He lurched and gagged into his hands as the door drifted shut behind him with a clang, pitching him into dark. A pungent commingling of body odor, halitosis, shit and piss so stringent and overpowering that his skin broke out in gooseflesh. His gagging progressed into coughing, his coughing into wheezing, and his wheezing into a spate of sneezes as his body attempted to expel the horrendous fetor from his throat and nostrils.

The putrid air was moist and warm. The hard floor under his bare feet was vaguely damp. His eyes would not adjust—there needed to be some light for that to happen—so he stood perfectly still and listened.

Breathing. Raspy. Wet. Mere feet from him.

He fingered the Gemstoke—his only possession other than his boxers and t-shirt—inadvertently pressing his thumb to it.

INPUT REQUEST… the monotone Voice said in his ear.

He startled. The Voice, he decided, was unpleasant. Not necessarily in and of itself—it was objectively innocuous, sterile and mundane—but given that it spoke directly into his ear—if not his mind—was unsettling. Invasive.

“I need light,” he said.

A white light—as bright as the afternoon sun—burst from the Gemstoke. Benno shut his eyes and outstretched his arm as the light flared for a moment before settling and casting the room in a clean, comfortable glow.

The room was roughly the size of the room in which he’d woken up. But unlike that room, this one was windowless, with sooty walls, a rutted ceiling, and no furniture. The floor was bare concrete and stained with dark splotches.

Sitting on the floor, nude save for an oily rag bunched over her lap, her cracked lips caked in a layer of spittle, her hair dreaded in flat clumps, her foggy, blind eyes refracting the Gemstoke’s light, was an old woman.

And Benno knew her.

He took a small step.

“How…” he said, his disbelief swallowing the rest of the question.

The old woman stirred. With her movement came the sound of metal dragging on concrete, and Benno noticed the clasp—a leather collar—fastened around her throat, attached to a chain only a few feet long and bolted to the wall behind her.

Benno’s voice was thin. “You’re Mickey’s mother…”

The old woman’s glassy eyes stared directly into the light. “Come closer,” she rasped, reaching out a bony hand.

Benno took another step. “What have they done to you?” He eyed the thick chain, the oily rag, the dark stains on the concrete floor beneath her.

“Closer…” The woman strained forward, the tips of her knobby fingers searching.

“I’m going to help you,” Benno said. He set the Gemstoke on the floor and reached down to the woman, intending to lift her in his arms…

Don’t touch it, he remembered suddenly. And don’t let it touch you.

Who had told him that? Who had warned him? His head swam. He looked at Mickey’s mother, her pale, leathery skin, her cracked lips, her miserable state. What was Benno supposed to do? Leave her chained to a wall in a dark, odious room with nothing but a rag?

Don’t touch it…

He was imagining the instruction. No one had told him anything. He hadn’t seen a soul since he’d woken up in this place.

“Closer,” the woman rasped, the chain clacking as she leaned forward.

He was going to rescue her. He had to.

“Closer…”

Don’t touch it.

Benno stopped.

Don’t let it touch you.

Someone had told him. He didn’t know who—he didn’t understand how—but someone had. And for some reason it was an injunction he felt he should heed.

He took a step back.

“What happens if I touch you?” he asked.

A faint smile crept at the edges of the woman’s cracked lips. “I suppose you’ll never know,” she said, sitting back and folding her bulbous hands over the rag in her lap.

Benno snatched up the Gemstoke and retreated further, directing its light toward the woman. Her gawping, sunken eyes seemed to swallow it up hungrily.

Mickey’s mother…

Benno understood exactly what was going on here. It’s like the Wizard of Oz, he thought. I’m dreaming or hallucinating, and the people from my life are appearing to me as creatures in some fantasy world…

“You are not dreaming,” the old woman said. “Nor hallucinating. This is as real as anything. And if you recognize me, it is because we are all iterations of other selves. Often our iterations entangle with one another’s through space and time. I don’t know why.”

Benno swallowed a lump in his throat. “Can you read my mind?” he asked.

“Read?” the old woman blinked slowly. “No.”

Benno picked at the frayed thread on his boxers. A slew of little thoughts scurried through his mind. “Where am I?” he asked, and then: “What is this place?”

The old woman’s face folded into something approximating a grin.

“What am I doing here?” Benno tried.

“Edda has plans for you,” the woman said. “You will do what she needs. This is all she wants to hear from me.”

“What does she need?”

“But your other question…” The woman’s smile dissolved. “Your larger question…”

“What question?”

The old woman adjusted the rag on her lap.

“What question?” Benno’s voice left his body with more force than he intended.

“You killed your family.”

The words struck Benno in the gut.

“You killed your wife and son.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were driving. You were drunk.”

“I wasn’t… I had a couple drinks with dinner…”

“You were arguing with your wife. Over nothing.”

“We got hit by another driver. He was speeding. He ran a red light. He’s in prison now."

“Your son was distracting you in the backseat…”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Perhaps if you’d been paying closer attention, you could have avoided the other driver. Perhaps if you’d abstained from those couple drinks… Or the couple you had before you went to the restaurant…”

“There wasn’t anything I could do.”

“That moment…” The old woman’s leathery finger traced a shape—a triangle—in the air. “That moment of impact… What came to you? When the other car struck yours? When your wife and son were ripped apart by metal and heat?”

Benno’s breath trembled through his teeth, and thick tears gathered at his eyes. “It wasn’t my fault…”

“What came to you then?”

Benno shook his head, bewildered, his jaw clenching so tightly his teeth creaked.

“What did it take from you?”

Beads of broken glass. The seething rattle of dying breath. Dark hair matted and slick, coming away in his hands, exposing a smell…

That smell…

The old woman’s breath rattled. “Death is never painless.”

“I want to go home.”

“There is no such thing.”

Benno dropped his face into his hands, and for some time the only sounds in the dark, damp room were his sobs.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The old woman spoke again, her voice softened. “You are lucky.”

Benno looked up through his tears. Lucky? Lucky? How the fuck could she say that? After everything that had happened to him? After all he had lost? Seven years trapped in this forsaken life with no escape? All alone? How could anything that had ever happened to him be lucky? Was she mocking him? Was she cruel?

Benno wiped the tears and snot from his face.

The old woman looked at him—or into him—from her blind eyes.

There were more questions, but none of them mattered. Benno turned away from the Haruspex and exited the dark, dank room into the orange light of the hallway. The aluminum door clanged shut behind him as he shuffled off. The coarse, salmon-colored carpet and the penis and vagina-looking wallpaper blurred beige in his periphery. He decided against using the Gemstoke for directions, reasoning that it didn’t matter if he knew or not where he was going, that either way he was already lost.

#

He walked for hours, perhaps, one identical hallway unfurling after the next. The Haruspex’s raspy voice echoed in his head: You are lucky… You are lucky…

He asked the Gemstoke for whiskey after whiskey, dumping each down his throat and tossing each empty glass over his shoulder. There was never a thunk, never the sound of glass shattering. He didn’t bother to look back and confirm that the glasses were vanishing before they hit the floor. Magic or some kind of technology—it didn’t matter. Reality was a series of meaningless, dissociated phenomena. Flash—contact…BANG. The world was mostly distance. A leaky, vacant place.

Eventually—for no reason other than to break the monotony—he slowed to a stop in a hallway indistinguishable from every other save for the six-digit numbers on the doors. He tossed another empty glass over his shoulder, which retired into silence, and looked down at his bare legs and bare feet.

“I need clothes,” he said, his thumb pressed against the Gemstoke.

PROCESSING…

Shapes swam into fruition in the air at Benno’s eye-level, condensed, and fell softly onto the carpeted floor. A pair of sneakers landed atop the pile one after the other.

A flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, white socks and casual, logo-less sneakers. He removed his ratty, stained t-shirt and tossed it aside—briefly startled when it landed in a heap on the carpet instead of vanishing like the empty glasses—and put on the flannel shirt, followed by the jeans. Both fit perfectly—better than any clothes he’d ever worn. The socks and shoes went on next, and the shoes fit as if they’d been molded expressly to his feet, which, he figured as he flexed his toes against the canvas and adjusted the collar of the flannel, they essentially had.

He knelt and tied his shoes, and when he stood up there were two men in the hall.

One was elderly, dressed in a tweed blazer with elbow patches, his gray, thinning hair combed awkwardly to the side of his liver-spotted scalp. He sat in an old-timey wheelchair—wood and brass—with his long, arthritic fingers criss-crossed in his lap. He peered at Benno from wrinkly eyes over thin, wire-framed glasses.

The other was perhaps Benno’s age, about his size and build, wearing a tracksuit that reminded Benno of the ones the characters in The Sopranos walked around in, all wind-breaker with vertical stripes up the legs and arms. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his moussed, slicked-back hair and gold necklace glinting in the hallway’s dim orange lights.

For a moment, they merely looked at Benno in silence.

“Good morning,” the man in the wheelchair said finally with a mid-Atlantic accent Benno had only ever heard actors in old black and white sitcoms use.

Benno nodded.

“Sorry to approach so discourteously.” The man cleared his throat of what sounded to be a tenacious lump of phlegm. “We were just eager to meet you, and wanted to make our introductions before the day got away from us.” He lifted one crooked hand. “My name is Hermann. Doctor Hermann Flamme.” He indicated the man beside him. “This is Isaac.”

Benno looked from Hermann to Isaac. “I think…” He scratched his head. “Somebody mentioned your name to me. Isaac… But I can’t remember who.”

Isaac and Hermann nodded slowly in unison, a knowing, amused quality to the choreography.

“And you are Ben,” Hermann said.

“Benno. Benno Haim.”

“Very good.” Hermann gestured to the hallway. “Welcome to the Hillstul Inn.”

“The Hillstul Inn…” Benno frowned at the wallpaper and the carpet. “Where are we?” he asked. “Like, where are we in the world, exactly?”

Hermann’s papery brow furrowed. “That isn’t entirely the correct terminology,” he said. “Though, semantics aside, I suppose your question is sound. The Inn is our headquarters. It is the only structure within this Realm.”

Benno fingered the Gemstoke in his pocket. “Realm?”

“Correct. Edda decided this Realm was… fitting to her particular needs. Likely due to its total dearth of activity—which some of us find rather drab. Why, we’re lucky Edda brought along that ghastly Coil, or there would be nothing here to look at at all.”

“The heart…” Benno said. “What is it?”

Hermann waved a bent hand as if to dismiss an unpleasant odor. “Nothing that concerns us, I’m happy to say. It’s Edda’s burden and hers alone.”

“And who is Edda?” Benno asked, feeling as if he was finally starting to get somewhere. “I keep hearing about her. From the old woman—the Haruspex. And from… From someone else, I think…”

“Edda should return shortly,” Hermann said. “I know she’ll be happy to explain herself and address most of your questions.” He sat up a bit, his chair squeaking. “In the meantime, there’s something that Isaac and I wish to determine. With your consent, of course.”

“Whiskey,” Benno said, unable to wait any longer. He took the glass from the air, swallowed it all in a single gulp, tossed the empty glass away, and returned his attention to Hermann and Isaac.

Hermann cleared his throat. “We’ve heard about your… condition,” he said. “The reason Edda brought you here. We’re intrigued. And we’d like a demonstration.”

Benno sighed. “Fine. Can the Gemstoke make a gun?”

“Oh, no no no.” Hermann wrinkled up his already wrinkly face. “I mean, yes, Gemma can manufacture almost any material object. But firearms are far too wanting. We wish to see a proper demonstration.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Isaac here will simply give you a little slap.”

Isaac stood with his hands in his tracksuit pockets, smiling sheepishly at Benno.

“A slap?” Benno asked.

“With your consent,” Hermann said.

Isaac’s tracksuit was baggy on his relatively slight frame. A slap? What was a slap going to do to illustrate Benno’s… condition? Was it a joke? Were they fucking with him? Benno had never been to prison, but he’d heard stories about the subtle and not-so-subtle ways that veteran inmates tested new inmates’ fortitude. Would his response to Hermann’s request determine—for them—his eligibility for initiation into whatever organization he’d been unwillingly abducted?

The two men looked at Benno, eagerly awaiting his response.

“Sure,” he said.

“Splendid!” Hermann clapped his bony hands together, producing merely an anemic pfft. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Benno presented his cheek to Isaac. “Go for it.”

Isaac rolled up a tracksuit sleeve, revealing a scrawny forearm, and squared up to Benno. “S-s-sss-sorry in advvv…vance,” he said.

“Now not too hard.” Hermann pinched a lever Benno hadn’t yet noticed on the armrest of his chair, which wheeled the chair a few feet backwards with a rusty sigh. “We don’t want to bring the Inn down.”

Benno couldn’t help but scoff. He’d been shooting himself in the head, twice a day—every day—for seven years. Not so much as a bruise had formed on his body in that time. Not so much as a scrape. He’d leapt from skyscrapers. He’d laid down in front of trains.

Isaac, his hand dangling at his side, wiggled his fingers. “You rrr…ready?” he asked.

“Mm-hm.” Benno shrugged his eyebrows.

Isaac swung casually, as one might when jokingly slapping a buddy who was running his mouth after a few too many beers. But Benno felt heat on his cheek in the moment before Isaac’s palm landed, and there was an acute CRACK, followed by a BOOM of thunder.

Benno’s heart jumped.

There was no pain—that would’ve been too much to ask—but there was impact. Real, jarring impact. Whereas bullets felt like gentle pokes, and pavement from a thousand feet felt like landing softly on a mattress, and even a speeding train—forgive him—felt like a shove from a toddler, Isaac’s slap shook Benno.

His head moved—minutely but nonetheless—as the force of the impact traveled through his cheek and into his jaw with a tingling sensation he’d forgotten existed. In that instant he remembered the way things used to be, before the accident, before his endless, deathless Hell, back when he was no different than anyone else. Back when he could get hurt and he could die.

He remembered what it felt like to be alive.

It was impossible to say whether it was the shock of the slap or the nostalgia that brought a single tear to Benno’s eye.

Isaac lowered his hand.

Benno looked around. The walls with their genital-looking wallpaper had cracked in a series of thin, spider-webby lines, and flakes of plaster snowed down from the ceiling. Hermann gawped, sitting forward in his chair. A few seconds rolled by, each man astonished in his own way. Then Isaac held up his hand. It was red, and getting redder.

“Ouch…” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “Ouch-chie…” He tucked his hand between his thighs and hopped in place.

“Oh my…” Hermann pulled a Gemstoke—identical to Benno’s—from the breast pocket of his blazer. “Gemma. An icepack, please.” A blue icepack manifested at Hermann’s eye level. He took it in both stiff hands and presented it to Isaac. “Before the swelling gets too bad.”

Isaac took the icepack and tucked it against the hand between his legs. His eyes watered.

Benno stepped forward. “That was…”

“It was remarkable!” Hermann interrupted.

Isaac forced a smile through his pained dance.

“You barely moved,” Hermann went on. “And you feel no pain?”

Benno shook his head.

“Absolutely remarkable. Gemma. Can you report the energy of that impact?”

ENERGY EMITTED FROM PREVIOUS RECORDED IMPACT MEASURED AT TWO MILLION NINE HUNDRED THIRTY-TWO THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY-NINE JOULES—OR TWO MILLION ONE HUNDRED SIXTY-TWO THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED SEVENTY-ONE DECIMAL SIX-TWO-ONE FOOT POUNDS OF ENERGY.

“Excellent…” Hermann grinned at Benno. “Nearly twice the energy of two cars colliding head on at eighty miles per hour—each. And your skin is not even irritated…”

Isaac offered a weak thumbs up with his good hand. “Rrr-rrr…real imp-p-pressive.”

“How did you come to this?” Hermann asked. “Were you always this way?”

Benno touched his cheek. “No…” he said, his eyes following the pattern of cracks in the walls. “I used to be normal. I broke my arm when I was eleven. I got pneumonia when I was eight. And there were the little things. Stubbed toes. Pulled muscles. Colds now and then my whole life. Until the accident… Not a scratch. Not a bruise. No pain. They said I was… They called me lucky… And since then, since that moment, for some reason…” His cheek was warm to the touch. Still warm. “Do it again,” he said to Isaac. “Harder. As hard as you can.”

“Now, now…” Hermann chuckled nervously. “That was more than a sufficient demonstration. And so you’re aware, Isaac’s highest measured energy output is in the range of a trillion joules—comparable to a thermonuclear explosion. Though of course he requires certain controlled conditions for such an undertaking.”

Benno stepped forward, his cheek angled toward Isaac. “Do it again,” he said. “Please.”

Isaac looked at Hermann.

Hermann cleared his throat. “I think that’s enough for now, my friend. We wouldn’t want poor Isaac to injure himself any further…”

“Please…” Benno’s voice trembled. “Please, just one more time. A little harder. I know it’ll work. I could feel it. It was close, it was… It was so close. Please.” Tears leaked down his cheeks. “I’m begging you. I can’t do this anymore. I just want want to be with them. Please. I just want to be with them again…”

Isaac and Hermann watched Benno cry.

“Oh dear…” Hermann said.

Benno blinked into the orange lights in the ceiling. A pathetic display, but not without cause. If Isaac or Hermann could feel just a fraction of his loss they would want to help him. Anyone would. He just had to adequately express it… Although everyone knew loss. Benno’s was perhaps more conspicuous than most, but was it greater? Could loss be quantified? Isaac and Hermann must have known loss. Mickey and Mickey’s mother—and the Haruspex—knew loss. Kathy and Asher Rogers—even Jason—knew loss. It was a universal human property. A banal revelation, it nonetheless gave Benno pause. Was it comforting? No. In fact, it made him even sadder. His loss—his grief—was all he had. It defined him. If it was only as veritable as everyone else’s, then it was negated—a common denominator. And without it, Benno was nothing at all.

His desperation dissolved, replaced with a hollow longing. He lowered his face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s alrrr-rrr…okay,” said Isaac.

“There, there,” said Hermann.

“What’s going on here?” inquired a stern voice in an accent Benno had never heard.

Hermann and Isaac straightened to attention, looking over Benno’s shoulder with matching expressions of schoolboy obedience.

Benno turned, his grief extinguished by a wind of terror as he beheld, standing at the end of the hallway, a monster made of guttering smoke and cascading blue fire.