The Clock Strikes Twelve

Read Part One here

“Well, I am Death, none can excel! I’ll open the door to Heaven or Hell.” – Ralph Stanley, “O Death,” from “O Brother, Where Art Thou?”

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NOVEMBER is a month that shows us what comes after change.

Gone are the colorful leaves and spooky celebrations of October. Gone are the cornstalks and beans from farmers’ fields, and pumpkins too. What remains? Bare branches, brown grass, and a perpetual chill in the air, not yet icy.

Gratefulness, too, for what has come before – and what might come afterward.

Remember me? I’m Tenet, a writer for a horror magazine called Mundi Macabre. I recently submitted a story about Sophie Tafus, the owner of a shop called Cinderella’s Curios. I revealed the dark secrets of her past and brought them into the present. In the process, I also wrote about the Curator.

He collects souls – er, spirits. Whatever is inside us that makes us unique. Our selves. He comes for us when the time is right, and we must go with him.

Sophie didn’t. Or she hasn’t yet. She’s looking for someone to take her place.

Guess who?

Supposedly, out of the kindness of her heart, she gave me a discounted watch for my birthday. All it cost was fifty dollars and my blood, drawn every hour for twelve hours. In exchange, talent flowed through my veins instead of the hardening of one’s creative arteries known as writer’s block. I finished my tale with five minutes to spare before the watch’s hour hand struck twelve.

What did I do the next day? Try again, of course.

My editor thought “Sophie’s Collections” was a hit, worthy of headlining the Halloween issue of MM. Second place, in her opinion, went to a Lovecraftian yarn called “The Innsmouth Look.” Third place went to “It Has Wings,” a tragedy from the first-person perspective of a cryptid. Hated and hunted, it sought refuge in a nearly impenetrable forest. However, greedy paranormal investigators found it, fatally wounded it, and cut off its leathery wings as a trophy. The beast bled out and, with its last breath, forgave its killers. That story made me cry.

As psyched as I was about my victory, I was also worried about my new addictions. Success is a drug like cocaine or a dopamine hit from social media. The more you have, the more you crave. I craved energy drinks, high ratings, and more talent. I had to shed more blood? So be it.

I figured that would save me instead of luck. That and my fast-typing fingers.

When you earn your salvation by the hour, however, your time will run out.

I had no idea how soon.

After not pushing the fateful button on my even more fateful watch for a couple of days, I was ready to get back to work. Upon finishing “We Chose Hell,” a confession from someone in the Fourth Circle, I had trouble deciding what to write next. One of MM’s readers liked the Curator and wanted to know more about him. They said so on our website, and that comment got several likes.

I hesitated. What more could I write about Death that hadn’t already been said?

I could have had him take Sophie, but I didn’t want her to go. She said that we were too much alike. That’s why I’d forgiven her for not telling me about the watch’s real function or our mutual benefactor. I also knew that it wasn’t her time to accompany him.

It was mine.

On Halloween, I got up early and started “Catering to an Appetite,” about a member of a cannibalistic cult who endures their highest ritual. I won’t repeat it here. It’s too long, with my having written it in twelve hours. It was both my masterpiece and my undoing.

My fingers flew over the keyboard like never before, churning out words and sentences that sounded just right. None of them were clunky or awkward, and I made zero typos. None. Zilch. Nada. That was a miracle in and of itself, but even more amazing was how well the story flowed from the beginning to the middle.
What about the end, you ask? I never got there.

You see, the process of being consumed by twelve other people takes a while – especially if they want to ensure their entrée stays alive for as long as possible. As for the one being eaten? They know they’re getting nearer to transcendence with every bite taken. They also know they’re becoming part of their fellow members’ bodies, which bestows a form of immortality upon them. The ritual guarantees some form of peaceful consciousness on the other side of the dinner platter.

I’d reached the high point of the Feast when I felt the sharpest pain in my wrist that I’d ever experienced. I looked at my watch, and terror filled me. The hour hand pointed straight upward.

“Greetings…Tenet.”

It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t.

Yet here he was – the Curator in his fragile earthly form, hiding an eternal one.

“You can’t be here. Please, not yet,” I cried.

I sensed my visitor smiling though he had no mouth. “A familiar refrain.”

“It’s too soon.”

“For you, but not for me.”

“I’m almost done. Just give me five more minutes, and then – ”

“You are nowhere near finished. You’ve only reached the climax of your tale.”

“That’s just it. I have to see how it all plays out. To see it through to the end.”

“As you have done many times before, with my help, but your time is up.”

I thought I heard the distant chime of a grandfather clock. Cinderella’s clock.

“Can’t you take Sophie Tafus instead?”

The Curator made a low sound resembling a chuckle. “Sophie mentioned you. ‘Take Tenet,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. I’m granting her request.”

“But not mine? How? Why?!”

“Because you entered into a deal with me: time in exchange for talent, blood in exchange for time. So far, you’ve kept up your end, but you must still do so. Sophie and I have had our encounters at the crossroads. Her debts are paid. Yours is not. You bargain day by day, and today you did not uphold your part.”

I choke up. “I tried.”

“As always. Many have tried and been less successful than you. Be grateful for favors large and small. I gave you what you wanted. Now – ”

“I’m not even dead!” I blurted those words before I realized the Curator could fix that little problem.

“That presents an interesting dilemma for both of us. You see, I’ve guided countless spirits to and through the afterlife. I’ve never done that with any living being. When you come with me, you’ll come in body, soul, and spirit through the realms I frequent. There are lessons you must learn before your proper time.”

“Isn’t this it?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“No!”

“Then take my hand. Does yours have any open wounds?” I shook my head. He stretched out his palm, revealing six fingers with long, pointed nails. His flesh was ashen-gray and finely wrinkled.

“Can I at least turn my computer off?”

The Curator inclined his formless head. His bluish-white eyes narrowed.

I dashed over to my laptop and brought up Microsoft Word, which I’d minimized.

The last paragraph of “Catering to an Appetite” stared me in the face:

“The Feast was nearly concluded. All that remained was the division and consumption of my beating heart. My twelve brothers and sisters licked their bloodied lips in brute desire. Yet I felt something far greater: love for them and empathy for their compulsions. I knew them as intimately as I knew myself. Someday, one or more would undergo this same ritual. Would they be as brave and willing to be sacrificed? Perhaps that was the ultimate test, the point of the Order of All Flesh. Give what you have while you’ve still been given time.”

I hit ENTER, punched the CAPS LOCK key, and typed THE END.

“It’s too late.”

The Curator gestured to my blood-infused watch, which was actually his: 12:10.

“Come with me. I must impose a penalty for your little trick.”

He grabbed my hand and pricked my palm with one of his serpentine nails. It only hurt for a fraction of a second before glacial ice filled me from the inside out. My guts froze within my rigid body, and goosebumps broke out all over me.

The Curator let go as soon as this sensation reached my head, giving me a massive brain freeze. “Now you know how I feel, every minute of every hour of every day. Eternity is a cold, dark thing.”

My lips were chapped. I knew they’d be blue if I looked in a mirror.

“P-please release me.”

“I cannot. I am as bound by our pact as you. We must leave immediately.”

“And go where?”

“To Gateway Travel, where I first learned how to guide mortals.”

The Curator offered his hand. Against my better judgment, I took it. If my time on Earth was up, I didn’t want to risk further punishment.

The cozy confines of my studio apartment vanished. In their place, the brochure-decorated walls of a travel agency surrounded us. All of the offices and cubicles were empty, though. “It seems deserted.”

“Indeed. Mr. Plutus, the owner, has returned home and won’t be back until further notice. He took all his employees with him. I used to work here. Plutus made me quite the offer until I found a better one.”

I gasped. “Hades runs this place?”

“No, that’s Pluto. Plutus is the mythological god of wealth. Travel costs money.”

“Not for him – or you.”

“Good. You’re beginning to understand me and my kind.”

He took down a brochure on the far wall, depicting a sunny meadow with a brook flowing through it and a cottage beside it. As beautiful as the image was, I couldn’t quite believe it. It had probably been airbrushed.

“This isn’t your idea of paradise?”

“It’s gorgeous, but it looks too good to be true.”

“Perhaps somewhere closer to home would suit you.”

The Curator led me to one of the cubicles. Unlike the others, it lacked décor – no brochures, Post-it notes, calendars, or snapshots of loved ones. It occurred to me that, once upon a time, this had been his workspace.

The desk was clear. He reached into the pocket of his trench coat and brought out a set of keys. He inserted one into the middle desk drawer and opened it.

Several photos were inside. The top one made me cry out.

My Grandma’s house stood tall and proud as it had been in my youth, instead of rotting and decrepit like it was now.

“Touch the picture,” the Curator said, “and we’ll go there.”

My palm shot out and slapped the photograph’s glossy surface. I pressed down hard and shut my eyes tight, hoping against hope that his promise was true.

When I opened them, I found myself in a Heaven I could relate to.

Grandma was seated in her favorite recliner, below a sampler that read: “WORRY is like a rocking chair. It keeps you BUSY but gets you NOWHERE.”

She wasn’t worried anymore. She beamed at me like it was Christmas morning.

I dashed forward with my arms out to hug her. They passed right through her.

“Alas,” said the Curator. “Only her spirit is present. Her flesh is long gone.”

“But – ”

“It’s okay, honey.” Grandma folded her transparent hands in her transparent lap. “I’m here with you in the only form that matters, but why are you here?”

“It’s a long story.” I pause. “Uh, do you know my – companion?”

“Mm-hm,” said Grandma. “He took me in 1999. I remember like it was yesterday. I was in a hospital bed for so long, and then everything went dark. Dark and cold. I awoke to see the Savior, and He’s brought me back here so I could see you. I knew you’d be here. I just didn’t know when – or that you’d still be alive.”

Despite myself, I have to laugh. “Me neither.”

Suddenly the doorbell rings. “Could you get that, please?” Grandma asks.

I open the door to find my three aunts, my cousin who died of lung cancer, and my other Grandma. My Grandpas, too – one whom I’d known and loved and one who’d died four years before I was born. Hot tears roll down my cheeks. I know they won’t be able to feel my hugs. However, they realize I love them just the same. I beckon their spirits into the house with open arms.

“Welcome, welcome.” Grandma stands to greet them. “Let us celebrate the arrival of one whom we love very much. She’s come to see us after all this time.”

One of my aunts looks puzzled. “Wait a minute. She’s not – ”

“Shh! The important thing is that she’s with us for however long HE allows.”

Grandma nods toward the Curator. My late relatives give a collective shudder.

“He’s taken all of us, but she still has a chance to learn before she passes on.”

“Learn what?” I ask.

My cousin floats forward. “Life is so precious, no matter how hard it may be. I know you face lots of obstacles at work and home, but you can meet them. You’ve been doing that every day. I’m so proud of you. We all are.”

“I second that,” says my unfamiliar Grandpa. “When I heard you were coming, I couldn’t get here fast enough. You’re one of the best things that ever happened to my son. He loves you more than life itself. I wish I could have met you.”

“Likewise. I’ve heard lots of stories about you: some funny, some sad, all good.”

We spend many a wonderful minute laughing, chatting, and catching up. Grandma tells me about Heaven proper, with singing angels and joyous souls praising God. My familiar Grandpa mentions all the conveniences of Earth up there, even the telephone poles he used to climb. My aunts and cousin are delighted to report there are cats everywhere, purring and rubbing up against your legs and licking your hands if you pet them.

Speaking of which, my late kitty Sasha appears among the crowd, meowing and searching for me. I try hard not to cry as I cuddle him in my lap. He rubs his head all over my hands and face, almost sticking his head in – er, through – my mouth.

When he finally jumps off, I ask Grandma if I can see the Creator and the Savior as she did. “I’m sorry,” she replies, “but that can’t happen until you’ve truly died. We’ve all had a wonderful visit, but I’m afraid it’s time for you to go.”

I glance frantically at the Curator. What if I refuse?

“You can’t stay,” my cousin says. “In your current living body, you’re not ready to be with us for more than this allotted time. If you insist on tarrying, we’ll all disappear and return to our Master. You’ll remain here, alive and alone, forever.”

“That sounds more like Hell than Heaven.”

“Oh, trust me, sweetie,” says Grandma. “You don’t want to go there.”

Yet I know that’s what the Curator has in store next.

“Live your life to the fullest with no regrets. Those will drive you crazy, as you’ve already found out. No matter what you’ve done or haven’t done, we love you and will continue to guide you. Think well of us and remember us always.”

“I will. Thank you for everything. I love you.”

Grandma gives me one more spirit hug before she fades away, as do the others.

“Come,” says the Curator. “Time to move on.”

“No. I don’t want to go to Hell!”

“I know you’re afraid, but two friends of mine are waiting for you there.”

I glance at my wrist and notice that the hour hand on my watch has struck one.

The walls of Gateway Travel reappear. He leads me past a receptionist’s empty desk, bearing the nameplate of “Rachel,” then through a maze of empty cubicles. Either the air conditioner is on full blast, or the Curator’s continued presence makes the hairs on my arms and neck stand up straight.

He leads me to an emergency exit. “This is the entrance to the underworld. I must open it. Stay silent, and whatever you do, do not let go of my left hand.”

I clutch it tighter. With his right, he reaches toward the door and picks the lock with the nail of his index finger. The lock clicks, and the portal opens.

The stench of decay hits me full in the face. I gag and hold my bile down.

The Curator leads me down a seemingly endless flight of stone stairs. I’m glad I’m holding his hand to keep my balance. If I slip and fall, I really will be dead.

A lengthy corridor is at the bottom. I’m tired from all my physical efforts so far, and this gauntlet further exhausts me. Yet I keep pace with my guide, step by step, until we reach a vestibule lit by flaming violet torches. Two monsters await. One is a beast with the head of a wolf and the nearly naked body of a man. The other has a human head but a serpentine tail coiled neatly around his frame. I vaguely recognize them from reading Dante’s “Inferno” in high school.

“Greetings, Plutus,” says the Curator. “Greetings, Minos. We have a visitor.”

“A live one!” The wolf-headed creature grins with rows of razor-sharp teeth. He sniffs the air. “One who doesn’t have much money and never has, but also one who loves to spend. She’ll be perfect for my domain. Don’t you think?”

The snake-tailed monster shakes his head. “She may have spent beyond her means in the past, but she’s careful with money now. She has repented. I want her with me as a chronicler of sinners’ confessions. This one pays amazing attention to detail.” Minos leans in close, and I can smell his rotten breath. “What say you?”

I don’t say a word. The Curator told me to stay quiet.

“An unwise choice. What shall I show you to loosen your tongue and admit your wrongdoing? Perhaps a glimpse of the Second Circle, where the lustful wander a barren land buffeted by the winds of passion? Or shall I give you to Plutus in the Fourth, where you’ll push a massive bag of money with your chest and compete against misers in a never-ending jousting tournament? The Fifth might suit you better, with your being slothful, and you’ll gurgle beneath the Styx. Hmm…”

He stares with glowing green eyes that have slits in the middle, like a snake’s.

“Since you will not speak, I demand that you write your sins down on this parchment,” Minos says. He gestures to a chair and table with a scroll, a pot of ink, and a quill. “That is the fee for entering the Vestibule of Hell while still living.”

I realize the inkpot is empty when I sit down and pick up the quill.

I brace myself, then prick my palm with the pen’s tip.

One by one, I write down the transgressions I’ve committed, the inkpot filling as I work. It’s agony, not least because I’m still wearing the blood-infused watch. More intense than that pain are the shame and guilt I feel as I remember each sin. Here a lie, there a carnal thought, there a succumbing to greed or envy. Hatred, too. I think I’ll never finish. At last, my labors and the scroll come to an end. I give the parchment to Minos with hands shaking so badly that I almost drop it.

He reads it in a flash. “It seems to me,” he says in a low, hissing voice, “that your greatest sin is not one you’ve documented here, but one you haven’t: pride.” I gulp. “Why do you wear that timepiece? Is it not because of your vanity, your desire for skill with the written word?” As much as I hate to admit it, I do.
“Then you are paradoxically fortunate. Pride is such a pervasive sin that it is not punished here but in Purgatory. It can be forgiven if not acted upon. However, you took it upon yourself to wager with Death every day that your new talent would be sufficient to take you to the summit of your ambitions. Sadly, you have lost.”

“That’s why we’re here,” says the Curator. “She’s already been to Heaven, and – ”

“Now it’s her turn to face Hell’s horrors? Understandable. However, in her living form, she is neither suitable for salvation nor damnation. What a pity.”

“She’s mine,” snaps Plutus. “She’s still yearning for wealth and fame. Besides, you were once my employee,” he reminds the Curator. “A travel agent just like several others toiling at my command. I should take both of you, but I cannot.” He howls and curls his clawed hands into fists.

“She’s mine,” counters Minos. “Due to her haughtiness, her insistence on promoting her own work, she will write down others’ sins and their stories forever. That would be a far more fitting punishment. Besides, I’m above you.”

“You forget,” says the Curator, “that I am her mentor and master. She belongs to me, and I say neither of you will have her. I outrank you both.”

Both monsters fall silent. Then Minos speaks again, unwinding a portion of his tail.

“I wish for you to witness the Lord of Darkness in his realm, the Ninth Circle. He is the most arrogant of all beings. His pride led him to turn against the Lord of Hosts. That is why he is also the greatest of traitors. Hold still, whelp. Let me show you.”

Minos wraps his tail around my body nine times. I hold tight to the Curator’s hand.

A frozen lake stretches before me with countless souls trapped inside. Many have their bowed heads and necks above the ice, weeping for their horrific fate. Many more lie beneath it, denied the luxury of movement, their bodies contorted in untenable positions. At the center of this expanse is Satan, a three-headed, three-mouthed dragon. He flaps his wings, creating a constant tempest and keeping the temperature at a subzero level. In each of his maws, he chews a famous betrayer: Brutus, Cassius, and Judas Iscariot.

I hear his voice in my mind, ringing across the ice and making my sanity crack:

“Wretch! I have known you ever since your birth. Now you have come to me on my turf. Your every sin is written, not only on parchment but within my boundless memory. There is no hole in this lake for you to slip into yet. However, should you let go of Death’s hand, I’ll welcome you to Cocytus. You have betrayed God by being so prideful, just as I have.”

“I’m sorry!”

“I am not. I never have been. I do not weep for myself, and neither will you.”

The Devil raises his central head and stares right into the core of my spirit.

I scream.

The Curator pulls me back and out of the grasp of Minos’ tail. His coils fall away from my body. I fall to my knees. “Please forgive me, Lord forgive me…”

“He is not present here,” sneers Minos. “Now that you’ve caught more than a glimpse of our lord and master, will you agree to my sentence instead?”

I can’t move. I can’t think. I can hardly breathe.

“She cannot while under my care,” says Death. “My apologies.” He kneels next to me. “Are you ready to move on to your repentance?”

I barely have enough time to remember I can’t speak here. I nod furiously.

“Farewell, friends,” he tells Plutus and Minos. “I hope we won’t see you again.”

While he and I return to the surface, the two aberrations argue over whose fault it is that we’re escaping. Their shouts and growls echo all the way up the stairs. With all his might, the Curator yanks open the emergency exit door to Gateway Travel. We scramble back inside. “That was close.”

“I couldn’t help but scream when Satan looked at me.”

“I know. If you would have said one word, you would’ve been his.”

“Thank you for rescuing me.”

“You’re welcome. Minos is a devious fellow, but he can’t trick me.”

My wrist pulses in pain. I see that my watch’s hour hand points at two.

“Where to next?” I ask the Curator.

He brings me to the only window inside the agency. “What’s the weather like?”

“Gray and cloudy, like it’s going to rain.”

“Let me open it.” Once more, he makes the lock yield with his pointed nail. “Climb through.” With a supreme amount of effort, pushing and pulling, I make it through the window onto a long dirt path. My protector follows me effortlessly.

“This way.” He leads me beneath the overcast sky to yet another flight of stairs. Unlike the other one, this one’s covered with muddy footprints and trails of blood. An acrid smell tells me someone’s pissed here, too.
“Ugh! These steps are worse than the ones that lead to Hell.”

“That’s because this is Purgatory. Notice the bucket, bar of soap, and scrub brush over there? Here you’ll wash away your sin of pride. You can’t do that in Hell, because Hell is for the hard of heart and mean of spirit. You told the Devil you were sorry. Did you mean it?”

“With all my heart.”

“Prove it. Climb all the way up, then scrub all the way down. I’ll meet you here when you’re done. One word of complaint and you’ll have to start again. If you encounter a sinner with muddy, bloody feet, you may treat them as you will, but the mess will be the same. Farewell for now, Cinderella.”

As he says this last bit, I find myself in rags, with no shoes on my feet.

I pick up the cleaning supplies and start climbing.

The ascent takes so long that I think the Curator has pulled a fast one – that these stairs actually go on forever. Besides, I let others pass me on their way up. We grit our teeth and bite our tongues, knowing that grumbling will send us straight to the bottom. I hold all my emotions in, but one thing I can’t keep holding is my bladder. I, too, relieve myself on the steps, knowing I’ll have to wash it off.

When I finally reach the top, I sit down and take a breather. Rain begins to fall.

It fills up my bucket. Time to get to work.

As I scrub, I sing every song I know relating to hardship and challenge, from “Sing Sweet Nightingale” from Disney’s “Cinderella” to “Via Dolorosa” by Sandi Patti to the opening theme of “Divinity: Original Sin II.” I try “Whistle While You Work,” but I can’t whistle. I can only warble, my words swallowed by rumbling thunder. This task is grueling, but I empathize with the ones who climb. They have it much worse than I do. I cry out words of hope and encouragement, and they smile back. Their torment is lessened just a tiny bit, but it means the world to us. Even Purgatory doesn’t stand a chance when we cheer each other on.
The final stair approaches. It’s the dirtiest by far. I scour it with all my strength and even some from beyond. The Curator waits. When I finish, he embraces me.

“Congratulations. You’ve completed your trial successfully, with time to spare.”

“Huh?”

The grandfather clock and my watch read 2:55. Five minutes until 3 AM.

“Are we done traveling? Can I go home? Please?”

“One more vista must we explore: my home plane beyond space and time. Recite the phrase that H.P. Lovecraft wrote about death, if you would.”

I clear my throat. “That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.”

“Correct. Both of us are living on borrowed time.”

Oh, no… “How much do we have left?”

“One hour. Then you must come to a decision, and it shall be everlasting.”

We return to the foyer of Gateway Travel.

“See that clock above Rachel’s desk? It also reads 2:55.” He takes it off the wall. “Press it hard, as you did with the picture of your grandmother’s house, and we’ll move beyond the boundaries of time and space. The only thing that’ll hold us to our current state is my watch on your wrist. Again: do not let go of my left hand.”

I obey his instructions. Not only do our surroundings blur and warp, but I can’t remember whether I went to Heaven before or after Hell and Purgatory. The very concept of time is becoming more and more vague. Maybe it always has been.

Strange shapes coalesce into squat buildings and spindly towers. Black stars hang overhead in a chartreuse sky. Lost spirits meander aimlessly, searching for landmarks but finding none in this labyrinthine city.
As we make our way along the cobblestone streets, I hear the wandering shades mumble in a language unknown to me: “Hastur ah geb. Ehyenah ahor ib.”

The Curator translates: “Hastur is here. No one can flee.”

“You mean the King in Yellow? One of Lovecraft’s Great Old Ones?” The Curator nods. “Oh, dear. What is this place, and why are we here?”

“We must travel through Carcosa to the other side, where I made my decision.”

I wonder which one he’s talking about. The choice to live on Earth, maybe?

A group of cultists in saffron-yellow robes appears. I don’t want to follow them. I resist with every fiber of my being, planting my feet, but the Curator pulls me along. They repeat the “Hastur ah geb” phrase along with a new one: “Uh’e l’nog Hastur l’h’mggoka’ai.” “The crowd comes to Hastur to hear him speak.”

“Should we be doing this?” I whisper. “Aren’t we walking into a trap?”

“It’s the only way. These acolytes know the location of the black jade obelisk within the furthest spire. That’s what we need to reach.”

As terrified as I am that we’ll be discovered, an instinctive part of me is curious about this sect and the eldritch horror that it worships. From what I remember of Hastur, he seeks power over artists, playwrights, and storytellers. The author of “The King in Yellow” was reported to be possessed while writing that manuscript. Good thing I’ve already made my bargain. Which being is more powerful, though?

The cultists trudge along a steep incline toward one of the towers. It isn’t the tallest, but it is the most oddly shaped, like the serrated edge of a saw blade. The sky above roils with yellowish-green clouds. I wonder if it’ll rain here like it did in Purgatory. I’m still wearing rags, and if they get wetter, I’ll be miserable indeed.

Several of the lost souls I saw earlier join us. They stare straight ahead at rapt attention, like soldiers in an army, though they don’t march. They shamble and scramble as they make the climb, driven by a compulsion they don’t understand. Or perhaps they do. That’s even worse.

“Keep going,” says the Curator. “We’re almost there.”

The cultists pass under a vaulted archway and come up to a set of doors. I can neither see nor hear the leader, but there’s a pause before they open. Perhaps one of them painted a sign in blood to let their fellow priests enter. We barely make it inside before the doors slam shut, the sound ringing in my ears.
We’re in some sort of vestibule, like in Hell, but this one’s lit by red lamps. They make the cultists’ robes appear bright orange. They form a line. One after another, they approach a platform and are lifted up to another level of the tower. We take our turn without faltering. One mistake here means a fate worse than death. Even for my companion, for I feel his wrinkled hand tremble in mine.

We see a figure at the front of a vast throne room: an octopoid being in a hooded yellow robe. The novices bow down before him, chanting “Hastur ah geb” in unison. We fall flat to the ground but do not follow suit. We can’t. The voice of the King in Yellow fills our mutual consciousness. He does not speak. He sings, and the music that comes from his faceless maw nearly drives me mad. Its notes are both higher and lower than any human has a right to hear, and the crescendos make my body shake all over. The Curator seems less affected, but even he is scared.

When Hastur gestures for us to rise, we do so and disperse. The two of us have to get out of here as fast as possible before we’re found out. We use the cultists and lost souls as camouflage, ducking and weaving among them until the Curator points out an exit. We dash through it to find ourselves in a room with a high ceiling, blue-lit wall sconces, and a massive obelisk of black jade in the middle.

Unfortunately, one of Hastur’s thralls has followed us. He raises a knife and heads straight for me. The Curator reaches out and touches him. He falls over dead. When I recover from the shock of this display of power, my guide explains:

“This is nephrite, the sacred gem of the Outer Gods and those such as myself. It is hailed as the ‘dream stone’ for its spiritual properties. I first saw this monument in a dream, back when I was an agent at Gateway Travel. I read the inscriptions on it and realized that if I touched it, I could venture far beyond Earth and the universe, to locations even conventional space-time can’t touch. I learned how to guide others through these instructions. I even learned…”

“What?”

“How to die once I’d become Death. That was the price I had to pay, but even I won’t last forever. ‘Strange aeons’ are passing as we speak. My time draws near.”

“You mean – ”

“Yes. You have a decision to make, and it is final. You not only wear my watch but bear my mark. Your body, soul, and spirit no longer pertain to the mortal world. You can either accept death and enter Heaven with your late friends and loved ones or become the next Curator. If you choose the latter, eventually, you must find someone else to pass the torch to. Think long and hard before you decide.”

“Why would I take your place? I’ve literally been to Hell and back!”

“Mine is a work of great compassion. Even when a spirit must face damnation or a long purification process, at least they will have moved on from your world. There is progress on both the higher and the lower planes of existence, whether to keep rising or falling. I have progressed as much as I am able. Now I face my own demise. I may not have lived the best life, but I’ve paid for it through being the best avatar of Death that I can be. Please let me sleep, dear Tenet, knowing that countless spirits will be safe with you. You have willing hands and a good heart. If I die without a replacement, no one will move on. The dead themselves will rise in righteous indignation. That will doom every world, including this one.”

“What about Sophie Tafus? The one who got me into this mess in the beginning?”

“Funny you should ask. She died this early morning at 1 AM of natural causes. Her heart failed her, and her spirit passed on to Purgatory. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”

Despite everything she and her “gift” have put me through, I shed a few tears.

“Have you come to a resolution?” the Curator asks as the hour approaches four.

“I have.” I take a deep breath. “If what you say is true, I’ll take your place.”

“Then touch the obelisk. Hurry! I feel myself fading away.”

I press my palm to the cold black stone. Endless landscapes fill my mind, from the purple mountain majesties and fruited plain of the United States to the ancient cities of Europe to the fabled plateau of Leng. All of the beings in all of these worlds breathe a sigh of relief. Whether they be alive, dead, or some state in between, they know I’ll come for them in the end to bring them rest.

The Curator has disappeared, leaving his fedora and trench coat behind.

I put them on. My watch is still ticking. I must return to Earth. I have work to do.

---

NOVEMBER is for gratitude for all the risks you’ve taken during the year.

I’ve risked everything tonight to save an entity intent on claiming me.

Here’s hoping we’ll both find peace.

Credit: Tenet