Hell and Wellness

By Joe Townsel

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
The road to recovery and wellness is paved with the best intentions.
Hell is full of good meanings, but Heaven is full of good works.

Turn the page, begin a new chapter.
Turn the corner, begin a new journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781312077157

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Cover

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Title Page

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Also by Joe Townsel

DEAD AIR (2022)

MATE TO ORDER (2020)

FURY DUTY (2018)

THE UNFRIEND ZONE (2017)

ANTICIPATION, co-author (2016)

Copyright

Copyright © 2023 by Joe Townsel. All rights reserved.

ISBN #: 9781312077157

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

For inquiries regarding reprint permissions and obtaining additional copies of this book, please visit:

www.joetownsel.com

Cover Design and Illustrations: Joe Townsel

First Printing: November 2023

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Dedication

Dedicated to these wonderful people

who were so instrumental during my

illness and recovery, my hell and wellness:

My mother, Linda Hoskinson

My stepfather, Mike Hoskinson

My aunt and uncle, Mary and Ken Boyd

My family and friends

The doctors, nurses, therapists and staff at:

Banner University Medical Center, Phoenix, AZ

Kingman Regional Medical Center, Kingman, AZ

Valley View Rehab Center, Fort Mohave, AZ

The road to recovery and wellness

is paved with the best intentions.

Turn the page, begin a new chapter.

Turn the corner, begin a new journey.

INTRODUCTION

The story you are about to read is true. Mostly.

The names were changed, but not to protect the innocent. (After all, how many of us can claim true innocence?)

The story is partially true, and the names were changed, because what follows is, almost entirely, a work of fiction.

(Anyone remember Jack Webb and Dragnet, or am I really dating myself here? It hardly matters. Please read on.)

I say almost entirely because large and long passages are based on true events in my life. For example, text message updates sent by the protagonist’s mother are almost verbatim to some of the very similar updates sent by my own Mom, on my behalf, to our family, friends, and other loved ones. This was just one of the many tasks she took on during what I would dub my journey to wellness. Similarly, many of the decisions and hardships suffered by my main character’s mother were dealt with by my own Mom.

Later, when I recovered from my real-life heart surgery, several people remarked that I must have gone through hell. Well, they were right. I did. Literally. But believe me, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it was my wonderful, strong and loving mother, Linda Hoskinson, who really went through hell. The pain, anguish and suffering she endured, especially at the beginning of my illness, was beyond measure. But I’ll never forget what she said when I made this remark to her: Of course, but what else could I do? I’m your mother!

I say the story is partially true, but this precludes the completely fictional additional characters and situations not based on real people or events.

Performer Jerzy Grotowski gave life and meaning to the philosophy of Life makes poor theatre. This is, in no way, intended to downplay the very significance and preciousness of life itself. Rather, the message here is that life … that is, real and true life experiences … often lack the spectacle of highly dramatized works of potboiler novels, pulp fiction comics, movies and television.

Much of what follows actually happened. The rest, fiction.

Hopefully, dear reader, you’ll find this novel and its accompanying poetry entertaining and though-provoking. If you call BS to some or all of the revelations at which Jake Hartman, our protagonist, has arrived, then entertaining alone is worthwhile too.

Honestly and frankly, the nightmares I experienced (and those inflicted on poor Jake) were absolutely real (although enhanced in the pages that follow). Whether they were just vivid bad dreams, or an actual visit to Hell itself, I’ll leave it to you to decide. I, of course, have my own beliefs. The nightmares haunt me to this day, but they also remind me where I’ve been and where I’m headed. As I’ve opined since writing Fury Duty: Nightmares can hurt you only when you’re alone.

Honestly and frankly, many incidents and actions of the other players are based on those of real-life people as well. Some are amalgams of two or more memorable folks … some virtuous, others less savory. Still others are hardly distinctive from their real-life counterparts.

Honestly and frankly, everything else in these pages is concocted from what many (me included) have concluded is my sick and twisted imagination.

Those who know me best, as well as more casual acquaintances who have checked out my webcasts, or have known me for only a limited time, have not seen a sick and twisted individual, despite some of the material that finds its way from my imagination to the page.

The question, when posed, is along the lines of, Where do you come up with this stuff, Joe? You seem very … well, normal! My response is usually little more than a wink, then back to writing my next novel, short story, or other project.

If I can answer this question to someone’s satisfaction, and the person asking goes right back to reading a dark and bizarre work of Joe Townsel, then I believe I’ve done my job well.

In this book … which you now hold in your hot little hands, tablet, or other device … I’ll leave it to your own imagination to determine where real life ends, and fiction begins.

How’s that for entertaining and, potentially, thought provoking?

The following will mean different things to different people.

My family and friends closest to me will, no doubt, shed a few tears when they recognize the portions of the story that are based on fact.

Others who may not know me quite as well will, hopefully, find other value in these pages.

This book was over two years … off and on … in the writing. As one might imagine, it was very difficult emotionally to author. At times, I had to step away, and spend a little time on other projects. During my webcasts, while promoting my dark and bizarre works, I continued to make the following pledge and promise: "Hell and Wellness" is coming, folks. No, really! Stay tuned!

And now, here it is.

I truly hope the end result is to your liking. At the very least, I believe the following has something for everyone.

Enjoy, dear reader. And if you get a little more from this book than simple escapist entertainment, so much the better.

Thank you all for your continued interest and support.

Joe Townsel

November 2023

HELL AND WELLNESS

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PART ONE – A TASTE OF HELL

CHAPTER 1

The Beast Cometh

Son, can you hear me? Do you know who I am?

As I opened my eyes, the monster’s image gradually came into focus. It wore my mother’s face. The monster continually tried to trick me into believing it was, in fact, my mom. At first, it succeeded occasionally, feeding on my fear of this horrible purgatory and my desperate need to escape.

But the monster couldn’t mimic my mother’s love and compassion, which only confirmed my inevitable doom. The monster and its demons surrounded me, all attempting to convince me they were there to help, but they were seemingly unaware that I struggled to break free of the living death in which they had trapped me.

I heard them plan, amongst themselves, my damnation.

The monster resembled my mother, but only in the most superficial sense. It was as if it wore a semi-transparent mask, duplicating only her physical appearance and facial features, but none of her kindness and essence. The underlying evil was semi-visible beneath the skin of the imposter. None of her soul was present here, so I shrank away from the empty shell which had no real substance.

Others may have been fooled … or  consciously surrendered their wills … in a desperate attempt to reclaim their lives.

Not me. Not while I was still held on to my fortitude and resolve.

But even now … at the beginning of my struggle to save my soul … I can feel my strength waning.

Wherever I was, I was going to be here for a long time. (Who am I kidding? I knew exactly where I was.) Yes, a very long time indeed. Possibly for the long haul. Eternity, to make it absolutely clear.

The monster was the great deceiver. The most evil and cunning  false prophet and perverse anti-shaman the world had ever known.

It was the most monstrous of all monsters.

It was the Beast.

Its servile underlings may have attempted to disguise themselves as well, but if so, they failed completely and utterly. For they had no faces at all. They were featureless and formless.

At first, I tried to protest. But my voice had been taken, as easily as a two-bit thief might steal cosmetics from a local Walmart where the city’s police force had been defunded. Along with my voice, my mouth had also been removed, sealed with a clumsily applied spackle of freshly grafted skin.

So now, the Beast and its minions held me mute, helpless and paralyzed in their grip.

Diagnosis

The last time I remember being alive …

My legs swelled up like plump Bratwurst sausages. I gained over fifty pounds in three days from the uncirculated fluid accumulating in my lower extremities. I tried in vain to hide my fat limbs in a pair of looser-fitting jeans I still had on hand. My clumsy attempt at deception and self-denial didn’t fly, especially when the fluids began to accumulate in my abdomen. When those close to me, especially Mom, asked if I was gaining weight, and when I couldn’t zip up even the loose pants, I decided it was time to visit the Emergency Department at the local hospital.

I imagined the sheriff of a one-horse town, giving me the bad news.

Reach for the sky you lowlife polecat! You’re under Cardiac Arrest!

I spent three days at the hospital, put through a battery of tests. The diagnosis from the cardiologist was something I never thought I’d here about myself.

Congestive Heart Failure. Quadruple Bypass surgery needed.

My wonderful mother, Elena Soter … only seventeen years my senior and my best friend … was there for me and never left my side. My fantastic stepfather, Nicholas Soter, would’ve been there for both Mom and me, if not for the visitor restrictions in effect at the time. Damned COVID!

Even in my groggy state, I knew that Mom was holding back her tears. This, for two reasons. First, because she was Mom, and knew that she, along with Nick’s help, would need to be strong for us both. Second, because she knew that I was far from my strongest, and didn’t want me to panic or wail in my presence, possibly further aggravating my already tenuous condition.

Despite my own growing stupor and emerging delirium, I heard the terms touch and go and time is of the essence used more than once by the cardiologist and hospitalist. Through this less than cognitive state, I also picked up on the physicians complimenting Mom on keeping her cool as these unfolding events began to come fast and furious, each more disheartening and discouraging than the last.

It warmed my failing heart to hear the doctors encourage her, and bestow kudos for her bravery and fortitude. But I also knew Mom, better than anyone. My failing heart also broke further for her, knowing the sudden and devastating pain she was experiencing.

Her taste of Hell was only beginning.

The last time I remember being alive:

I was being boarded on the plane that would take me to the big city for an even bigger open heart surgery. It was urgent, and my life depended on it. This, I heard from a distant voice apprising Mom of my dire, life-and-death situation.

My quadruple bypass surgery would take place the very next morning at the bigger hospital, mere hours after I was to be admitted, and only a half day of taking myself to the local E.R.

Mom and Nick were at home, packing for the drive to the city, three hours distant from their small-town homestead. They had moved to a secluded rural area in Arizona, joining the ever growing exodus of life-long Californians leaving that state. Whether you departed the Golden State for financial or political reasons, or both, the end result was the same.

I was now among the latest to leave California, as I fell on hard times in our beloved San Diego. I was staying with my mother and her husband until I got back on my feet. That day, it seemed doubtful that I ever would recover, either physically or financially.

I remember the same distant voice telling my mother that I would need to be transported via air ambulance to the surgical center in the big city. Physicians at the local hospital could diagnose heart issues, but the facility wasn’t staffed or equipped to perform these major surgeries.

My uncle and aunt, Mom’s sister, lived in the city. Without hesitation, my aunt invited them to stay as long as needed while I was in the hospital there.

Depending on the exact time of my quadruple bypass the next morning, Mom and Nick might arrive after I went under the knife.

Or, after I failed to come out of surgery alive.

I smiled apologetically at the Emergency Medical Technicians as they struggled to get me on the plane. At six foot three, and carrying no less than fifty pounds more than I should … even discounting the extra fluid buildup in my body … they had to maneuver me quite a bit to get me into the tight cabin. Through the door three inches, angle as much as possible, back two inches, repeat, until my body was safely inside the plane’s cabin.

The perspiring EMTs, having a workout they may not have anticipated, secured me in place for takeoff. I was unable to move, completely immobilized. I felt helpless and trapped.

Nevertheless, I was in good hands. Of this I had no doubt. But I was able only to see directly above me … at least through the hazy fog that currently clouded my vision … and I couldn’t move my head from side to side, let alone my arms and legs. I felt more like cargo than a living, breathing person. It was unsettling to say the least.

One of the EMTs, a lovely young woman, appeared in my field of vision, and smiled. She must’ve seen the growing fear and apprehension in my face.

Don’t’ worry, Jake, she said. You’re flying the friendliest of skies this evening.

In my delirium, if I spoke at all, it was probably nonsense or gibberish. She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. I wasn’t entirely reassured, but I appreciated her attempt to put me at ease.

After takeoff, I passed out completely.

Fragmented, disjointed pieces of memory and hazy broken recollection followed. I recalled a night nurse there speaking to me, although I can’t remember anything of what she said. My new surroundings were alien and menacing. It was a foreboding omen of what was to come.

I was terrified of what was to happen the following morning. But I remember little else of that day … the day of my diagnosis of congestive heart failure, and the night before they cut me open to see if my life could be saved.

I remembered nothing else.

Maybe that was a good thing.

The last time I remember being alive:

I was in the wonderful, flawed, and beautiful real world.

And then, I was someplace else.

You Can’t Go Home Again

I was back home …

Day.

The last thing I remembered was my entire lower body consumed and swollen from the uncirculated fluids. But now, I showed no signs of my heart failure. My legs and abdomen were clear of the out-of-control swelling that took me to the hospital. If anything, I felt a little tired. I had no memory of being asleep, then awakening. But my fatigue made me think of what it must be like to emerge from a coma.

If it was a bad dream, and it must have been, then I felt relief for both me, and Mom.

I was back home.

But not home where I now lived, with Mom and Nick in Arizona.

I was back home in San Diego. Where we all lived until the cost of being in Southern California necessitated relocation to a more reasonably-priced place to have roots.

But now, I was back home in my own house, before I lost it to layoff, bankruptcy and, eventually, my inability to survive without the help of my loving and understanding family. At my advanced age, I tried in vain to find a new job in Southern California. My advanced age and inflated salary, in fact, were the reasons I was laid off in the first place, although this would never be acknowledged by the company that unceremoniously fired a total of ten other older employees for similar reasons.

It broke my heart, first to lose my job of nearly twenty-three years, then my entire life in a city I loved. I cried like a baby when I left my house for the last time. What I couldn’t possibly anticipate was that these trials and tribulations paled in comparison to horrible events to occur later.

Or would they?

At that moment, I began to have trouble distinguishing between which scenario was real, and which was the dream. Or nightmare.

I chose to believe my eyes, and other senses, since this reality was a dream come true.

I was back home. In my own house, in which I lived for over fifteen years. It was just like I never left.

I was overjoyed. I hoped and prayed that my health scare was only a bad dream. Better still, maybe it was the entire last year, during which I lost everything of material value, that comprised a nightmare, from which I just mercifully awakened. Of course, I never lost anything of real value, namely my family, friends and others who loved me. But, during this period of material loss and diminishing self-confidence, I felt like my entire world had been taken away. And I was ecstatic to have it all back!

Or did I?

As the grogginess cleared from my eyes, and only then, did I notice that the house was not the same. When I was forced to leave my home … if that, in reality, actually happened … the remaining furniture and décor, which I was unable to sell on eBay, was still in place as I looked around now.

But within moments, to my astonishment and apprehension, the living room in which I stood began to morph into something quite different. I watched with wide-eyed horror as the surroundings changed gradually from pristine … which is how I always tried to keep it …to run down and shoddy.

There were now no furnishings, only a tattered sleeping bag, some boxes and garbage strewn throughout the room. The house reeked of cat piss, and the frayed carpet exposed hundreds of rat droppings. I ran through the house, and was dismayed to find the same conditions.

In every room, the windows were boarded up … both outside and inside. How very odd and disquieting. It was if someone, or something, was trying to keep a prisoner from escaping. It was if someone was attempting to keep a captive in, not out. I tested all the exits, including the sliding glass and French doors. None would open, despite my frantic efforts to do so.

I did manage to pull a rotting board from one of the smaller windows, which faced what used to be my relaxing back yard. My large living room, tiny kitchen and the spacious lot out back were the gathering spots when I entertained friends and family. Now, the back yard was every bit as neglected and run down as the inside of the shit hole I once called home.

The entire back yard was overgrown with weeds two to three feet high. And, unless my eyes deceived me, I saw some kind of creature roaming hidden in the foliage. The dead weeds, which were the sickly color of old pus, rustled from the creature’s movements. It stopped once to peer in at me, its eyes glowing a deep, dark red, visible through the gaps in the weeds. Through the closed, impassable double-pained window, I could hear quite clearly the creature growl, presumably as a warning to me to not invade its turf.

Don’t come outside, if you even find a way! This is my domain now. I’ll tear you from limb to limb if you try to make your escape, you sorry pathetic bastard.

These were not words I imagined. I heard them clearly in my mind, if not from the creature itself, then from something else … something far worse.

I took the warning to heart. I made no further attempts to break out of the house.

I had placed my palms on the wall surrounding the window. When I pulled them away, I was startled and shocked to see that my hands were now a deep, almost blackish, red. There was no mistaking what it was.

I had blood on my hands. Could it be my own, somehow?

The answer to that question was worse.

Just moments before, the walls surrounding me were the same hue I had left them. They had still been light blue, but had become faded and discolored after what appeared to be years of neglect. Large bare spots had emerged to reveal the color of the previous paint job, which the blue had covered. The sickly pink … which the previous homeowner had vandalized onto the poor walls … was visible again through several spots where the blue had faded or worn away.

That was moments before I looked out the window, and warned from venturing outside by some creature in the dead, overgrown yard.

Now, the walls were freshly painted.

The new color was a ghastly, deep maroon. In several spots, the paint seemed to drip slowly where it had not yet dried.

Where I had my hands on the wall left bare spots, revealing the only faded blue left in the room. After a moment, the blood covering the walls flowed into the spots I created with my hand prints, In seconds, the bare spots were gone, restoring the continuous hideous color now in the living room.

Again, I raced through the house. The same maroon hue covered all the walls throughout. In addition, all cabinets and other built-ins had been painted black, darker than obsidian and darker than the most poisoned soul.

I feared that, come nightfall, if I was still trapped in what used to be my beautiful home, this would become a truly haunted place indeed.

I had no choice but to cower in a corner, trapped inside, daring not attempt to go outside. Or even move from this very spot on the floor.

Night.

My fears were manifested.

There was absolutely no light. No electricity in the house, of course. But there also was no exterior light from outside. No moonlight, or stars. No street lights. Except for the floor upon which I sat, and the wall I leaned against, the surrounding area was like an infinite black void of oblivion.

I feared that if I attempted to stand and move away from my current spot, I would step off an infinite cliff, hidden in the blinding darkness, and fall into the fires of Hell itself. I soon found myself frozen in growing terror, unable to move from the one spot I knew was solid beneath me. For now, at least.

I was quickly losing my bearings, and lost my sense of direction, even in the limited confines of this single-family home. I listened intently for any sound, anything at all.

The silence was complete and deafening.

That is, until the creature outside, somewhere, began to slowly stir in the dead, rotten weeds. Then, it began to run savagely, completely around the house, as if the oppressive weeds had overtaken the entire property, even the paved areas. The creature picked up speed, continuing to run laps, like some kind of horrible track meet. Then, suddenly, it stopped. I couldn’t be sure if it was still in the back yard, or what used to be the front. It hardly mattered. This single creature, whatever it actually was or from which level of Hell it came, seemed quite capable of surrounding me and the house all by itself.

Just a moment after the creature came to a stop, it howled. The sound was haunted, fierce, and agonized. It reminded me of the death howl of a terminally wounded animal. It served as an additional warning.

Steer clear, Jake Hartman. Do not approach the beast outside. Another beast … the real Beast … is coming to you. Sit tight. He and his minions are anxious to make your acquaintance.

Again, this warning was conveyed … telepathically? It was impossible to be sure. I could confirm only that there was a fair amount of pain when the message was … injected into my mind, like a forceful and fierce dose of dextrose into the veins of a diabetic, crashing from low blood sugar.

In any event, I complied with this new warning and directive/

I didn’t budge.

All night. However long that actually lasted.

I felt sleep coming on, overtaking me like a victorious adversary.

I hoped and prayed that when I awoke, I would no longer be there.

I hoped and prayed that I wouldn’t be trapped in this horrible darkness, this void of oblivion. I was kept company only by a fierce creature that continued to howl at a moon that didn’t seem to exist here.

    .

The last time I remember being alive …

My human existence was slipping away.

My life force was restored, then was lost again. It came and went like a fickle lover. Two, maybe three, times at the very least.

My soul was being stolen by the most evil of forces.

My reality was about to change irrevocably and eternally.

Somewhere quite far away, but approaching gradually and getting ever closer, the Beast bellowed laughter. His plans for me, the deception and deceit in my eternal future, the torment and torture to begin commence very soon, were just beginning.

I truly can’t go home again.

Because I’m already there.

A False but Devastating Betrayal

I awoke scared shitless … or was awakened by some malevolent invisible entity. This seemed very likely, as I had no control over my own body, and I feared that I might be losing my mind as well.

God help me. Or was I beyond His help, and undying love and patience? The Sinister King of Lies and Unrelenting Deception began to break down my spirit, my good sense, and my very rationale.

God help me, I began to believe, and even embrace, The Great Deceiver’s lies. My desperate need for normalcy and security began to erode my good sense and logic. The deceptions ate away at me, until I was laid completely vulnerable.

Even when those lies painted an impossible portrait of the ones I love the most.

Son, can you hear me? Do you know who I am?

I knew who she appeared to be. This time, my mother’s love, kindness and compassion seemed genuine. It did occur to me that I so desperately wanted this to be my mom, even at this early stage of my pain and suffering, I was becoming more vulnerable to the whims of the Beast. Was I becoming more willing to believe almost anything, just to wrap myself in thin comfort, like one would hunker down with a cheap blanket?

I soon stopped asking myself those very important questions.

The unrelenting lies of the Beast were quickly chipping away at my resolve. Possibly even my sanity.

Son, can you hear me? Do you know who I am?

I still had no voice, or a mouth with which to use it. Would I ever be able to communicate again?

Yes, Mom, I thought to myself. I know who you are, and I love you!

I screamed my response to her in my brain. Could I somehow reassure my mother telepathically if I pushed hard enough? Or more likely, could I convey my recognition for her with my eyes?

The answer seemed apparent when she smiled at me again.

I was certain of it now, against what had been my better judgment.

This was my mother.

I could trust her to give the love, support and friendship that she always provided.

Not a shred of doubt remained who the woman was sitting next to me.

And that lazy acceptance and embrace of illusions was the beginning of my downfall.

My mother was by my side for hours on end. It was a rare for her to be absent. I still could not speak. I soon discovered that I was flat on my back, unable to move my body.

I quickly dismissed the notion that the Beast took my voice and, presumably, my motor functions, as a mere dark fantasy. I was so desperate to believe that I wasn’t in some horrible realm of damnation, I even dismissed the reality that my mouth was still fused shut.

Now alone, the obvious question sprang to mind.

Just where the hell (in Hell?) was I?

Day.

Now alone (temporarily or permanently?), I used the only physical resource I still possessed to get some answers. I moved my head from one side to the other, sizing up my surroundings.

Upon my first survey, the room seemed pleasant enough. It was plain and unremarkable, devoid of decoration, designed for functionality over aesthetics. The nature of that functionality would soon rear its terrifying head.

The color scheme was the sheer definition of drab. Fake wood veneers, resembling pine or possibly soft maple. Even the casual eye would spot the multiple chips and scratches, revealing the cheap nature of the cabinet doors and surfaces. The walls were completely bare, with not even a single piece of uninspired mass-produced artwork hanging.

The choice of paint job was unobjectionable, but equally uninspired: a sickly, faded pink that instantly reminded me of the consequences of throwing up after a bender of too much greasy pizza and cheap beer. It was daytime giving way to dusk, as there was a very small window, allowing minimal natural (unnatural?) light to filter into the room.

It was simple enough to conclude that I was lying in an extremely uncomfortable bed in a slightly bizarre yet basic hospital room. Adding to the odd nature of the room was the complete lack of white boards, identifying my nurses for the current shift or providing any other pertinent information as to why I was currently incarcerated in such a strange, presumably medical, environment.

Perhaps Mom could provide some answers when she returned. Assuming, of course, that she would. Also assuming that I could somehow communicate my questions and convey my confusion without the use of my voice and mouth.

With little else to do, and little physical ability to it, I shut out the drab, dull room from my vision by closing my eyes, and surrendering to a little catnap. I remember finding it odd, since I don’t recall feeling sleepy. However, as I realized a short time later, I didn’t fall asleep naturally. No, something deprived me of consciousness, and it was by design.

Night.

It would become my constant companion from this time forward.

The small window which provided minimal natural daylight was now gone. Completely. It was if a contractor was called in during my slumber to quickly remove the pane of glass and fill the resulting hole in the wall. Unlike the flap of skin that was carelessly applied to my mouth to keep it shut, the drywall filling in the window opening was expertly applied and flawlessly painted.

But despite this, I knew it was night. And always would be from now on.

With the coming of the shroud of eternal night, the room in which I was imprisoned has completely transformed in a horrific and terrifying manner.

The pink walls were now blood red, No, not blood red exactly. They were the color of blood that had long since died and was putrefied. But the blood retained its liquid and flowing qualities. Despite the darkness of the room, I could see easily the blood from the walls slowly dribble from multiple wounds in a continuously sickening fashion. Behind the wounds, I imagined there were some kind of living (undead?) creatures literally pushing the blood into the wounds from the other side of the walls, creating a disturbing pulsating effect as they bled.

There wooden cabinets and fixtures were now blacker than the deepest obsidian stones. The wood now seemed authentic and genuine, but not in a good way. Not at all. The grain of the black wood swirled in upon itself in a sickening, vile manner. The movement of the wood grain created an endless rotation of shape-shifting, creating the images of featureless, yet tortured, faces, tormented for my entertainment and revulsion.

They were the same disturbing colors and nightmarish décor that had consumed the walls and fixtures of my old house.

These colors were now set in stone. I would soon learn that these haunting images would follow me, from one horrid nightmare scenario to the next.

Helplessly immobilized, and fully awake and aware, I could only lie in bed helplessly, staring in terror at the horrors unfolding before me.

The first of many horrors. The first of countless terrors.

How’s my precious widdle baby boy today?

There was always love in Mom’s voice and her greetings to me. But she seldom slipped into using phrases like baby boy. She usually referred to me as wonderful son, or something along those lines. In addition, despite these clumsy terms of endearment, there was a tinge of detachment, even sarcasm, in her voice.

I nodded weakly in response. I’m not sure she saw it.

But these thoughts were insignificant. I looked around the room. The haunting qualities of night remained. The walls still bled. The wood grains still swirled in and out of grotesque shapes. If this was, in fact, a hospital, then how late were the visiting hours? It seemed to be well past midnight.

But Mom didn’t seem to notice. She seemed to not seeing the same nightmarish surroundings as I.

I can’t believe this room has such a tiny window that lets in so little light. Plus, it doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned in quite some time. But believe me, you’re not missing much, son. If you had a bigger window, you’d have a breathtaking view of the rooftop, and these horrible pink walls would only be better illuminated and more pale. Might even look more like fresh puke. No big loss there.

From my point of view, the tiny window that Mom was seeing was still gone. And for me, it was still night.

She stroked my hair, and grinned. I tried in vain to offer a smile in return, then was reminded that I no longer had a mouth to form any kind of emotion or expression.

Looks like someone is in a bad mood this morning, she muttered, as she took a seat out of my field of vision. She seemed to pout, which was also extremely out of character. Hopefully, you’ll cheer up, son. It’s going to be a glorious day, and you shouldn’t squander it by being a Gloomy Gus.

Mom’s choice of words was unsettling. Her very vocabulary almost seemed to change overnight, becoming slightly more formal, whimsical and distant, all at the same time. I don’t recall her ever using idioms like glorious or squander. And I know she never before called me a Gloomy Gus. It was unreal and surreal to me. This, and addressing me as her precious widdle baby boy all rang false. To shift gears from cloyingly sentimental to unjustifiably stern was also unlike her in the extreme.

It was as if someone was doing a very bad impersonation of my mother.

But I chose to still believe she was actually my mother, possibly acting a little out of character, because she was concerned about whatever illness from which I was suffering.

I had no choice but to believe it was Mom, because I so desperately wanted … no, needed … it to be her. For many reasons that were not yet clear to me, I needed her more than ever.

Yes, she repeated softly and with little conviction, it’s going to be a glorious day. She was trying to reassure herself, since I couldn’t.

Mom was clearly seeing the daytime version of this bizarre  room. I was still lying in the dark, gazing at the nighttime scene, it seemed. I had apparently seen the last of any kind of daylight, squeezed through a tiny, smudged window, or otherwise.

She stood and stroked my hair again. The gesture seemed disingenuous, obligatory, rehearsed, and completely without affection.

Maybe you just need to sleep a bit longer, she said. A few more winks for my precious to improve your disposition.

As if on command, I closed my eyes and quickly began to drift away.

Sweet dreams, baby boy, she said, softly.

My sleep was deep, dark and like death.

I had no sweet dreams.

But I awoke to a nightmare.

I was shocked awake from the hard, almost violent shaking of Mom’s hand on my shoulder. It was the panicked shaking that one would inflict on a person feared was dying or dead already.

Son! Mom said, very loudly and frantically. Wake up! Right now!

She stopped only when she saw my wide-eyed reaction of fear and shock. She knew then that she had my undivided and fully alert attention.

I’m so sorry to have to roust you with such exigency, she said, become increasingly excited, almost maniacal, but I have some very exciting news! Possibly the most exciting news you and I have had in a very long time! Possibly the most important news we’ve ever heard.

Roust? Exigency? Again, words Mom would never use. She’s an extremely intelligent person, but like most, myself included, she would simplify her language and say something more like wake and urgency. For just an instant, it seemed as if someone … something else … was speaking instead of Mom, using her as some kind of instrument, pulling her strings like a puppet master. But I quickly dismissed this kind of random thought again. At that moment, I was becoming consumed with curiosity and anticipation.

What was this news that was making Mom almost hysterical?

She could tell from my expression that the suspense was killing me.

So are you sitting down for this? Her joke was very out of character and in very poor taste. It also stopped barely short of  mocking me and trivialized whatever condition with which I was afflicted.

I found him, she continued. Her tone had suddenly become calm and serious, yet foreboding.

Found who? I yelled within my own mind. What’s this about, Mom?

It’s your dad, she replied, as if hearing my thoughts. No, exactly like reading my mind. She was the first of many to do so in this mysterious, terrifying place. I found your dad, Jake.

What the fuck? What kind of utter insanity is this? Dad wasn’t lost. He didn’t desert us, or go missing. He passed away! Over thirty years ago!

I know it’s hard to believe, son.

That was the understatement of the century. It was completely and utterly beyond belief. Also incomprehensible to me was why my mother … who had been my best friend since Dad’s passing, and along with him my protector for my entire life … would now be deceiving me with an enormous lie like this.

Put another way: This was like the thin plot from a B movie on the Lifetime channel.

The King of Lies and Unrelenting Deception strikes again.

No! I couldn’t allow doubts to worm their way back in to my psyche. I couldn’t allow my faith (however misguided and misplaced it may be) to be blemished or damaged in any way.

This was not the Beast. This was my mother. And if she was now telling me that my father was not, in fact, deceased, but was alive and had been found … then, by God, it must be true!

She saw the delight in my eyes, which were now welling with tears of joy.

It would be clear shortly thereafter that this creature, masquerading as my mother, had me just where it wanted me.

My misplaced and misguided faith was deaf and blind to the horrible truth.

I was buying it hook, line and sinker.

This false faith had elevated me to artificial new heights.

The fall from that faux grace would be devastating and demoralizing.

Mom picked up her packed suitcase next to the chair.

Where did that come from? I was fairly certain it wasn’t there before. But it was hard to be sure of anything, nearly impossible to trust my own eyes, in the horrific and dark little hovel badly disguised as a hospital room. A horrific and dark little box, its sinister qualities that only I could see, apparently.