In Fear of Heaven

By Christopher Angione

Everyone will die
But few refuse to surrender
And thats just the start of Jack Dooleys journey.


Does the light finally go out and thats it? Jack learns that is simply not true.
Jack dies, but when he is brought back to life against his wishes, he is inadvertently made aware that there is much more to this system of life and death than what is eluded to by any religious dogma.
Experiencing that there IS something else; what is the else? How does it work?
Jack needs to know. Can you take any bit of yourself along with you or must you forfeit your individuality in order to join the universal pure bliss of heaven?
As he stumbles along, only to realizing that hell has no horrors that can match those of your own will.
Stubborn and wary Jack will not surrender his self. He will not give up his individuality And under no circumstances will he accept this bliss of heaven.

Not without the fight of his lifetimes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499028959

Christopher Angione

I am a husband and a father of three girls and one son. I grew up in the metro NY area and currently live in NH. I have worked as a farm hand, restaurant busboy, telemarketer, bartender, bar/restaurant-owner/operator, chain restaurant general manager, Insurance and securities representative, and a car salesman. I am currently on disability due to a 20+ year dispute with multiple sclerosis dipping south. Why did I write this book you may ask? Well, during my senior year of college studying abroad in London I was stabbed through both lungs outside an afterhour’s pub. I lost my hold on this world in the casualty ward in St. Mary’s hospital. These events had me questioning more than I could derive answers to. So I started to write. Those true events and glut of absolutely Not true events tangled together to result in this book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

—William Blake from The Tyger

Jack Dooley circled the sidewalk, heart surging with adrenaline and combat-fed bloodlust shredding the confines of his soul. Round and round he paced, winding the clock as he went, time speeding up at every turn.

Unnecessarily late, October 29, 1989. Real time again.

Muffled laughter and crackling voices inside the bar cresting over the thrashing music: outside—silence—four bodies sprawled across the sidewalk; one dead.

Jack Dooley refused to believe his eyes; no way could this be real.

A warm sensation inched down Jack Dooley’s back. Curiously he gently reached his right hand around and felt it wet, wet and sticky. Probing a little farther, his middle finger slipped into a warm flowing hole.

Oh my g—, Jack Dooley breathed, his voice catching. Cool sweat erupted across his face as horror corrupted his vision with a curtain of tiny whirlpools. Slowly he moved his hand off his back and stared with disbelief at the thick crimson stain. Stunned. Shocked. Frozen. Watching the thick fluid roll down his hand and soak into his sleeve. This is my blood? The sudden realization now rebooted his consciousness. I’ve been stabbed . . . but why don’t I feel any pain? No. This isn’t real. It can’t be. But his confusion remained.

Gasping, he spun around and faced the curtained bar window. Jack Dooley looked at the glass, and every nerve, every cell, every sinew in his body wanted to scream. His reflection! It gaped back at himself holding a palm out, dripping blood, the panic of hell in its eyes. It just stared back at him, frozen, openmouthed, motionless. Yet it seemed so terribly familiar. And then realization freed his mind, my dream.

Jack Dooley staggered to the worn brick wall. On the other side of the wall, life rolled on as usual with students drinking themselves into frenzies of slurred laughter, but on this side, his life could may be at an end.

Jack Dooley teetered on the edge of consciousness, on the edge of slipping into the swirling vortex eclipsing his vision. He held tight to the wall to steady himself and fight off the darkness. Hold on now… clear it out… take a breath. Jack Dooley mumbled, shaking his head, and inhaled deeply. He dragged his hand across the bricks, curiously watching the bloodred handprint march across the wall from a heavy wash of red to a faltering smear. You’re OK. You’re still standing . . .

Jack Dooley pushed away from the wall, and for the first time he looked around, taking in the street before him. He stood on that sidewalk alone. No one had seen the fight, no one had heard anything, and no one ran to help.

Jesus . . . what do I do now? Jack Dooley’s eyes began to moisten and well up.

DAMN YOU! he shouted to the empty street and wiped the back of one hand across his eyes. He was hurt and alone, but it was not fear that erupted here. Rather, it was the tide of rage that still scorched in his belly. And as he stood there, mind twisting on what the hell he should do, an ancient Latin phrase began swirling through his head.

At daemon, homini quum struit aliquid malum, pervertit illi primitus mentum suam. When he had first committed it to memory many years ago, he just thought it pretty cool to know, but now it seemed to hold some distinct meaning, to him directly, though he knew not what.

At daemon, homini quam struit aliquid malum, pervertit illi primitus mentum suam. (But the devil, when he proposes any evil against man, perverts his mind first.)

Stop, Jack Dooley asked his whirling mind, but the phrase came again. Stop!

His brain refused to listen. At daemon, homini quam.

Please, he pleaded as he clutched his head.

His mind repeated, At daemon, homini quam struit—

STOP! PLEASE! Jack Dooley fell to his knees, and the complete picture of his previous encounter unfolded in his mind… of tonight just a short time earlier…

Jack Dooley had pushed this same bar door open and walked in. He took one step then quickly pivoted back, throwing a hand out to catch the door. He missed by a hair, and the door crashed closed, carrying with it every eye inside.

Jack Dooley looked to the bartender, Sorry, Richie. He had, again, forgotten to ease the door shut, as always. He went through that door virtually every day and still couldn’t seem to remember. When the hell are they gonna fix that thing anyway?

Probably the day after you remember to close it properly, Richie answered with a grin. Jack Dooley, are you on tonight?

Nope, tonight I’m just a customer. Jack Dooley smiled and ran his tongue across his lips as he eyed the white porcelain tap head before him. Draw me a Guinness, would ya?

Want the shamrock pretty boy?

Really, you want to work that hard do you?

You got it, chief. Richie filled a pint glass and placed it in front of Jack Dooley. To Richie you were either a dipshit or a chief. Jack Dooley preferred the latter, though at times in the heat of a rush he had seen Richie mouthing the former. Jack Dooley took the glass and gulped down about a third of the dark stout before returning it to the mahogany.

On a mission, aye? Richie remarked.

Well, sort of, just figured I’d take a breather tonight. A little R and R if you will just saddle up and get a bit stinky.

I know what ya mean. With that, Richie went down the rail to tighten up a few other customers.

Through the course of the next few hours, Jack Dooley had poured enough liquor down his throat to make most men spastically drunk. The later the hour ran, the more people jammed themselves into the small bar. Jack Dooley began to slouch back on his stool as he continued to fill his gullet.

All of a sudden, whack, something hit him hard in the back of the shoulders. It was too crowded, and Jack Dooley was well aware that meant he would be brushed, bumped, and occasionally spilled on, but this had to be intentional. A hard shot to the back that knocked the glass to his teeth had to be planned. Someone squeezing through the crowd couldn’t hit him that hard or that direct.

Jack Dooley turned on his stool and found a man who seemed to be purposely slow in walking away. What the hell was that for? Jack Dooley demanded, and although he didn’t address him directly, the man turned.

What! You got somethin’ to say? the man snapped back.

What the hell’s your problem pal? Once the words left his mouth, Jack Dooley wanted them back. He had seen this pattern from the other side of the rail all too often.

I got a problem? You’re tellin’ me I got a problem! The man strode up to Jack Dooley. I think you got a problem now!

Oh shit. Jack Dooley thought, This fool is really looking for a fight. And Jack Dooley wanted no part of it. He figured he was a bit too loose to defend himself and hoped the guy would be satisfied with cursing him for a while.

That just wasn’t the case. The man stepped right in and shoved him off his stool. Luckily Jack Dooley pulled his legs from the rungs fast enough the catch himself before he fell. Guess I’m not all that soft yet. Absolutely astonished that he wasn’t licking the floor.

Jack Dooley had two choices: the first was to fight it out with that idiot or try and bow out. He never did like to fight, so he figured reason favored the wimpy approach. Maybe he could avoid the whole damn thing. Listen I don’t want any trouble.

Then you shouldn’t have opened your fuckin’ mouth! the man spat back.

OK you want me to apologize, fine. I’m sorry I thought you had a problem. Jack Dooley figured that came out a bit too sarcastic, but he hoped it would stick.

Oh, a wise ass, that’s gonna cost ya. The man pushed Jack Dooley again as the crowds around them found every last drop of space to retreat away into.

I don’t want to fight. But Jack Dooley did not at all like to be touched and struggled to remain calm.

Come on tough guy. Ya scared or somethin’? The man reached to push him again, but Jack Dooley turned his shoulder away and avoided the lunging arm.

Don’t touch me, I told you I don’t want to fight. Jack Dooley was now visibly angry.

You don’t have a choice! the man shouted and threw a tight fist at Jack Dooley’s head.

Jack Dooley saw the punch coming. Hell, it was telegraphed so badly he could have downed another pint before it reached him.

Jack Dooley caught the man’s arm by the wrist with his left hand, redirected it, and smashed it down onto the rich wood of the bar top. Then he slapped his open right hand across the man’s throat, almost crushing his windpipe. He let go of the man’s wrist with he left and cocked it for an assault of his own.

Jack Dooley stopped himself. This was where he worked; this was the place that paid his rent and put food on his table. And of course his boss wouldn’t look too kindly on employees who engage in drunken brawls in his establishment. But he wanted to smash the guy’s face so bad he could taste it. Yeah, but he still didn’t want to get sacked.

Fuck it. Jack Dooley let the fist fly, curling his knuckles over so the first two would smash the bridge of the nose square, crushing the small facial bones. No! Jack Dooley yelled, and just before his knuckles contacted skin, he opened his hand, landing a loud flat palm over the man’s face. This is not how it’s supposed to be! He pulled his hands away from the man’s throat and face, kicked his stool back, and made for the door. The man stood spellbound, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Jack Dooley was furious, his hands burning, heart racing, eyes bursting. He already regretted his decision to let the guy go. He could have killed, wished he had. Christ, I should have busted that son of a bitch’s face to raw meat right there!

Jack Dooley didn’t like this; he hated the rage and the bitter taste of bile that rose in his belly. No, no—relax, relax, I’ve just gotta get some air and cool off, he thought aloud.

The thick, battered oak door was almost within reach. Besieged by his raging thoughts, he excruciatingly made his way to it. Who the hell does he think he is? In my face like that! The heavy door swung open with a determined push, and he stepped out of O’Grady’s.

The moist late-night air was awash with neon light and stale cigarette smoke, a world of thundering intentions and wild dreams. But in contradiction, it afforded a different place altogether: quiet, cool, star dotted, and calm. Enough to, in time, allow the anger to drift away. Come on, come on, take it easy . . . just let it go.

Jack Dooley didn’t hear the door slam shut behind him. Odd, he thought aloud as he lazily glanced back over his left shoulder. A brown beer bottle arced up at his skull.

Time stretched, like the image peeled off a newspaper with silly putty, pulled longer and longer, stretched out of shape, out of time. Jack Dooley jerked his head down low watching the neon light dance down the length of the bottle as it swung over his head.

The force of the man’s unsuccessful strike spun his upper body around, exposing that face Jack Dooley had wanted to bash in just moments earlier.

Now there is no walking away, Jack Dooley knew as he clenched his left fist and drove up from his crouched stance. I’m gonna—Jack Dooley shouted as he interrupted himself with a sharp crack from his fist that sent the man stumbling off balance—kill you!

With a quick shuffle step, Jack Dooley bridged the gap between them. Stunned, the man was vulnerable. Jack Dooley swung his arms left, which pulled his shoulders with them; his shoulders in turn twisted his torso, which rotated his hips, which then cocked his right leg and hurled it at the man with the speed and power of a tremendous whip. The tip of his shoe thunked the man’s chest, and a few ribs crackled with the blow. As if the man’s lungs were huge bellows, his breath rushed from his blood-streaked lips, and he collapsed to the hard concrete sidewalk like a child’s discarded rag doll.

Continuing his rotation, Jack Dooley landed facing the bar door. Amazed, he thought of how long it had been since he had no choice but to defend himself. He immediately remembered what his instructor had told his class many years ago. Fighting isn’t something you use, like a club or a knife, it is a defensive reaction. Once embraced, it can become instinctual and just may save your ass.

Before his eyes, the bar door instantly swung open to reveal two men both frozen in recognition of their friend sprawled awkwardly on the sidewalk. They glared directly at Jack Dooley, all four of their hands curling into tight clubs of flesh. Jack Dooley knew they were coming for him even before their stances began to pitch forward.

Fight or flee? The most primal and powerful of all questions ricocheted through his mind. Jack Dooley rolled forward into a crouch; his legs fired like two steel pistons, feet thumped at the concrete as he rocketed straight for them. One thought, one decision, one vow flooded his brain like a black tide: fight!

Bolting forward, one step, two steps, three steps, at the last possible second he bounded left, coiling his right leg close like a great spring and released. The speed of the shooting leg, the power of his low drive across the ground, flung the first of the two back into the closed door with the combined clacking of his head to wood and teeth to teeth.

The second of the two stood slack lipped and astonished. He expected to meet Jack Dooley head-on but met only thin air and disorientation. Jack Dooley’s shoes clunked back down on the concrete with his hips already drawing him back, rotating him toward the second man. Glass eyed, the second man watched helplessly as a hammer fist closed the gap. The second man fell, out cold even before he met the concrete.

He had beaten the three men quick and easy, beaten the living shit out of them in just seconds. A vicious primeval euphoria swelled in his breast. He felt like a king, all-powerful, invincible; his brain, his being, all consumed with these sublime energies.

A heavy weight heaped itself on Jack Dooley’s shoulders from behind. His knees buckled and threatened to collapse, but he managed to keep his legs under him. Apparently there was a fourth. He felt an arm trying to encircle his neck. Before this man had a firm hold, Jack Dooley spun within his grasp, pivoting his right hip into the man’s belly. Jack Dooley taking hold of the fourth man’s arm, and with some unrecognized strength; he lifted the man off his feet and flung him through the air. The fourth man’s head slammed to the sidewalk first, and all his weight followed, splitting the coconut of his skull open, splashing its contents across the muddy street.

From this limp and warm broken body rose a thickening fog that rapidly congealed into the form of a man, well proportioned, tall, and dark—very dark. A translucent cocoon of black smoke framed his features, shimmering and rolling around him like a coat of ghostly serpents. The features of the man’s face were clouded over except for a broad mocking grin that curled sharply at the edges, taunting Jack Dooley as he slowly faded away.

The adrenaline and euphoric power that had wrestled within him instantly transformed to disbelief, awe, and fear that left him looking up to a luminous grin that was no longer present.

Jack Dooley’s attention soon leaped back to the fact that he was alone on this sidewalk hurt… badly… and… But the devil, when he proposes any evil against man, perverts his mind first.

Chapter 2

The soul of sweet delight can never be defil’d.

—William Blake from Proverbs of Hell

It could be the middle of the afternoon in August with the thermometer on the verge of exploding and Sarah Phillips would say it was cold. The courses and long hours of study never prepared her for the cold of the hospital, let alone the emergency room.

When it was quiet, it was the worst still. When everything that needed to be done was done, she’d fidget and wait, chewing a pen to a ragged nub. Her heart still jumped when she heard the double doors swing open. God, how the wail of the ambulances made her skin crawl. Each second she feared what could come through the doors; any horror might be wheeled in from the ambulances. And through it all, she would have to act… in the proper assigned manner: no slip-ups and absolutely no room for human frailties.

Sarah had believed she was strong enough for it all. She had never been the squeamish type. But now she had to wonder.

She would wonder whether she had the stomach for this kind of work, whether she could report here day after day without going mad. Is this the life she could resign herself to? Shooting victims; beaten, bloody, defiled rape victims; mangled jumpers; just screech off some tape and yank out some gauze pads, plug up the holes, and cinch off the fountains. Is that going to be her life? God knows the hours didn’t lend itself too much of a social life. Then, Why? she asked herself. Just why the hell am I here? Christ, if I hadn’t put so much time and dedication into training, I would turn tail and run the hell out of there.

No, she shouted at herself, disgusted with her own