“You fought in World War 2?” Grace asked with astonishment.
“I did. I fought for my country. I just wanted to get away from the mines. I didn't want to die of black lung like my father did. I watched him in the end. I watched him as he faded away, coughing up blood. It scared me.”
“Christ Mark! If you fought in World War 2, then that makes you almost eighty years old. How long have you been here?” Grace asked.
“I haven't been here for eighty years, if that's what you're asking. You have to hear the rest to understand, Grace.”
His wife nodded. That was good. She was listening. When she confronted Mark about his past, he had been worried this fight would be the end of their strange marriage. But she was listening, and he loved her for that.
“The day we first met... When you were dying after saving me, You called me a soldier. I didn't get it then. I just thought the wound had made you delusional. I do now. Everything makes a great deal more sense now. Tell me the rest, Mark. Help me understand.”
Mark nodded.
“After I saw what I thought was the Grim reaper, I woke up in Paradise like all of us.”
***
Mark woke up outside. As you can imagine, that was a surprise for him. He opened his eyes and saw strange, swirling red clouds where the sky should have been.
Mark strained to remember what had happened before. They had been ambushed by a small group of German soldiers. His squad had all died one by one until only he remained. Just as always. Then the Grim Reaper came for him as he lay, slowly dying. Mark could remember welcoming him.
He took another look at the strange, bright red sky. Hell. This was hell. That fact didn't surprise Mark. He'd not only expected this but deserved it. How many people had Mark killed himself? How many men had he led to their deaths? He was under no illusions that he was a good person.
Mark sat up and studied his surroundings. He was surprised to discover no pits of fire or fields of people being tormented by demons, as all the priests had promised. Instead, it was just an empty, circular asphalt road. Other different roads ran off it like the spokes of a wheel, each heading in different directions. One of the roads was made from dusty gravel and another a more red sand mixture. Mark decided to follow the path that seemed to lead to civilization, or what passed for it in hell. In this case, it was a cracked asphalt road that looked well-traveled by cars. He figured that road would lead to the center of hell if such a place existed. If he was going to be tormented, he'd rather just get on with it. All this intrigue and suspense was just making him angry. It was giving him time to remember his own failures. At least pain would distract him from the memories.
***
On his walk down the well-worn road, he passed a few barns and farmhouses. They were all empty. Mark didn't see a single person on his journey. He'd expected a lot more people in hell. Well, he'd expected a lot more Germans. He'd seen the things they'd done.
What he found at the end of that road was not what he expected. It was a town surrounded by cornfields. The town itself was very small, with no more than thirty or so buildings. He saw the things he'd expect to find in a town like this: a small post office, a little police building, and a few local stores. He also saw things he didn't expect. The most peculiar was a strangely metallic diner with a glowing neon sign that read Ma's Diner. The inside of the building seemed lined with glowing red lights. It looked like something out of a science fiction comic.
Mark was so distracted by the strange architecture of the building that he didn't even notice the woman leaving it. She had noticed him, though. She dropped the large bag filled with cans she carried on the floor. She proceeded to unlatch a bow from her back and knocked an arrow. By the time she had the bow drawn back, Mark had finally noticed her. He reached for his rifle, only to remember that he no longer had it. He turned to run, but the woman's voice stopped him.
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“Stop! Where did you come from?” She asked.
She had a strange accent that he couldn't quite place. It was almost an English accent, but he was sure it wasn't. She had brunette hair that was tied back into a long braid. She wore a simple tan button up and tan cargo pants. Much like her accent, her facial features were also hard to place. She was clearly from somewhere in Europe. Wherever she was from, she kept the bow level with his heart. Mark thought that was a rather silly threat. After all, they were already dead.
“I woke up here after I died. You know that bow won't do anything.”
She smiled at him and then studied him quizzically.
“You're new? How is that possible?” She asked.
“This is hell. I figured you got new people all the time.”
She laughed. Her voice was sweet and rich, like honey. Mark had never heard one quite like it.
“This isn't hell... At least, I don't think it is. You're the first new person in a very long time.” She said.
That didn't make any sense to Mark. She had to be lying to him.
“It sure looks like hell to me. If not hell, then what else?” Mark asked.
The woman shrugged.
“You're talking to the wrong person. You'd have to ask Terry about that. He's been here the longest. Speaking of… when did you arrive here?” She asked.
“Twenty minutes ago, maybe. I told you I just woke up.”
She frowned.
“You told me you died,” she said.
She pulled the knife from her belt and tossed it on the street in front of Mark. Then she slowly slid the bow back up and pulled back the draw string.
“What's this for?” Mark asked.
“Make a small cut on your skin. I don't care where; I just need to see if you bleed red.”
“Why?” Mark asked.
“Because it's the only way I'll be sure you're really human. That bastard in the corn has tried shit like this before. Do it, or I will stick an arrow into your heart.”
Mark sighed and then shrugged. He slowly bent down and picked up the knife. He made a show of holding it up to his hand.
“Alright,” he said, “I don't know what the hell you are after, but I'll cut my hand.”
Mark slowly slid the knife down his palm, which made a small cut. A trickle of red blood ran down his hand to his arm. The woman seemed relieved. She lowered the bow once more and then slowly approached Mark. For some reason, she was very wary of him.
“Sorry about all that. I just had to be sure. I'm Jennifer, by the way. Welcome to the ass end of nowhere. We have bandages to wrap that cut back at the house,” the woman said.
She reached out a hand, and Mark shook it.
“I'm mark.”
***
"Wait, wait, wait,” Grace said, interrupting Mark's story, “There was another shapeshifter before Wendy?”
Mark held his hand up and made a so-so gesture.
“It could look like another person, but it was not nearly as convincing as Wendy. That was only one of its tricks. Terry's Ghost Story was different from all the others I've seen,” Mark answered.
“Why is that?” Grace asked.
“Because it wasn't from Earth. It was a space alien. Like the ones from that Star Battles movie you were telling me about.”
“It's called Star Wars, dear... An extraterrestrial, what was that even like?”
“I don't know,” Mark answered truthfully with a shrug, “None of them did. The Ghost Story hid in the corn and would only come out at night. It hid in the shadows so wouldn't come out of the corn if there were fires lit and lanterns out. It didn't like the light, I guess. Occasionally, we'd see things that looked like people come crawling out of the corn. They would try to lure us into the cornfields. Anyone who actually went in would vanish completely until they woke up in the center at 12:01 the next day. Somehow they figured out that the fake people didn't bleed.”
“Creepy,” Grace commented.
“Very… Now, where was I in the story?” Mark asked.
“You’d just cut your hand to prove you weren't an alien,” Grace reminded him.
“Oh yes. That's right. That was the first time I met them. The others. The ones who came before.”
***
“That uniform is strange,” Jennifer noted, “You're a soldier. An old one. What year are you from?”
“What?” Mark asked.
“Right. Sorry. What year is it?” She clarified.
“September, 1944. I was in France fighting the war, and I died.”
“You died before you came here?” She asked.
“I was shot and bleeding out in an abandoned hotel. Then I saw the Grim Reaper. Death himself came to claim me.”
Jennifer broke out laughing.
“Did death have glowing red eyes?” She asked.
Mark nodded. So she had seen him too.
“That wasn't the Grim Reaper. That was the man with red eyes. We have all seen him. I think you may be the only one who died beforehand. 1944... You're the oldest too.”
“Oldest… What do you mean?” Mark asked.
“I think you should meet the others first. Follow me. I'll take you back to the farmhouse.”