Hell Within -- Chapter Six: The Father Scenes 4-6

-4-

Tom spotted the rack and then peeled it off the billiards table gently without the balls moving. Then he eyed Ben.

"Your break."

Ben squinted at the queue ball, downed his first glass of Scotch, made a wry face, and then lined the queue ball up.

"So what did your wife do for a living?" he said, chalking the tip of his stick.

Tom leaned against the paneled wall. "She was an artist, much like your mother."

Ben lined himself up and eyed his target with the smoke from his cigarette swirling up toward his eye, and then he broke, sinking nothing.

He backed away from the table and poured himself another glass of scotch as Tom approached the table and chalked his stick.

"She specialized in portraits of people with disabilities. She loved showing the world how vulnerable it is."

"What happened to her?"

Tom squinted at him. "I don’t know, for sure. She and I had a falling out."

"What about?"

Tom shrugged. "What do couples argue about?"

Ben nodded.

Tom lined up his shot on the 11 ball and dunked it into the corner pocket, and then he stood up straight and eyed Ben again. Ben downed his second glass of Scotch and chased it with a puff of his Camel.

"You may want to take it easy on that Scotch. Time has a way of making such things much more potent."

"Did you have any kids?"

Tom smiled. "Most certainly."

"Where are they?"

Tom shook his head and eyed the table. "My oldest son has a rather outlandish set of political ideals. He defected to a third world country."

Ben laughed and Tom grinned along with him.

"I should’ve been a better father."

"So what does he do?"

Tom lined up his shot on the 13 and sunk it into the corner pocket, and then he stood up straight.

"He’s a fool. He roves through life driven by delusions of persecution. Last I heard, he was leading his own cult."

"A third world David Keresh?"

Tom nodded. "In a manner of speaking."

He lined up on the twelve and banked it into the side pocket as Ben poured himself yet another glass of Scotch.

"What about your other children?"

Tom looked up at him. "I have many. The only thing they all have in common is that they hate me and each other. Gather them all in the same room, and it looks as though an asylum has taken a field trip."

He re-chalked the tip of his stick.

"All I ever tried to do is to keep them fed and warm, but I was a fool. And I ruined them."

Tom looked at him a moment longer and then he squared up on his shot on the 9 downed it in the side pocket and scratched.

"You’re solids," he said.

Ben downed his third glass of Scotch and puffed his cigarette, spotted the queue ball and aimed at the 2. He aimed it at reverse left English and sank it hard. The queue ball rolled and landed behind the 5.

He looked up at Tom.

"I’ve always wondered what being a father was like."

Tom, who was leaning against the back wall now nodded and blinked.

"Let me tell you something about children. They rove haphazardly through life, and then misfortune comes, and you bail them out. When the time comes to assign blame, they point a bony finger at you."

Ben pointed himself at the 7 and clacked it into the right side pocket, and then he stood up swaying.

He felt as though he were about to hurl. He kept swallowing his spit to keep it down.

"You don’t look well," Tom said. "Perhaps I should make you a pot of tea."

Ben only looked at him, continuously swallowing.

"You should lie down, and I’ll go make that tea."

-5-

By the time Tom Freeman made it back up to Ben’s quarters with the tea, it was too late. Ben hadn’t even made it to the bed. He lay on the hardwood floor curled up in a fetal position ten feet shy of the bed.

Tom smiled to himself and sat the silver tray with the pitcher of tea on an end table beside the bed, and then he hoisted Ben up and carried him like a father might carry a sleeping child over to his bed.

And he lingered a moment before passing on staring at Ben paternally.

Had Ben been conscious, he might’ve found this display most bizarre. The temperature of the room dropped so sharply that ice began collecting in the window. For a split second, Tom’s eyes glowed pale green.

"If it is knowledge you seek, we shall give it," Tom said in a heavy English accent.

Then he turned and walked back through the door.

And the door closed itself behind him.

-6-

"Come to me."

Ben opened his eyes halfway to find himself staring at the shadow of a tea pitcher on his nightstand. He looked to the right of the pitcher to the red LED of his alarm clock.

"3:17."

His eyes drifted shut again.

"Come to me," it repeated.

He opened his eyes and sat up, and he saw nothing. The thick drapes over the row of arched windows to his left were all drawn choking back the moonlight, and the light in the bathroom was not on as usual.

"Who’s there?"

No answer.

He tossed the blue comforter back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. And he sat there for a long moment dazed over and staring at his navy socks.

He couldn’t remember having gone to bed. He scratched his head and stared at the pitcher of tea, and the shape of it pulled an empty memory out of the black hole that had been yesterday.

I must’ve been dreaming.

He reached around the pitcher and flipped on the lamp on the end table, and the bulb popped.

"Damnit."

He pushed himself to his feet and found that his legs were wobbly beneath him. His head was swimming and he found that his balance was confused. It was almost as if he were drunk.

Pawing like a blind man through the darkness, he managed his way across the room and to the door.

And when he opened it, everything changed.

All the lights were turned out. The only illumination came from candles in silver sconces on the walls. And the flames -- twice as long as normal candlelight danced a slow mesmerizing dance like the movements of a snake charmer.

"Come to me," the voice said.

He stepped out into the hallway and stared down the long black expanse in the direction of the east bell tower. And far down the hall another flame ignited. This was much different than the others. It hovered and danced halfway between the floor and the ceiling undulating like a living thing.

Its color alternated at first from white to red to blue until it settled on green.

And it grew.

As it did, it choked back the darkness like a poison sun until it was all Ben could see. And it danced for him -- mesmerizing him like the motions of a snake charmer. The more he looked at it, the larger it grew. He realized after a moment that the flame wasn’t entirely green. That it had flecks of white and red and blue in it.

Its movement was otherworldly.

Ben didn’t feel like himself anymore. A profound calmness washed over him. The tension in his upper body drained, and his vision glazed over. The shakiness in his legs was gone as was the swimming in his head. He inhaled the cool air in deep restful gulps. The hallway disappeared now, and the only thing left was the flame.

Don’t look into the flame.

But it was too late.

There was something benevolent about it -- like the warmth of a mother’s bed. And it never showed him exactly the same form.

"Come to me."

Don’t look into the flame.

He felt as though he were in that sweet euphoric place between consciousness and unconsciousness -- the place where you haven’t begun to dream yet, but you’re no longer awake.

Then, the flame disappeared behind a door, and there was no light. Ben squinted through the darkness, stretching his hands out before him like a blind man.

And under his palms he felt the smooth but uneven surface of a wooden door.

He looked around, and his vision returned. And now, he was no longer standing on the fifth floor. He must have been walking toward the flame, but he didn’t remember making motion toward it. Two torches behind him lighted the narrow, fusty hallway, and the walls were made of black stone.

He looked forward again. The door before him was like no other in the house; it was tall, heavy, and wide with a half-worn-away code of arms carved in its surface.

Then the door creaked open, just a crack. He frowned.

"Enter," the voice said.

Ben looked around, but not a soul was in sight. He wasn’t sure he’d actually heard someone speaking. It was as if the voice was in his head.

He pushed the door back, and beyond was a narrow stone stairwell -- its arched ceiling shrouded in cobwebs. And four steps down, the living shadows swallowed the corridor.

He stepped backwards.

The dust-ridden torches lining the walls of the stairwell flared.

"ENTER," the voice commanded.

Ben licked his lips and looked behind him again, and then he stepped down into the stairwell.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He spun around and shoved against it -- locked.

With no where else to go he turned and looked back down the stairwell, and at the end of the corridor, a set of double doors swung open giving way to a cavernous chamber. And a slightly pungent odor drifted up from below.

"Enter," the voice said again.

Ben slowly stepped down the long stairwell, and at the bottom, he stopped just short of the doorway, and peered inside.

Beyond lay a deep cave with four rows of evenly spaced stone caskets descending off into infinity. And from the deep end, a pale, green light approached slowly.

He stepped through the doorway and squinted at it.

The light was blurry at first and clairvoyant, but as it approached, the image gathered substance and came into focus until the man stood before him.

Peering at him with sharp green eyes.

His thick black beard not quite concealing his pale lips.

"Good morrow."

All the resistance in him drained like water from a tub. He felt profoundly relaxed.

The man smiled -- it was not a menacing smile but the tentative grimace of one who has little faith in himself. He fidgeted as though he was insecure with a manner that was almost apologetic. Ben didn’t look at him and see the monster that everything he’d seen and heard since he’d taken up residence here had described, what he saw was himself.

"We regret the odd hour of our summons, but sunlight makes it impossible for me to rise at any other time."

The man spoke with a heavy British accent, but it wasn’t a proper British accent. It was scruffy sounding -- like the speech of an Australian.

"Why?"

"We have been cursed since birth with bad skin; we cannot walk in the sun lest our skin crack open and bleed."

"But you’re dead."

Henry nodded. "What ails us in life is oft our penance in death."

"Penance?"

Henry looked down, shuffled his feet, and grimaced as if embarrassed. "Each day we live, from the cradle to the grave is a mighty struggle. We are but humble creatures who seek peace, comfort, and love. In the thick of it, we oft fail to recognize the most temperate course."

Ben nodded. "Why have you called me here?"

Henry looked up at him. "We’ve ascertained that you wished to know more of us, and the lore you have is unfair – coloured by my children who bear us great ill will."

Ben gave him an interrogative look.

Henry shook his head. "The hosts of creation denied them passage, and they blame us."

"Who are the hosts of creation?"

"They sit in judgment of us all -- weighing our deeds, deciphering our motives, testing our mettle. . . . An insolent lot, they are."

Ben frowned. "What about all those tombstones behind the church from your era with names of your countrymen marked traitor?"

"We were at war with a vindictive lot of heathens. They raped our women, skinned our children, and burned our men alive. Our fear was our bane."

"You were married?"

"Nay. We remain, as always, a lonely wretch."

Ben frowned. "If you weren’t married, how did you have children?"

Henry looked at Ben and smiled warmly.

"You are most perceptive, and a token to our name."

He looked away from Ben and bunched his lips together. "It’s a powerful force that draws a man to a woman. It drives us to succeed on a level that no other power we have can."

He looked back at Ben. "It’s perilous as well. When the love of a man is unrequited it can drive him into such a state, and he may resort to thievery."

"Oh, my God!"

Henry nodded bashfully. "The hosts were not impressed either. We didn’t fit into their meticulously crafted set of principles for how one should conduct himself."

"That’s why you’re stuck here."

Henry sighed, "We’ve been imprisoned here for hundreds of years. And we know now that the hosts will never suffer us passage."

Ben shook his head.

Henry took a step toward him. "Our bane should not be yours. We’ve come to protect you from the same fate."

"I don’t understand."

"The lost souls which are our children mean you harm."

"It is within our power to stop them, if you wish."

Ben studied him carefully.

"The only thing we require is your good favor, and that you grant us the right to pass."

Ben shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

"You are our only living blood, and the only compatible vessel -- our only hope for salvation."

"What do you mean?"

Henry squinted. "Pity that we can’t explain."

"What if I refuse?"

Henry glared at him. "Then we’re both doomed."

"Why?"

"Without our protection, you are easy pickings for the fiends with which we share quarter."

"I can’t agree to something I don’t understand."

He nodded. "It’s well. Perhaps, we’ve asked for too much too soon. You have no memory of us and therefore no trust. But we shall remind you."

"Remind me of what?"

He smiled. "On the morrow, friend. On the morrow."

(Coming Soon Chapter 7: The Birthright)