Diary of a Dead Man 2 of 2

Here lies part 2 of diary of a dead man. If you have any suggestions (including, but not limited to a better title) I would love to hear them. I would like to try and publish this eventually. As always, thanks for reading.

-Mac

4. The Working Man

     “So you didn’t get your fair shake at life, that’s no reason to go around moping about it. Throw yourself into your work, do something with what you’ve got.”

     “Look, I don’t exactly think now is the best time to be discussing this. Can you hit the alarm?” Megan bashed the bedside table and the clock alarm began to sound. The room was dimly lit, giving it an eerie vibe. Dim lighting always works to our advantage. It casts shadows that we can take credit for. Crossing over into the physical plane is hard work, and can only be done very briefly. Darkness makes it a little easier.

     In the corner of the room was the writer. He was a short man, hunched over the desk scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad lit only by the desk lamp. The rest of the room was shrouded in darkness. When the alarm went off he barely paid it any head and continued to jot down whatever seemed so important to him. “Typical. Supernatural events going on right behind him and he’s so absorbed in his work that he can’t even take a moment to notice.”

     I pick up a book from one of the decorative shelves in the room and toss it at the bedside. The mirror next to it would have made a nice demonstration of force, but if we cause too much damage, the room gets shut down for maintenance. Less rooms available means less patrons. It’s in our best interest to keep them operational and fairly tidy. The hotel after all is our business as well as the owner’s.

     The book got his attention. He turned briefly, revealing an ugly, but recognizable face in the shadowy light. “Holy shit. I know him!” It was one of the most exciting moments of my life (once again you’ll have to excuse the term, I’m still trying to get used to it, I guess I’ve never been a fast learner). If I still had veins, blood would have been pumping through them. I had the strangest feeling of cotton mouth and elatedness. It was like going to college all over again.

     “What? Is he you’re old boss or something?” I was shocked by her lack of knowledge.

     “No! That’s J.P. Morowitz!”

     “Who?”

     “The famous author! Seventeen Seconds to Midnight?”

     “Never heard of it.”

     “Did you even read?!” Her lack of literary knowledge appalled me in a most visceral sense.

     “Dickens, Vonnegut, Voltaire, yes I read. But nothing by this man. Now stop being star struck and let’s get back to business.” I had already started walking over to the table to see what he was working on. “Damnit! You know what happens if we’re late right? Is this really worth it?” I wasn’t listening to her, I was reading over his shoulder.

     “This isn’t a new novel.”

     “Oh darn! I guess I should alert the boss that we can’t work in here tonight then.”

     “It’s a suicide note.” My heart sunk a little bit. Some say you have to be a tortured artist to be any good. I never took much stock in that. I found enough fodder in mediocrity for hundreds of books and hadn’t once thought about killing myself. I guess that’s why I never got read.

     “Maybe you’ll get to meet your hero after all!”

     “This isn’t funny.”

     “Hey, just trying to look on the bright side.”

     “I don’t get it. He’s at the top of his career. He’s never written a bad book. There’s a family waiting at home for this man and he’s going to kill himself in a dingy hotel room.”

     “Sounds like the perfect addition to our staff.” She said, mocking my concern. I started throwing books harder, tipping over as much furniture as I could. Moving objects wasn’t easy, but I was in a rage. No part of me could understand why a man with everything would want to throw it all away. I worked my entire life to even be a minor recognized writer, and this man had it. He had it all and he was going to throw it away.

     It was the best poltergeist I had ever created. If we had a dead musician, he would have written symphonies about it. The books floated in perfect, unnerving unison. The alarm clocks all went off at once. The lights even flickered in time with the ghostly wails of the workers on the next floor. It was like something out of a Hitchcock movie, and at the end of it, the result was the same.

     “Well if he wasn’t going to kill himself, he sure is now.” Megan added helpfully.

     “Oh god no!” J. P. stood on a chair that had been hastily stood upright in the calamity, and fastened a leather belt to the sturdy-looking ceiling fan in the center of the room. No tears came to his eyes, there was only melancholy determination. “STOP!” I yelled, briefly transcending into physical form, which must have been terrifying, because the shock was enough to startle J. P., and send him tumbling off of his chair. There was a sharp snap, and I watched as the author of my childhood died in front of me.

5. Things You Shouldn’t Do

     On the list of things ghosts aren’t supposed to do, terminally interacting with a living person is one of the highest offences (It’s in bold, large print, and listed twice). It’s somewhere between setting a blimp ablaze with supernatural fire because your wife is on it with her new husband (yes, sorry, the dead ruined the zeppelin industry for everyone) and popping out of a jack in the box as a dismembered head at your nephew’s sixth birthday (Sorry Johnny, I thought it would be funny). Watching J.P. swing from that belt brought about two emotions: 1. Jaw-dropping, pants-shitting fear about the omnipotent repercussions that I would likely receive, and 2. Profound sadness at the thankless nature of my childhood hero’s life. Surprisingly it was the second that held my attention.

     “Holy shit he’s dead.” Said Megan, helpfully.

     “You act like it’s such a horrible thing. You’re dead, I’m dead; What’s another to the pile?”

     “You killed him!”

     “Well not on purpose…” I was playing it remarkably cool for how I was feeling. The bowel-loosening truth had finally begun to sink in. I would be called in for questioning, taken by requisition agents (cocky pricks who do the dirty work of Death), judged by a jury of angry ex-despots and subsequently thrown onto an express train to the underworld. Things couldn’t have been much worse.

     “Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to you?!” I barely heard her. In my mind a thousand thoughts were vying for supremacy.

     He had it all, my dream, the talent, everything! He had it all and he threw it straight away. My thoughts drifted to what could have been if I had paid heed to traffic on that warm summer afternoon. Maybe I could have published my book. I could have been as famous as J.P. Hell, half as famous would have done for me. The money and the fame came in waves, coating my mind with sickly sweet juices, and then abruptly ceased. I was alone in the world, swinging from the end of a rope in a beaten up motel and a man in a grey suit was beckoning me forward. “It didn’t matter.”

     “Of course it did! You fucking killed him! They’re going to come for you any minute now. I’m surprised they’re not already here.” My arms and legs began to tingle with a sensation that I am unfamiliar with. I no longer wanted my old life back, I was done with it. With the realization of how such a career could have ended I felt morose at the thought of living an instant longer. I looked down at my hands and watch as they began to fade from existence.

     “Megan.”

     “Do something! Run! Anything!”

     “Megan. It doesn’t matter anymore.” I held up my hands to show her. The world around me began to lose focus. The drab walls of the hotel peeled and gave way to silver and gold. Megan was still standing in front of me, but she’s began to fade. “It’s better than you could have ever imagined.” The truth is it felt a bit like being stuffed in an oversized pillow, which isn’t the best (I lost a bet), but I like to think it’s better to let the unknown remain shrouded in a positive mystique.

     Megan mouthed words, but they were lost on deaf ears. I was being dragged upward with vicious force. Clouds flew by on all sides. In the cacophony I thought I saw other souls being dragged upward, but they passed too fast for me to be able to tell… And then reality set in and I was standing in the middle of a hotel room with a dead man, arms outstretched to imaginary heavens, and an idiotic look of rapturous content spread across my face. “You’re going to be dragged to Hell Brian!”

     “Oh shit.”

     “Yes oh shit! Run!” On deadened legs I half ran, half glided through the walls of the hotel, passing secret moments and furtive glances hidden behind locked doors. Failing marriages and family vacations alike passed as brief snapshots of lives that were at the moment less important than mine. I had just passed through a room where a high school principle sat and contemplated the life he had chosen when I came to the end of a long hallway.

     “Don’t move.” The voice resonated through the air, cold as ice, and fast as a bullet. I looked to my left and saw a man in a bloody, black suit staring at me, gun raised. “This doesn’t have to be messy. Time’s up.” I turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. A sound like a cannon exploded behind me, shattering the calm of the hotel (if the living could have heard it). My leg dropped out from under me and I watched as its ethereal dust blew away into the air conditioning vents. I fell to my remaining knee and watched as a tall man sidled up to me.

     “You’re lucky you’re already dead. That’ll grow back. The Recently Dead would have a much harder time of it. Come on now, it’s time to go.” He extended his hand to me and reluctantly I took it.

     “So this is it? Headed on the express train down.”

     “That’s not for me to decide…” Everything went white.

6. The World Beyond Worlds

     When the fog light cleared I was standing in front of a high court of four men in uniform. I knew the story of judgment well. Those who were on the edge of going down would come before these war lords and state their case. They also handled the appeals of those who did not find their original sentencing agreeable. It makes them somewhat of a cantankerous bunch. “Welcome Brian, to the high court of the fallen.” Said a man clad in military garb with a deep African accent.

     The men looked down at me with contemptuous stares. “Look it was a complete accident, I didn’t mean to…”

     “Look, we don’t really have a lot of time for this, it’s mostly a formality.” Said a man with a handlebar mustache and a civil war uniform. His southern drawl was unjustly terrifying, and I found myself quaking.

     “I understand.” I said solemnly. Oftentimes I had pictured hell, but always in a satirical fashion. It had never been real, and standing on the cusp of it, I began to feel its true gravity. An endless array of torture and decay, all awaiting my entry.

     “Your request to pass on has been approved. Next!”

     “Wait what?” Before I was able to get a response a strong pair of hands ushered me out of the marble room and down a white corridor. At the end a man sat at a brown desk, shuffling through stacks of paper that stretched infinitely upward.

     “Ah, Brian is it?”

     “Yes. What did they mean—“

    “Sorry to cut you off, but tight schedule and all. Here are your wings, halo, and journal.”

     “I’m sorry?” I said, as in a moment of immense pain wings shot from my shoulder blades and a halo burned into existence above my head.

     “Oh the journal? It gets awfully boring up there sometimes. The Big Man thought it might help to write about it. You are a writer correct?”

     “Yes, but—“

     “Splendid, off you go then.” Beneath me a spring board flew from the floor, launching me upward through what can only be described as an interior decorator’s worst nightmare. White clouds, salmon haze, and a series of violet streaks turned around me in syncopated rhythms. I passed out, and when I awoke I was alone in a small room, just like the one I had inhabited when I was alive. On the table there was a short note.

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     Initially the creator’s note seemed quite encouraging, until I found out it was merely a formality and composed by a persnickety choir of angels. I suppose he’s got better things to do (those planes in the Bermuda Triangle aren’t going to crash themselves). As time passed even all of the pleasures my heart could have ever desired became benign, and I returned to the passion that once drove my very existence. So here I sit, the same as it has always been, writing another page that will never be read, but hey, it beats playing another round of shuffleboard with Ghandi…