Dear Diary--A Journal From Hell - Patrick Sean Lee (ebook reader 8 inch .TXT) 📗

things regarding where we were.

 

From the woman we learned:

 

We are free to come and go as we wish, within the boundaries of Hell, of course.

There is free enterprise here. Wonderful, impromptu festivities as well, she said. Manufacturing, arts, entertainment, and best of all—a host of mattress stores!

 

There are doctors and lawyers, bishops, and writers…there are debates and social intercourse. It is so like any wonderful city back on Earth!

 

But, where is Lucifer Teresa and I asked? He is the epitome of evil. How can this seemingly wondrous metropolis even exist in his presence?

 

“Why, he is everywhere! You shall meet him if you stay long enough. You will adore him!”

 

Both of us were confounded. In reality, awestruck.

 

We wandered about after she left, enthralled by the place. The diversity; the cleanliness and beauty. Much later in the day we entered a building that stretched far into the smoky sky. An apartment complex, we hoped. We inquired of the man behind the desk about a room, and how much it would cost to rent or lease—a problem given the dismal fact that neither of us has any money.

 

“How many rooms?” he asked.

 

“How many?” I replied. “I don’t know. What are the choices?”

 

He looked at me as though I’d just asked him some deep theological question.

 

“Take your pick. A single room for an evening. One with a chair and a desk for more comfortable…” On and on, up to a thirty-room penthouse suite overlooking the entire city on a “clear” day.

 

“But, how could we pay for such a place? Or any of them?” Teresa asked.

 

The man eyed her, which I found discomforting, and finally replied.

 

“Don’t worry about that. We can settle up later. Which room do you want?”

 

 

We are very comfortably situated midway up the building in a modest ten-room suite.

 

We have a real bedroom, with a real bed, with real sheets and two pillows. I am not altogether comfortable, however. Something smells fishy. Teresa is delighted.

 

What became of the demons?

 

Good? Night.

 

 

And Rest

March 10

 

Diary,

 

We truly rested today.

 

Both of us were famished. Found a restaurant on the ground floor (surprise) and ate until we thought we’d burst. Real food! Yet…there was something odd about the taste of some of it. And something else. A very elegant-looking man seated himself a few tables away and watched us the entire time. He did not smile. He did not frown. His face was simply expressionless.

 

We ate and talked…and rested.

And...

 

March 11

 

Diary, my friend,

 

Again, we stayed in our room. Teresa’s chattering has all but vanished. She has gotten very quiet, wanting only for me to join her beneath the sheets. I suppose it’s the relative peacefulness of our new home. The absence of looming terror, perhaps.

 

Her body is soft. She is lovely. We are content.

May I Introduce You To

 

March 12

 

Dear Diary, confidante,

 

I am a little worried. The people here are exactly that. People. They are too friendly, though, and that bothers me. This is still Hell. Something is wrong.

 

I’ve seen no devils. No pitchforks or splayed tails. Only normalcy…of a sort, albeit punctuated by sometimes wacky speculations and out-of-the-blue comments by these citizens of...where are we, really? Los Angeles in the third millennium?

 

Teresa suddenly does not wish to leave the room. The bedroom, at least, except to go downstairs for meals, which she finds delicious. I must agree with her there. They are delightful. The food has done wonders for her once-pallid complexion. The odd serenity here, maybe. She described this city as “home” today. When I mentioned why we had travelled here, and that we must eventually leave to find Lucifer and demand our release—our release—she scoffed.

 

The elegant-looking man sat near us again at lunch. He rose to leave before we had finished eating, walking past our table. He smiled and tipped his head as he went by, brushing an arm on Teresa’s bare shoulder. It startled her.

Teresa?

 

March 13

 

Diary,

 

“Why would you want to leave?” That’s the question the elegant man put to me today. Teresa smiled when he asked it and put her hand atop mine at the table. Her reaction confused me.

 

“Because we’re in Hell. We don’t want to be here.”

 

“Hell?” he replied. “That’s simply a state of mind.”

 

“I think he’s right,” Teresa added. Again, the small but now-distant smile as she brought the bread she has become so fond of to her mouth. I find it bitter.

 

I remember looking at her in astonishment, and asking, “Were those demons, the mindless inmates, that firestorm and river of oil states of mind?”

 

Her answer was to bring her gaze to the man’s eyes, as though she hadn’t heard my question. Or perhaps she expected him to answer for her.

 

“We came to find Lucifer. We want to leave,” I put to him. “Do you know where he is; where we can find him?”

 

The man’s answer. “You can leave whenever you like.” A clever sidestep I thought.

 

“Then I will. Come on, Teresa, you heard the man. Let’s get out of here,” I said. Teresa did not look up at me, only at him.

 

“But where will you go?” he asked softly. He addressed her, not me. She remained mute; transfixed in his gaze. At last he turned and spoke to me. What he said was not good.

 

She has changed. I AM frightened. Oh Diary, I have begun to love her. And I can use that word in this city. Any word I like, in fact, and no one seems to care. Perhaps this grand city is just an illusion. I feel an undercurrent of deceit and REAL horror just beneath the surface, though, whatever it is. What lies ahead? Why has Teresa suddenly forgotten the reason we came here? Who is that man? She seems enamored by him.

 

 

I’m weary, good Diary. I need to sleep for a thousand years. I don’t believe a word he said.

A Festival

 

March 14

 

 

Teresa did not return from dinner with me last night, saying she would follow later; that she wished to speak to the man at our table for a while. There I left her, mesmerized by him, and now I curse myself. But I am not her husband or her keeper. What other choice did I have? Oh, but I curse myself.

 

I awoke this morning, this time period, to a great commotion outside our door, which is as thin as paper. When I eased it open and peeked out I saw dozens of people screaming and brawling. Fists and legs flying, cursing, shouts for mercy from those taking the worst of the beatings. It was as though the entire floor had emptied itself into the hall, intent for whatever reason on killing each other. I slammed the door closed again and ran to find Teresa. She was nowhere in the flat.

 

I called for her until my lungs hurt, and then returned to the door and threw it open, expecting in my worst fears to find her…I wonder. I wonder…what is the worst evil that could befall a person who is already dead? More dead?

 

The windows overlooking the streets below. I rushed to them and looked out to a scene a million times as ferocious as the war in the hallway. Are there a million souls in this city? Two million? A hundred million? I have no idea, but however many there are, the terrible thought occurred to me that I was the only one locked safely (a pipedream) in his room. The street below had disappeared. All that was visible was a sea of writhing bodies; arms flailing; stacked like so many fish caught in an endless net. Two—three--five? stories of them. I threw open the window and screamed out Teresa’s name, but it was lost in a seething roar of voices.

 

I had found the center of Hell it seemed. How long will this carnage last? Where in it is Teresa?

 

The din outside my door reached more savage heights, and so I pushed a heavy bureau in front of it, praying…praying? Yes, praying it would prevent the flimsy panel from collapsing in, allowing them to tumble over the top of it and set upon me. I spent the remainder of the day cowering in our bed. Praying. Bleating her name, over and over. I must somehow summon the courage to enter the fray and pull her from it, but I am paralyzed