such intensity that Chuck felt as though fiery needles were piercing his aura.

It was an illusion, of course. Chuck's emotions were under control, which meant that he was invisible to all who inhabited this nightmare world. This fact was proven when the silhouette moved away from the window. The man (for Chuck was certain the figure had been male) had simply been looking across the wasted vista, perhaps surveying the world he'd created for himself with some sick sense of pride. He certainly hadn't been looking at
Chuck
.

With the man gone, Chuck's attention returned to the Cutscene. Spires jutted from the tops of each tower and tattered banners rippled in the breeze, the winds fueled by a vortex that swirled the clouds above the stronghold into a never-ending spiral. A sickly yellow glow radiated from the clouds, throbbing and pulsing in erratic rhythms as thunder growled in the distance.

What Chuck didn't know at the time was that a man named Albert Lewis lurked somewhere behind those parapets, playing out fantasies so twisted they'd been impossible to duplicate in life. But here, in the realm of the dead, he had a sandbox where he could build as much and as far as he desired; here, every degenerate whim that had ever poisoned his mind could be realized. This was his world, and deconstructing it wouldn't be easy. In fact, it would prove to be the most dangerous assignment Chuck had ever undertaken. But there was no choice. He had to journey into Lewis's demented playground and do what he could to set things right.

It was the only way.

Water sloshed over the edge of the tub as the corpse rose to the surface. The strands of floating hair plastered themselves over a head that emerged from the tub like a crowning newborn entering the world. The corpse's face looked bleached and distended, the flesh ballooning out so much that the eyes were nothing more than dark lines amid abscessed lids. Patches of skin had sloughed away from its puffy cheeks, revealing darker tissue that glistened as its head swiveled toward Lydia.

Opening its mouth, water cascaded over swollen lips. As the liquid gushed out of the dead woman's mouth, Lydia thought she detected hints of movement within the flow; tiny creatures darting around. Their bodies flashed silver as they streaked in erratic patterns, propelled by tails that flicked so quickly as to be only a blur. The impression she got was definitely fish-like, yet something about the proportions seemed wrong. Every so often, Lydia thought she could make out the hint of necks, of humanoid heads attached to the long, slender bodies. But the things were so small—no bigger than the width of a hair really—that she couldn't be sure.

She knew she should be horrified by this. Yet she watched it all with a strange sense of detachment, almost as though she were sitting in the back of someone else's mind and looking through eyes that were not her own. Perhaps the tide of adrenaline that had fueled her up until this point had finally abated. Perhaps she was in shock. But, in all honesty, at that moment she didn't feel as if she even had the energy to care.

That imagination of yours will getcha in trouble every time, you mark my words and see if it don't.

The voice in her mind wasn't her own, though it was familiar. She couldn't be certain, but Lydia suspected this was another memory, breaking through her amnesia just as the corpse broke the surface tension of the water.

But there was no time to explore the possibility further. The dead woman's arms flopped over the lip of the tub, and for a moment the corpse draped over the edge like a saturated rag doll. The thing's back was mottled and streaked with black, as though one continuous bruise ran from the shoulders to the base of the spine, but the skin beneath the discoloration was shriveled with wrinkles. Water poured off its body and pooled on the tiles below. Halfway out of the tub, it seemed as though whatever dark magic had reanimated the cadaver had fled, leaving it as limp and lifeless as it deserved to be.

Even so, Lydia took a step back as she cupped her hand over her nose. The smell emanating from the body was overpowering and so much worse than the stink that had accompanied the creature in the hall. The stench had a wet quality to it, as if everything within the dead woman's skin had turned into a slurry of liquefied tissue and clotted blood.

The corpse's body jerked as though a jolt of electricity zapped through it and its shoulders flexed. The dead woman rocked from side to side, gaining momentum as her torso snaked forward. Within moments, she had slid over the edge of the tub and her body plopped into the puddles on the floor with a squish as Lydia scrambled backward a few more steps.

She knew she should be racing toward the broken sink, but was loathe to turn her back to the corpse. Even though it seemed incapable of standing, her imagination tortured her with images of it suddenly springing, knocking her to the floor, and smothering her beneath the chill of waterlogged flesh.

Lydia tried to keep herself from blinking as she studied the monstrosity on the floor. It didn't exactly crawl, but waddled, rocking its body from side to side as it inched across the tile. The swaying motion squeezed water from the thing's pores as if its flesh were a sponge and a wet trail marked its passage as it edged closer to the woman with outstretched arms. The left hand was practically useless; the wrist was severed so deeply that it seemed as if only a thin ribbon of flesh kept it from falling off. When the hand was lying flat, the injury wasn't noticeable. But the slightest movement caused the hand to bend backward, revealing gristle and shredded muscle surrounding bone. This happened every few seconds, the hand flapping in a macabre wave while the rest of the body wriggled, its intact twin digging fingernails into the grout as the corpse pulled itself forward.

The thing may have tried to speak. Its mouth moved, but the only sound released was a faint gargling from somewhere deep within the remains of its lungs. Even if words had been produced, they probably couldn't have made it past the thing's swollen, blackened tongue.

Unexpected emotion paralyzed Lydia as she watched dirty water leak from the corners of the thing's lips. Her eyes warmed with tears and her mouth hung open as she tried to form words of her own. She, however, was just as incapable. Though she felt like she should say something, there simply were no words.

Instead, another snippet of memory slammed into Lydia's mind. An injured dog dragging its carcass off the street, crawling toward a mailbox shaped like a scaled version of the house behind it. She sat in a car, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that it felt as though her knuckles were about to burst through her skin. The beagle had come out of nowhere, had darted between two parked cars, and she'd slammed on the brakes as she jerked the wheel to the left. The stench of burnt rubber accompanied a thud that she felt more than heard as the car fishtailed and her hatchback straddled the center line. It would have been kinder if she'd hit the dog head-on. A bloody swath marked its progress across the road, smeared onto the pavement by the intestines trailing behind its mangled hindquarters. With her window down, Lydia could clearly hear the breathless whimpers that accompanied each movement and knew the dog had to be in excruciating pain. And yet it continued on inch by inch, pulling itself ever closer to the house. A small boy burst from the front door and ran across the lawn, yelling and crying as a harried-looking mother with red hair chased after him.

Like her other flashbacks, this one disappeared as quickly as it had descended upon her, leaving her with only lingering emotions: Guilt twisted her gut and sorrow scooped a hollow cavity between her throat and chest. She felt like weeping, like whispering an apology to the universe until it finally decided to accept her contrition, like pinching herself until the sharp sting of physical pain overrode emotional turmoil with something palpable; but all she could do was continue watching the thing as it squirmed on the floor.

It's not a thing! It was a woman once. Someone like me!

The thought struck her like a physical blow, causing her head to snap back. Somehow, the corpse's outstretched arms didn't seem threatening now. Maybe it simply wanted to know it wasn't alone. Maybe it reached out for compassion, for reassurance that there was something else out there, something besides cold bathwater and the darkness of eyes it was no longer capable of opening.

Not it…she
.

How long had the body languished in this bathroom? How long had it been suspended somewhere between life and death? Did she pray for release? Or did she long to become the person she'd once been, someone who had a family, perhaps even children.

Lydia squatted, balancing on the balls of her feet, and tried to see past the grotesque mask the woman's face had become. Somewhere beneath all that water-bloated skin were the traces of an honest-to-God person. She'd probably cried into a pillow as slivers of a broken heart pierced her soul; she would have had moments of carefree laughter, times when she felt broken and defeated, instances when self-confidence had empowered her into acts and deeds she never thought possible. She would have known the warmth of the sun on her face long before the icy bathwater had chilled her to the marrow.

The corpse wriggled forward again and its arm reached for Lydia as a gurgle burbled from within its chest; more water dribbled from the corners of its mouth and Lydia's shoulders drooped. She hadn't been aware of it until it was gone, but tension had hunched them to the point that her head looked as if it sat directly on them. Now that tightness was gone and it almost felt as though her muscles sighed in relief.

I'm sorry this happened to you. Whoever you are.

Lydia's thoughts swirled like smoke somewhere deep within the recesses of her subconscious.

You didn't deserve this. No one deserves this.

Did she even inhabit the body thinking these things? It felt as though she were simply floating in the ether, no longer a pilot within this shell of flesh but a mere passenger along for the ride. She couldn't feel the damp chill in the air or taste its staleness on her tongue. All she had left, it seemed, was the ability to see, hear, and think…but even those things felt fleeting and tenuous.

A dense fog seemed to have rolled into the bathroom, veiling details within a sinuous gray mist. The leaky spigot dripping into the tub, the squish and rasp of the dead woman writhing across the floor: These sounds were as muffled and indistinct as though Lydia were listening to them with her head below water.

You're not alone
.

There was no energy left in her body. Her muscles felt flaccid and useless, and if she allowed herself, Lydia was sure she could curl up and sleep for days. She was tired…so very, very tired. With half-closed eyelids she observed the corpse, somehow knowing that her focused attention was the only thing keeping her from succumbing to exhaustion.

I'm here
.

Lydia saw her own arm rise so slowly that it seemed as if it had become weightless. She knew she was powerless to stop the movement, for she now existed solely in a state of disembodied detachment. Her sense of self had severed its connection with the physical body and drifted lazily within its confines. What the flesh and muscles and bones did was no longer of concern. She was content to allow her thoughts to float through the void.

Lydia watched her fingers unfurl and her hand reach toward the corpse with slow-motion clarity. There was neither apprehension nor revulsion, such things no longer being of consequence. It was simply something that was happening, something that didn't affect her either way.

Or was it? Somewhere within the husk of her body, Lydia became aware of a voice. One that sounded strangely familiar. It was no more than a murmur with occasional words breaking through the lull.
Don't…wake up…now!

Don't wake up. It sounded as though the voice were telling her what she already knew: that it was best to sink into numb
thoughtlessness,
that she should simply allow her consciousness to continue drifting away from the body that had once housed it. After all, in this state there was no fear. No pain or sorrow.

The corpse reached toward Lydia's hand as well, its wrinkled fingertips trembling as it strained for contact.

The lull of words became more distinct, revealing more of its message.

Don't touch it!

Lydia's hand was still outstretched, but had gone as far as it could. Mired with fatigue, she could stretch no farther. If the dead woman wanted someone to hold her hand, someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay, she'd have to complete the circuit herself. Lydia just couldn't muster any more strength.

Wake up, girl! You wake your ass up now!

Lydia now knew why the voice sounded familiar: It was her own. This revelation, however, didn't trigger any type of emotional response. It was nothing more than an observation of fact. One that didn't really seem to have any bearing on her situation whatsoever.

Don't touch it!

Stifling a yawn, Lydia watched as the corpse inched closer. It lifted its own arm, trying once again to touch the woman squatting before it.

Wake up!

The voice clamoring for attention faded, as though it were rushing away from her. The insistent tone became a whisper, the whisper a murmur, and then was no more. But that was for the best. As soon as she touched the dead woman's hand, as soon as she gave her physical proof that she wasn't alone, Lydia would allow herself to slip into the sleep she so desperately desired. A sleep free of panicked voices. Free of uncertainty. She would be safe there. Safe forever.

With fingertips no more than a hair's width apart, Lydia thought she heard laughter resounding through the darkened corridors beyond the bathroom; but there wasn't time to ponder what this might mean.

Before the cackling had even begun to fade, cold flesh touched warm and Lydia's screams shattered her dream-like complacency, revealing the darkness and soul-shredding agony that had secretly awaited below.