2025-03-25 23:07:35Terry was right. He was as dead as a dinosaur in a few hours. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't aware yet.
The first few moments as a spirit are always very disconcerting. Your mind, unaware of the state change, still believes everything is the way it used to be. Subconsciously, you try to force physics into the spirit world. How can I be flying down a vast tunnel and still look at myself lying spread-eagled close to the riverbank? Practically impossible. Conclusion: I'm dreaming. Terry told himself he was dreaming. A nice dream, for a change. No abusive stepfather waiting for him with a leather whip, no sick mother to blame him for everything that ever goes wrong, or some bullies stalking him at school. He was free. Free at last. So he decided to relax. The tunnel was big and boundless, and it was full of floating dots. Dots that Terry soon realized were humans. People floating in the tunnel? Damn crazy?...no! He surely must have heard something like that before. Something about tunnel and light. Didn't he hear it during the Sunday school lesson? So, Terry Law asked himself, "Am I dead?" He waited for a kind of answer, revelation, or tremendous impact. Nothing. No convulsions. No screaming or wrenching sobs. It was as if the tunnel had anesthetized his mind. Well, he hadn't had a great life and would probably be better off outside of it. Maybe he will even get to see his father again. Although his father must be in heaven, Terry doubts if he can make it past the Pearl Gate. Suddenly, Terry emerged out of a tunnel and ascended gently to the floor of Peter's office. The saint ran his finger down the lists. Terry Law. Nineteen years old. Stabbed to death. "You have quite a record for a minor. Shoplifting, vandalism, truancy, and what you did you do that to your stepdad. I could go on, but the screen isn't big enough." "Use the cursor." "I know about the cursor." snapped the irritated saint in a very unsaintly manner. I'm just trying to make a point here. "You never know when to shut up, do you?" "No," said Terry, instead of shutting up. The saint shrugged and resumed his speech, "All this has affected your record, and I am afraid you are not qualified to enter heaven." Terry nodded his head in agreement. He had been a bad child and wasn't worth the kind of eternal bliss that is found in heaven. People like him should go to hell. He was guilty of every other crime, except that of his stepdad. That son-of-a-gun deserves each and everything that comes to him. He just wishes his mother would understand the reason for his actions and forgive him. And if she doesn't, who cares? Surely not Terry because he was already dead. "So, I will be going to hell, right?" The saint shakes his head sideways. "No. You have enough plus points to keep you out of hell, but not enough to get you to heaven. Terry released a breath. He could resonate. When alive, he had never fitted into a specific class. Just a bit of it here and there. Did he expect things to change because he was dead? Saint Peter resumed his speech, "We have purgatory, Limbo, or reincarnation. And then, we have reincarnation as a lower life form." "As a lower life form?" Terry mimicked back. Saint Peter looked into his eyes. "Yes. Animals, organisms, or microorganisms. There are several ways to send souls back to earth. Now, I have to decide which category you fall into." Terry snorted back. This was one of the hardest parts of Peter's work, and that was why he despised people like Terry. How he wishes people could be good or bad, hot or cold, and not a bit of this and that. After a minute of thought, Peter covertly reached beneath the rim of his desk for the limbo button. Terry clasped his hands in prayer, something he had never done in years...and the phone rang. Peter rolled his eyes. Samael again. Couldn't that Lord of Ghoul do anything on his own? He pressed the accept button. "Yes, Samael." "A bit of a problem down here, comrade." "I thought you like problems." "Not this kind. Everything we have worked for is at stake." "What are you talking about?" "The earthbound demons had escaped Ghoul and were on their way to Earth. They need to be stopped now." This is not the first time earthbound demons will be escaping Ghoul. If Sameal called him, then it must be something big. "When did this happen?" "A night ago." "How many earthbound demons are we talking about?" "One hundred" "One hundred!" Saint Peter growled. How is that even possible? Even though the archangel and the demon came from different ends of the spectrum, theologically speaking, they had, over the past few centuries, established something of a friendship. Nothing major. No exchanging of trade secrets or anything like that. Both supernaturals realized the similarities of their jobs and the benefits of keeping the earthbound demons from destroying the planet Earth. So far, their little communication had averted several presidential assassinations, holocausts, famines, and third-world wars. "Is Lucifer aware of this?" Saint Peter asked and then cocked an eyebrow. Of course, Lucifer would be the first to be notified about such things. "Sì." The voice from the other side of the call answered back. "Lord Lucifer claimed it's none of his business anymore, and he refused to release his legion of demons to help in bringing them back." While Lucifer ruled over hell and demons, Samael had authority over the earthbound demons and their home in Ghoul. And it was his duty to keep them away from earth. But then, one or two among that spirit always escaped and they were caught before any damage was done. Saint Peter released the breath he had been holding. No doubt, Lucifer must be at the root of this. What is he up to? That lord of hell is as unpredictable as a loose cannon. "How can I be of help?" "I need some angels to help in bringing them back ." Saint Peter laughed sardonically, "You know that's impossible, right?" Sameal's grunted louder from the other side of the call. "Hmm... You will think of something, won't you?" "Sì." "Thank you." Saint Peter hisses and then presses the terminate button. "Saint Peter," Terry called out. The saint removed a pair of spectacles, wiped the glasses with an impeccable white handkerchief, and then placed the spectacles back at the edge of his nose. "I need your help, mortal."
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