Hell: The Ten Worlds, #1

By Jude LaHaye

Tilde Colon hates her name and the two English Majors who gave it to her: her parents. She seems an incomplete person, totally absorbed in herself, but dismissive and judgmental about other people in her environment: she is a high school student, fifteen years old...and a loner. No, wait, she has just made an acquaintance, a boy named Jake - Jacob White - who is as much a misfit as she is.

What makes a young perople with promising futures embrace an ideal as destructive, vicious, and final as a school shooting? For that is what Tilde and Jake talk about incessently...that, and how much they despise their fellow students and teachers.

They are both so normal in appearance as to be invisible. Neither of them has a distinguishing feature; they are drab and dress in a shabby goth style. Black. They wear black.

When Tilde gets impatient with just talking, she steers Jake toward acquiring the hardware they are going to need to carry out their vengeance on an uncaring world. He has means; Tilde provides the motive. Together they create an opportunity...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jude LaHaye
• Release date: Oct 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223692058

Jude LaHaye

Jude LaHaye is a Buddhist. Buddhists believe that the highest form of sentience is the human being. They also believe that the meaning of life is...Life. LaHaye struggles with his belief system and the evidence of his own human interactions and observations. His books are born of this struggle.

Book preview

From the Journal of Tilde Colon

My Name is Tilde Colon

My name is a joke. It’s a joke, but it’s better than my brother Sam’s: He is Sammy Colon, and yes, our parents pronounce it semi-colon. At least to the uneducated, Tilde just might pass for a name―like for an ice-skating champ-―or chump―from Scandinavia, that is.

My parents. Suffice it to say, I did not inherit their senses of humor. Not that I’m humorless, mind you. I find many things amusing, especially slapstick stuff. You know, like an old guy swinging at a golf ball and then losing his balance and falling into a pond. That kind of thing.

But my name? No, I do not find it humorous.

Okay, so both of my parents are English Majors from some private university in the mid-west. Does that excuse their behaviors? I think not. It has, however, caused me to formulate a plan for my own education: I will go to trade school. Sheet metal; welding; concrete forms―something hands on...and humorless.

I will segue here: I hate reading but I like to write. Weird, huh? Reading causes my impatience to flare. It’s too slow. I try to speed up, but that doesn’t work either as my comprehension fades in direct relation to the speed I attempt to reach. At least when I write, I am able to channel my thoughts through my nimble fingers to my keyboard. My own words I read without impatience as they appear on the page...it’s really a construct of a page on my computer screen. Now, this is funny: if I print out what I see on the screen, it becomes a page, a real page. A piece of paper. And then I have one heck of a time reading it...I get impatient again. Wow, try to explain the psychology of that!

I choose to think I’m complex. Others might think me difficult, but I am really quite honest and straight forward: I can’t stand most of them. I’m sure what I am feeling expresses itself through my facial expression. Sometimes, people flinch when they look at me, so I assume my face is communicating something offensive.

My face. I stare at it and stare at it and can’t find one outstanding feature. I am perfectly normal. So normal. I think my normalness makes me nearly invisible...and yet, there was another flinch on that girl’s face as she passed me today. Odd, that...

So, I am unnaturally normal in appearance and extraordinarily complex inside. I wonder what it would be like to rearrange that so that I had an extraordinary appearance and a normal personality.

Sigh. I have to admit it. That would be great.

It’s hard to admire myself in all of my complexity when it’s so damned lonely.

Tilde, Honey, my mother calls in her second-story voice. What do you want to eat for breakfast?

Nothing, Mom, I yell back, deliberately matching her volume and pitch - not that she would ever grasp the sarcasm. I’ll eat at school.

Okay, Honey, she hollers. If that’s what you want...

It is not what I want. I won’t even do it. There’s nothing worse than sitting alone in the school cafeteria eating the slop they serve for breakfast. I don’t think anything says loser as loudly as that image does.

I’ll grab an Instant Breakfast when my mother isn’t looking. I can grab a container of milk from the cafeteria. That will last me until lunch. Plus, I really don’t have much of an appetite.

So, I do have a friend. Of sorts. Not a girl, but a boy. He is as non-descript in appearance as I am. I am certain he does not share my obsession with eating and its aftermath, because I frequently glimpse something brown or green in his teeth.

Fortunately, he doesn’t smile much, so his teeth are only visible when his grimaces become really animated.

Animated. We strive for the opposite, walking or sitting next to each other in near silence, but sharing an attitude. It is disdain. We are aloof. Like I said, haughty.

We are so average looking we have cooked up a plan to change that: we are saving up for tattoos.

I should say more tattoos because we’ve both gotten our first ones: skulls. We have designed a single tattoo which will span first one entire arm - an arm always completely covered by our long-sleeved hoodies - and then, eventually, the other. No skulls and roses for us. We will have skulls and skulls...and bullets. There will be blood, too. Lots of it.

His name is Jake. Jacob, I guess. I never asked. And him? He never so much as hiked an eyebrow in question or concern when I told him my name...which means he doesn’t really grasp that the tilde is a symbol. That, or he is cooler than I give him credit for, which is doubtful. We share a couple of classes. I am an eyewitness to his stupidity.

I don’t mean that in a bad way. It is certain that he pretends to more stupidity than he actually owns. I hope.

We are the quietest kids in our classes. This is very deliberate. We don’t want to participate in this education experiment.

We are not lab rats.

So welcome to me. My appearance and my nature combine to form my entity as the Buddhists say. Appearance, Nature, and Entity (Sanskrit: So, Sho, Tai) are the first three of the Buddhist’s Ten Factors.

Yes, you are reading my homework. I have been tasked to report on any world philosophy or religion of my choice. I Googled Religious Ten expecting to get the ten commandments. I got a lot more than that! I have chosen The Ten Factors, a basis of some eastern religion’s belief system. The assignment is due next week, so I will strive to keep us moving forward. Buddhism. The eastern religion. It’s Buddhism.

I am actually enjoying myself a little. I will try not to allow this to affect my narrative.

The next item in the Buddhist list of ten factors is my favorite: power. The Sanskrit for this is riki. I feel I have innate power. At the same time, I want to have actual power over my environment and its stupid denizens.

So power takes various forms.  First, there is that inherent power, the one I just called innate (riki). Then there is externally directed action (sa), or influence. And for that to manifest, there are internal causes (in) which are in turn generated by the various physical conditions one finds oneself in...the Buddhists call this relation (en). At first I found this confusing, but once I ran a few scenarios through the sequence, it made more sense. So, the conditions I find myself in make me want to react (ka)...and then I do react (ho). But usually I just get to the point where I want to do something, but then I don’t. So that last part is called latent and manifest effect. Then the Buddhists put a circle around all nine factors with a tenth, which says that all nine of the factors exist together in every moment of life. The Sanskrit for that integration is honmak kukyo to.

Does this mean that I have short-circuited the power cycle? I think it must. So to remedy this, I am going to have to start actually responding to stimuli instead of ignoring them or suppressing my feelings. I think.

Oh crap, I’ll have to talk to Jake about this. It’s kind of cool, actually.

Nyo ze  so, nyo ze sho, nyo ze tai, nyo ze riki, nyo ze sa, nyo ze in, nyo ze en, nyo ze ka, nyo ze ho, nyo ze  honmaku kukyo to.

This list of ten factors is recited during a Buddhist’s twice daily practice. It is intoned three times before a bell is rung (also three times) signifying the end of the first part of the ceremony. I’ve tried it. It’s hypnotic. I think it has a little riki of its own, ha ha, and I really like the number three, too. Always have. I feel some mystic reinforcement when I discover this coincidence.

I think these Buddhists might be on to something....

I am connecting to some of the girls at school.  Brenda Morris asked me if I wanted to hang out after school. My immediate reaction was no – but I’ll go with her if she asks twice. She is not as much a loner as us aloof gals – she has two friends who follow her everywhere. Will three be a crowd? More on this later.

We really hit it off at school – why not make it personal? I’m in!

I thought I should include a list of the people at school I consider my special friends. This list is in no particular order. Each of these people is special to me for special reasons:

Grey Davis – a true leader

Joy Banner – same

Robert Sender – Student Body President

Sean Small – local MENSA Chapter President

Brenda Morris – good friend

Bill Downs – funny

Julie Johnson – enthusiastic

Guy Lestat – unafraid

Laura Gooding – friend

Brandi Clark – friend

Boomer Jackson – personable; likeable

D’Qan Daniels – authentic

Jennie Connolly – so cute!

Jaden McKay – popular

JJ McNamara – good athlete

Biff Martensen – good athlete

Joe Zierdt – good athlete

Cindy Norton – brave

Will Cheevers – cheerful

Sam Baker – athlete and kind person

Bethany Adams – brave

Danielle Davis – Greg’s twin and an awesome athlete

Diana Collins – teacher of the year

Chapter One. Dr. Elizabeth Eggers

I t’s very good to meet you, Mrs. Colon, Elizabeth Eggers says while escorting the tall, willowy brunette into her office. She softly closes the door behind the woman. Please, have a seat. May I offer you a water, or perhaps some coffee?

No, thank you, Dr. Eggers, the woman says. She looks sad. Faded. Her brown eyes are flat, her face sags. Nothing...thank you.

Grief. It looks like grief to Elizabeth Eggers’ practiced eye.

May we chat for a moment before we start the formal session? the psychiatrist asks, crossing the room to her desk and taking the chair behind it. Her client has fallen into a matching chair which sits in front of the desk. The women face each other.

Sure, the woman says. She looks down into her lap.

What would you like me to call you? Elizabeth Eggers asks.

The woman raises her head and seems to experience a moment of confusion. Call me? she echoes, her inflection making it a question.

Shall I call you Mrs. Colon, then? Elizabeth asks.

A look of epiphany washes over the woman’s face. Oh, I see. Yes. No, please call me Eunice, she says. Her eyes aren’t in her lap anymore, but they are not focused on anything in the room, either.

That’s a lovely name, Elizabeth says. Very old fashioned.

This elicits the slightest hint of a smile. I come from a long line of English Majors, she says, looking into Elizabeth’s eyes for the first time. Her light brown eyes are swimming with unshed tears. At least they saved the name Euphoria for my poor sister. There it is again. The slightest hint of a smile. Then she is fumbling in her handbag, pulling out a pack of tissues and helping herself to one.

She hasn’t used it yet, but it is poised at the ready. She returns the rest of the tissue pack to her purse.

You should call me Dr. Eggers, Elizabeth says softly. At least at first. Let’s see where our relationship takes us, shall we? She watches as her client nods, her eyes trained onto her lap once more. So what brings you to me, Eunice? How can I help you?

That does it. The floodgates are open and the woman is dabbing at her eyes and nose. It’s my daughter, she chokes out. My teenage daughter, Tilde...

Elizabeth suppresses a gasp. She has heard that name. It has been all over the news. Its owner has just been involved in a horrific school shooting. It is unclear what her exact role in the shooting was, but Elizabeth knows she is in police custody. Or perhaps in the hospital. Suddenly she finds herself unsure.

That makes sense, she says as if to herself. I specialize in child psychiatry as I told you over the phone.

The woman snorts and her tone becomes bitter. I don’t think Tilde has ever been a child. Not truly, she says, exerting obvious effort to control her emotions. And now she has become involved with some horrible boy and has brought real harm - death and terror - to her schoolmates...at least that’s what they’re saying... Her voice wavers and then stops altogether. She looks up, directly into Elizabeth’s wide eyes. You have heard about the incident over at Sheridan High? she asks. The school shooting?

Yes, Elizabeth says. I have heard about it.

Then you know that twenty-one teenage boys and girls were shot by Tilde and her friend? That eight of them were killed?

Her friend. Jacob White?

Yes. That’s his name. Jacob White. Horrible boy. Just so horrible.

I am going to ask you to do something which you may find really difficult to do, Elizabeth says, attempting to capture her client’s eyes with her own.

Of course, Eunice Colon says, dabbing at her eyes again.

Let’s refer to the children as Tilde and Jacob, okay? Elizabeth says, her voice low but emphatic. We should refrain from labels. We should jump to no conclusions. Can you do that, do you think?

I’ll try, her client replies. I will try very hard to do as you say.

So, tell me about Tilde, Elizabeth prods. What is she like? What does she like to do? Who are her friends?

The woman makes another wordless sound before speaking. It sounds like a huff of pure exasperation. She has no friends, she says firmly. She has never had any close friends.... When she was a little girl, I would arrange play dates for her with other children her age, but she never actually played with any of them. She pauses and swallows. She has always been a loner...and she was sometimes cruel to the other children, as well.

Siblings? Elizabeth asks.

Sammy, Eunice Colon replies. She has a little brother, Sammy.

And do they get along?

Yes. Yes, I think so. I’ve never had reason to worry about their relationship. But Sammy is three years younger than Tilde. That’s quite a gap for children.

Yes, it is. So tell me what Tilde likes to do. Is she a gamer? Does she like music? Does she read?

Well, she’s not much of a reader, Eunice Colon says, drawing her words out like she is inventing them as she speaks. But she does like to write. On her computer, that is. I have never seen her write anything by hand. She has been keyboarding since kindergarten.

Yes, I know that’s how it is now, Elizabeth allows. But does she draw? Does she color?

She is quite good with computer graphics, Eunice says. Or I think she is. She is very private. Doesn’t want us to see what she’s writing, or illustrating...

’Us?’ Elizabeth prods. Do you mean you and your husband?

Eunice Colon drops her gaze once more. Yes, I have a husband. He is Tilde and Sammy’s father. Gregory. Gregory Colon.

Does Gregory oppose your coming to talk to me about your daughter? Elizabeth’s tone of voice indicates that this would not be an abnormal situation.

Eunice reaches for her tissues and holds them at the ready. I don’t think he understands that I’m here, she says, dabbing under her nose with a tissue that is already well-used. I told him. He didn’t react. It’s like he’s shut down. Since he heard about the school incident he hasn’t slept or eaten...or spoken.

She shudders and catches a teardrop which suddenly leaps from her left eye. She looks up to address Elizabeth directly. She squares her shoulders before she speaks. He is devastated, Doctor Eggers. Totally, thoroughly, broken. I get it. I understand it. I feel much the same. But I am also driven by the ‘why’s’ of the thing. I need to try, at least. To understand...but Gregory? He has just completely shut down.

Are he and Tilde close?

I know he thought so. I am not so sure Tilde felt the same way. Or for me, for that matter. Another dab. Another small shudder. Watching Tilde was like looking into the windows of an old stone castle. She was locked away inside, her mind active, her thoughts alive...but she is the one who constructed that castle. We weren’t given a key.

That’s quite vivid imagery, Elizabeth says.

Oh, we’re just a couple of old romantics, Eunice Colon says. She barks a very short laugh. English Majors, she adds. We’re both English Majors. Like our parents.

Are you involved in academics in some way?

We write, Eunice says. "We even