A Short Stay in Hell

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR
A SHORT STAY IN HELL

“Profound and disturbing,
A Short Stay in
Hell
is a perfect blend of science fiction, theology, and
horror. A terrifying meditation on faith, human nature, and the
relentless scope of eternity. It will haunt you, fittingly, for a
very, very long time.”

–
Dan Wells, author of
I
Am Not a Serial Killer

“An irresistible invention. Peck has somehow
squeezed all of human experience, not to mention near-infinite
expanses of space and time, into one miraculously slim novella. You
won’t be able to stop thinking about this book.”

–
Ken Jennings, author of
Brainiac
and
Maphead

FIRST EDITION, MARCH 2012

Copyright 2012 by Steven L. Peck

Published by Strange Violin Editions at
Smashwords

STRANGE VIOLIN EDITIONS

Washington, DC

http://strangeviolineditions.com

All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or
any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief
quotes in a review.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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of this author.

ISBN 978-0-9837484-3-4

ISBN 978-0-9837484-4-1 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-0-9837484-2-7 (trade paperback)

Library of Congress Control Number:
2011941923

Cover design: Matt Page

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

1
THE BEGINNING

2
THE FIRST WEEK IN HELL

3
YEAR 102: THE MOST SIGNIFICANT
TEXT

4
YEAR 1145: THE GREAT LOSS

5
THE DEEPEST ABYSS

APPENDIX

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

A
LTHOUGH I HAVE
LOVED MANY, there has been only one genuine love in my
near-eternally stretched life – Rachel who fell to the bottom of
the library without me. Did I know her only for so short a time?
Strange, how a moment of existence can cut so deeply into our being
that while ages pass unnoticed, a brief love can structure and
define the very topology of our consciousness ever after. I’m
getting ahead of myself. I suppose I must start at the beginning –
a beginning so long ago that its horizon is a vanishing point at
the convergence of two Euclidian lines that would be parallel by
any human measure.

The first years are the easiest to describe.
They were years of adventure, companionship, and love. I have not
seen anyone for uncountable years. Yet, even after so long, I still
listen for the sound of another’s voice, the ring of footsteps on
the stairs, or a figure moving silhouetted in the distance. Once I
spent a year just listening. Another, trying to build a telescope
made from clarified sheep intestines from the kiosk, so that I
might look deep into the library. Despite my substantial efforts, I
have failed to find another soul. We have all scattered far and
wide into the vastness of this space and cannot find one another. I
suspect by now we are all alone.

Yet I labor on. By my count (which I know is
accurate, for my memory in this place, it seems, is incapable of
forgetting even the smallest detail) I have climbed innumerable
light-years, from the lowest level to this one where I sit with
this book in my hands reading of my stay here. It is not the story
of my life, so it serves little purpose, but as I read I marvel
that I’ve found such a book. It is close to the one I seek.
Sometimes I fantasize I will discover the book that describes the
location of the volume I have been searching for. But alas, how
would I know it was the right one? There are countless books in the
library that claim a particular floor contains the one I need. And
then, of course, no single book could contain a number so large
that the height and depth of this library could be expressed as a
numerical digit. Silly thoughts in this monotonous place are
inevitable I suppose.

I have found many treasures. A couple of eons
ago I found a book that looked like it described my earthly
digestive history – from beginning to end, every meal, how the food
was broken into its chemical composition and then sent on to the
intestine. I’ve also grown fond of what I’m sure are very close to
Mickey Spillane novels. So, too, I remember that for about seven
hundred billion years I carried a book of short stories – some were
fantasies, some romances, and one was a farce. It was a marvelous
book. The last story was my favorite. It told of a monkey, once the
powerful owner of a lawnmower repair business, who falls into
obscurity and despair. It told of his sorrow at having lost his
greatness and reputation in the field as technological changes
outstripped his ability to keep up. He spoke movingly of his search
for religion. I still get teary-eyed when I think of the ending of
that story (which I won’t spoil by telling you).

One book I found not long ago was full of
random characters except for pages 111 to 222, wherein I found an
exposition that speculated that God had created the universe as a
way of sorting through the great library, finding those books that
were most beautiful and meaningful. It argued that in the mere
sixteen billion years of my old universe’s existence, a vast store
of great thought and literature had been produced during the short
creative life of human existence on the planet. The work
entertained the notion that evolution was the most effective
sorting algorithm for finding the subsets of coherent and readable
books that are scattered thinly throughout the randomness of the
library. The argument took on special meaning to me because it had
been almost 160 billion years since I had found such a long string
of coherent text. To find such a delightful work was a treasure
indeed – especially such a germane treatise nestled between such
auspicious page numbers.

Forgive me. I’m getting far ahead of myself.
I must start at the beginning if there is to be any hope that you
might understand my life in Hell and the fateful day the great
demon sent me here.

I must start with the interview or none of
this will make sense. So I begin here:

~~~

THE PROFICIENT DEMON leaned back comfortably
in his large, high-backed red leather chair, then swung away from
the five terrified guests seated before him and turned to the
window behind him. The room was well lit, with long incandescent
tubes arranged in several functional pairs that spanned the length
of the ceiling, giving the room a soft, businesslike feel. Potted
plants, placed tastefully here and there, lent the room a sense of
proportion and order. The demon was the only thing that did not
seem to belong.

The monster’s yellow gaze was directed
thoughtfully out of the large framed window that dominated the wall
behind his desk. Behind the glass was a large cavern lit with a
dancing red glow. He sighed and scratched his leg with one of his
black-tipped hooves as he surveyed the seething, molten bed of
lava, bubbling thickly like slowly boiling sweet candy syrup in the
scene below him. Occasionally from the lake of fire a blazing
fountain would erupt violently, spackling the ceiling of the great
cavern with hot lava, which then would drip in large globs slowly
back to the enormous magma lake, creating high, thick splashes of
bright orange liquid rock. Inside the lake, scores of wailing
people could be seen wading through the pool, screaming in agony,
and even though their cries could not pierce the thickness of the
glass window, the muted agony and terror visible on their faces
transferred the terror of the situation to the five seated guests.
All five were trembling and breathless.

On the lake’s edge, small shadowy demons
wielded jagged leather whips and long rusted pitchforks to drive
those souls desperately trying to scramble out of the pool back to
its bubbling center. The yellow-eyed demon swiveled back toward the
three men and two women staring back at him wide-eyed with horror.
They were dressed simply in thick white robes of rough cotton.
Their feet were bare and they were seated on unstable gray metal
folding chairs that squeaked loudly whenever they moved.

The imposing demon was tall – about eight
feet. His large, goat legs sported coarse, thick hair, giving him a
satyr-like aspect without the charm of a classical Pan. His torso
was exceptionally well muscled, fire engine–red like his face, but
covered with a thin layer of moisture from which seemed to emanate
a noxious, sulfurous stench. His well-shaped arms seemed
disproportionately long, and his hands sported dangerous,
stiletto-like claws. His head was massive, split with wide flaring
nostrils and large yellow cat-slit eyes that seemed to shine with
their own light. On his head, two great horns like those of an
eland spiraled slowly up to a height of about a meter above his
skull. His shaggy mane seemed a striking contrast to his
clean-shaven jaw and cheeks, while bright red pointed bat ears
jutted from the sides of his head, standing erect and attentive
like a Doberman pinscher’s. His teeth were pointed, and two
oversized, vicious canines added to the overall ghastliness of his
countenance.

He smiled – not a fierce, diabolical smile,
but a genuinely pleased and happy grin, “Well, well, well, what can
I say but … welcome. Welcome to Hell.”

He spread his arms out graciously.

“
Satan?” One of the women whispered
hoarsely.

“
Ahriman? No, no, no. Nothing as notable
as that. I am Xandern. One of the Yazatas. A minor functionary. I
hope you are not too disappointed?” He seemed genuinely
concerned.

One of the women shook her head and turned
away sobbing.

“
Well, let’s see. What have we here
today?” He picked up a red rectangle from his desk and began
tapping on the device with the long sharp claw of his index
finger.

“
Hmm … hmm …” he repeated to himself as he
gazed at the screen of his device, looking slightly
puzzled.

“
Lester Green?” he said, suddenly looking
up at one of the men sitting in the uncomfortable metal
chairs.

Rather than fear, this man seemed to radiate
a quiet bold confidence – like someone used to sending back food at
a restaurant after establishing some flaw in the meal that did not
meet his exacting standards.

“
There’s been a mistake,” he said softly,
but with firm resolve. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“
A mistake?” the demon said with a baffled
look on his face. “Quite possibly, quite possibly. Things in Hell
don’t always run as smoothly as one would like, do they?” He picked
up the rectangle and after a few taps read aloud, “Let’s see.
Lester Green. 1294 Battle Lane. Forrest City, Arkansas. Wife: Sarah
Green. Four children: Matthew, Mark, Jessie, and Caleb. Died while
playing golf during a thunderstorm – struck by lightning,” he
mentioned as an aside to the other guests.

“
Everything looks in order,” the great
demon said, with a little impatience in his voice.

“
No, you see I was saved. Forever and for
all time. I came forth at the preacher’s call and was washed in the
blood of the lamb. I’m saved by Christ. Who can snatch me from
God’s hand?”

As the man spoke he rose to his feet, drew
his face upward, and threw his hands into the air crying, “Help me,
Jesus!”

The Demon looked on quizzically. “You were a
Christian then?”

“
Yes. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.
I shouldn’t be here. I’ve been saved,” the man shouted, though with
waning bravado.

“
Well, there’s your problem. You didn’t
join the one true religion.”

“
What? I’m telling you, I was a Christian.
I read the Bible every day. I donated money to the TV evangelists
every Sunday. And I was saved.”