Beyond the Veil

By Erin Lee

'Beyond the Veil.'

It's the expression people use for life after living – the mysterious place all souls linger after inevitably vacating earth and floating to finality. To arrive, one must first experience death. It can be quick or slow and torturous. Death can happen again and again.

Forever – none of us can Escape Reality.

Each time, Mistress Death brings with her a lesson.

That's what it feels like for Mary and Hudson. Since the moment they said their vows, they've died a hundred deaths. What started as 'true love' quickly became contempt and everything in between.

It's getting worse; angrier.

Mistress Death is too. Her lessons are becoming more serious.

The couple missed the memo:

They did not know, ten years ago, that hatred has a twisted blade. It comes back to jab at the heart that thrust it. Love does the same. And it's where Mary and Hudson rest now – somewhere between a happy ending and the grave; departed but not dearly.

Death is a bitch.

Marriage is too.

And sometimes, the only way out is through…

***

Beyond the Veil, a dark romance by USA Today Bestselling Author Erin Lee, is the twisted love story of an ordinary couple on the edge. In the end, only one of them will remain. What will it take to bring their love and hate to a final resting place?

And who will be left standing?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Sep 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393778998

Erin Lee

Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

Book preview

An Escape from Reality Series Novella

Dedication

For Matty G., who I’d chase through time like Ingrid West or, better, slip into love with like Kate any time. The choice is ours and history? It’s what pushes us toward the end.

Thank you for your ongoing support, love and laughs.

I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.

—Groucho Marx

Chapter One

Mary

‘B eyond the Veil.’ It’s the expression people use for life after death – the mysterious place we linger when we inevitably vacate the earthly world and float off into oblivion or some shit. That’s what it feels like with me and Hudson these days; like the moment we said our vows and left Escape, we began to die a million tiny deaths. What started as ‘true love’ became contempt. We did not know, back then, that hatred has a twisted blade. It returns back to jab at the heart that thrust it. Love does the same. And it’s where we are now – somewhere between a happy ending and the grave. Each day, escaping reality. In many ways, we are no different than Ingrid and Jack; tangled souls in an eternal game of love verses hate. I imagine this curse will chase us through time the same way Ingrid’s bloodlust does hers. But we all have choices too...

I stare at him as he chokes down burnt toast; his eyes darting back and forth to his phone to see if she’s messaged him. In our kitchen, the waiting room for our respective deaths, I can’t fathom where he gets the idea I’m so naive as not to know. Oh, I know. I know all about her the same way I did those who came first. The difference, now, is I just don’t care. Not like I did once. Not anymore. A girl can only have her heart broken so many times before she goes numb.

Clearing my throat only to remind him I’m still here, I turn back to the sink to start the dishes. While Hudson could care less anymore about the flies that collect in the kitchen if we don’t keep the sink clear, I do. We’re different like that. In ten years, I’ve learned there are more differences than not between me and my distant husband. It wasn’t always like this. At least, and probably because we both believed the lies we spewed, back then, there was room for compromise. But our story is no different than most. We’re aware of that too. And as I reach for a new sponge to no avail—Hudson no longer shops in bulk—I don’t bother asking. Tomorrow, I’ll head to the hardware store without him. I won’t ask where he’s been or what he’s done. It’s not like he’d tell me the truth. He, like me, is courting Mistress Death too. He just doesn’t know it. He refuses to listen. We are no different than Ingrid and Jack; in a messed up game with Mistress Death.

That’s what I call her. She is the thing that looms over us. While we could let go, we won’t. We are both too stubborn. And so, she leeks into the home, bed and rare moments we share alone. She is the puppet master to our moods, pulling at our strings and making us dance to different tangos. While Hudson hides from me, I chase; always watching and waiting for something to change. We’ve been locked in her tangled web for as far back as I can remember. Even on our anniversary, a trip we took to Venice, there was a cold silence between us.

I pull eggs from a tired pan as I think back to the gondolier who pulled us under lonely bridges and canals without sidewalks waiting for us to get caught up in something bigger than us. It never happened. We didn’t kiss under each bridge either – not with open mouths. Reaching for a rag to dry the pan off, I want to ask Hudson if he remembers too. I want to know if he’s thought about the carnival or days leading up to it and if he ever regrets our trip to the City of Masks. But what’s the use?

Sighing, I nod at the proverbial Mistress Death as I take my place at the solid maple table next to him. He doesn’t look up. Instead, it’s his turn to cough as if I could have missed that he is here. Local Venice legend was that couples who kissed under every canal bridge would stay together forever. Hudson and me, even on our anniversary, had not kissed once the way we should have. I wonder what Jack and Ingrid would be like in Venice. I should write about that. Regardless, all the signs were there. And, sitting across from him in understood but temporary truce, it’s impossible not to have regret. I know he feels it too. And that’s when our tired dance is interrupted...

His phone vibrates and he jumps to reach for it. I wonder if his panic comes from me or her. Is he worried I’ll ask who she is? Is he that excited to hear from her? Which one is it and which one is she? Which woman has him scrambling on a lazy Saturday morning well before noon over cold eggs, burnt toast and so many things unfinished? That doesn’t matter either, I lie to myself. An ordinary Saturday can just as easily be the one that changes everything. Does he really think I’m so dumb as not to know the true identities of Bob Ringly and Reece Johnson? Please. Often accused of being caught between fiction and reality, I’m at least well-read enough to spot the foreshadowing; write it, even.

At least he gives me the curtesy to send her to voicemail. Clearly, he can’t answer and doesn’t want me listening. Funny thing is, if given the chance, I’m not sure I would.  Now, he clears his throat, like a distraction will be enough to throw me off. He doesn’t ask about my writing or the book I’m reading and basing the fan fiction on: Chasing Jack: An Escape from Reality Series novel.  Instead, he goes for the mundane – a test only for his best interest: What are your plans today?

Why? So you can head out with her? Not much. We need a few things at the store. Reading. Writing. You know, the usual. You?

He shrugs. Stuff to take care of at work.

I see. Through you.

Breakfast was good. Thanks.

You’re welcome. Ingrid saw through Jack too.

With those simple words, my husband just about leaps from the table, clutching the phone in his right hand. In seconds, I hear the bathroom door shut and then, the lock. He’s texting her; making up an excuse for why he didn’t pick up the phone. It shouldn’t be so hard. It’s not like she doesn’t know he’s married. If they were smart, they’d come up with a code.

I finish my eggs and reach for a second coffee before coming up with a plan for how I’ll spend the rest of my day. By early next week, I should have my passport. I could use the time he’s away to hit the hardware store and maybe even the bridal shop. Funerals, no different than the weddings that preface them, are exhausting things to coordinate. It’ll be over soon, I remind myself, wondering if she’ll come. I can see it now; Mistress Death grinning over all of us. My husband a cold, regrettable corpse. Women of his past and present crying over what could have been. And me, the widow he pledge to be with until the end, scanning the place for cops...

Chapter Two

Hudson

Ican feel her cold , heartless eyes on me. She watches my every move. I’d have to be deaf, dumb, blind and maybe even six feet in the ground to ever escape her. I asked for a divorce once. That went well. My wife of too many years to think about glared at me and reminded me of our ‘sacred’ vows. It won’t be long, I tell myself, heading back through the kitchen to the garage. I grab my briefcase and kiss my wife on the forehead first. It’s a rule in our house – I am not allowed to leave the place without kissing her goodbye. I look at it more like a hall pass. After years and years of fighting her, I don’t argue with the petty shit like ‘always kiss me goodnight.’ It is what it is. And after you’ve been married long enough you come to accept certain things. That’s how it is with Mary and me. At least, how it’s been. Things