A Jar of Darkness, the conclusion

            A particular heavy, gray, imposing weather pattern had moved into town earlier that morning and the usual gaggle of elderly neighbors flitted from one house to the next, visiting, gossiping, and complaining about anything and everything. Mrs. Barnes had just stepped over her threshold to enjoy the cozy warmth of her fireplace. Lifting her too large to be a lapdog, lapdog into her lap, she turned on The Price is Right to pass the time. From her lazy boy recliner, she had a direct view of the Horowitz mansion and grumbled every time she looked at it across the street.

              The arrival of a passenger bus blocked her view of the mansion, save the tottering tower. Not one to miss out on the latest news, she placed a phone call to her best friend Harriet, three houses down to report the strange arrival. As she spoke, the bus released its air brakes and simultaneously released a horde of middle-aged men and women carrying crosses and Bibles. "Eastborough Baptist", she mumbled, reading from the side of the massive vehicle.

              The last man off of the bus, presumably the pastor of this Baptist church, carried a megaphone and began barking orders as they surrounded the dilapidated house. With the megaphone apparently at full volume, he began quoting Bible verses and pouring out invectives against evil, against the devil, and against anyone who was not a Baptist.

              In less than three minutes the entire neighborhood stood on their respective front porches to gawk at the latest entertainment across the street. A few of the larger men from the bus began dragging the chain link fence aside in order to, presumably, gain closer access to the crumbling home and its demonic occupants. The amused and somewhat disgusted neighborhood gathered directly across the street to acquire a better view, angling themselves to see past the bus.

              "That Roman Catholic priest didn't far too well, if I remember correctly," one of the elderly men said, chuckling to himself. "I expect that we'll see more of the same with this bunch." The group of neighbors slowly erupted into a volley of whispers, comments, and basic nastiness regarding the religious wackos, a not too endearing term many of them used.

              A very small, wrinkled elderly man remained in the driver's seat reading a book of some sort, whose title could not be seen from the street. In a somewhat unsettling unison, the entire group of Baptists began chanting a passage from the Bible and walked, militant-like up the front porch and through the front door. The sound of the unified chanting slowly disappeared, and everything fell silent until the front door slammed shut, causing the gaggle of neighbors to jump.

              Nearly fifteen minutes passed, and the neighborhood members grew bored, returning to their homes. Mrs. Barnes could be seen through her front window, holding her dog, and sipping something warm, its contents emitting a steady stream of steam past her face. The dinner hour approached and still the old man in the bus read, and waited, occasionally checked his watch, eventually stepping onto the sidewalk and calling out for the pastor.

              An hour later, a single police car arrived with its blue and red lights on, to engage in a conversation with the bus driver. The lone police officer stepped toward the house but then paused as if in remembrance of something. Placing a call on his radio, multiple other police cars, state patrol, and government vehicles arrived, whose drivers entered the house as a group. The increased activity was too much for the neighborhood and they too returned to the sidewalk, except this time in full winter regalia.

              The group of police officers and government agents returned from the house and placed a phone call signaling the arrival of multiple medical vehicles. The neighborhood watched in disbelief as body bag after body bag was taken into the house only to be removed with contents. Eventually, the old man drove away alone in the Baptist bus, leaving the neighborhood in another state of shock, cursing, and complaining that the damn Horowitz mansion needs to be torn down.

              Alex, still in the county jail, had unfortunately allowed his imagination to get away from him, thinking of all the possible terrible things that would happen to him upon his relocation to prison. Sitting with his head in his hands, he heard a familiar voice call his name. A guard stood at the cell door with his father and motioned for him to leave. "You're free to go, Alex," his father said. "More death and destruction have happened at the Horowitz mansion, and they're starting to believe your story."

              The weight of the words that crossed the room and filled his ears left him speechless. Complying to his father's direction, he received his things from the front desk and sat in silence as he and his father drove home, a feeling of disbelief making his head swim. "Apparently a busload of Baptists thought they would drive the devil out and save the city, but whatever it is that is in that house had different ideas. They all entered the house only to be carried out in body bags, the entire busload, including the pastor.

              Mrs. Barnes took her dog out for a walk to notice a large vehicle, a limousine she thought, stop in front of the mansion, to eject two passengers onto the sidewalk, two men, strangely dressed with perfectly clean shaved heads. They placed themselves very carefully and very specifically on the front yard, taking measurements as they began marking the grass with some sort of symbol. Mrs. Barnes stopped behind a large bush and watched the men with a morbid and voyeuristic curiosity.

              The men finished whatever it was they were doing and entered the house, only to return within seconds, carrying a very old, very dirty glass jar, one walked backwards, one walked forwards, both holding the jar, to descend the steps and place the clearly important object in the center of the symbol. In a manner very similar to the horde of Baptists, then men began chanting but not in any language that Mrs. Barnes recognized. The men paused, then converted to English. "Brother Ishmael, your time of bondage has been far too long, we now release into the eternity you deserve," they chanted.

              Both men kneeled inside the symbol, over top of the jar and in unison chanted again in the foreign tongue, to be instantly but briefly enveloped in white flame, leaving nothing behind but charred lawn. Mr. Puddles, Mrs. Barnes' dog, began violently barking and pulling against his leash, striving to get away from the strange and fiery spectacle. She lifted her not too little dog and hurried home, dialing her best friend Harriet to explain everything she had just witnessed. Within moments, the entire neighborhood stood on the front lawn of the Horowitz mansion staring down into the burn mark in the grass.

              As is typical of the elderly, Mrs. Barnes and her husband turned off the lights and retired for bed around 8:30 that evening, only to be awakened by a brilliant white flash, which set the dog barking, waking both Mr. and Mrs. Barnes from their peaceful slumber. "Harold, did you see that?" she asked.

              "Don't worry about it," he said. "It's probably just lightning. The dog will calm down in a minute."

              Rising with the sun the next morning, Mrs. Barnes stepped onto her front porch to enjoy a smoke and dropped her lit blunt as she looked across the street, to come to the realization that the Horowitz mansion was literally gone, nothing but a finely manicured grassy lot with a person sized marble obelisk mounted by a gold plaque. "Harold, Harold," she shouted into the house. "You need to come out here and see this."

              The elderly couple stood in awe at the radical change that had taken place in their neighborhood. After placing a couple of phone calls, the entire neighborhood stood in confusion, gazing upon the beautiful new, park-like setting. No mansion, no litter, no chain link fence, no debris, just a beautiful park with a monument of some sort. Mr. Barnes crossed the street to read the plaque. He raised his voice and read the message as loud as he could. "It says, Dear Ishmael Horowitz, you are now free from your bondage, move on to enjoy your eternity."

A Jar of Darkness, part two

     

            Alex twisted his head around to watch the decaying tower of the Horowitz mansion disappear among the boring cityscape of their ordinarily uneventful town. His left hand started tingling and finally went numb from the handcuffs restraining him behind his back. He carefully and systematically repeated every detail of his evening. Like a song on replay, he burned every detail into his memory.

              Though technically in the same space as two police officers, his internal solitude immersed Alex in an ocean of depression. "You would think that a bloody pentagram would've clued us in to something dangerous. Triple homicide with no witnesses. I've listened to enough true crime podcasts to know that I'll be in prison for the remainder of my life." He leaned his head back on the headrest and stared into the star-speckled black sky, trying to imagine his life in prison without friends. With an abrupt jerk, the car suddenly stopped, and he was aggressively pulled from the back seat.

              With his chin resting on this chest, he watched his feet shuffle across the blacktop, coming to the realization that his shoes were the last thing his friends saw. "Josh, Sarah, and Kelly are my best friends, well... were my best friends," he thought. He and the two officers crossed the threshold into the police station, and he caught a glimpse of his parent's car across the street. Keeping his vision directed to the floor, hundreds of eyes stared at him as he weaved through the station. Memories of too many Hollywood crime dramas flashed through his mind as he looked into the interrogation room. "Pale green room, two-sided mirror, inexpensive metal chair and table and handcuffs. No one will believe my story, shoot, even I don't believe my story."

              He slowly slid his chair back with a high-pitched screech, placing his forehead on the table. "Remember every detail, Alex," he told himself. "The story must be carefully delivered and be consistent. Don't talk without a lawyer. I could feign insanity, I suppose." It was at that specific moment that the emotional weight of the evening nearly crushed him. The door to his immediate left clicked open and heavy, shuffling footsteps crossed the room toward him, to be followed by the labored breathing of someone who clearly didn't exercise enough.

              "You are one messed up kid, Alex," the fatigued, sweaty, and overweight officer said.

              "I'm not talking until I see my parents and my lawyer," he said without looking up. Though his forehead was chilled from the table, he refused to move. The dull sounds of his friends dropping to the floor replayed in his memory, while his stomach continued to twist with a threat to give up his dinner from the night before.

              The sound of labored breathing and the lonely ticking of the clock above the door gave him something to focus upon other than his sorrow. Time seemed to shift into slow motion as the discount aluminum door handle complained about repeated abuse. The door shushed open, followed by three sets of footsteps. "Finally," he muttered. "Dad, Mom, and a lawyer, I assume." A powerful squeeze on his shoulder triggered a stabbing pain through his entire person, followed by a gentle rub on his opposite shoulder. "Dad and then Mom," he presumed. The thought of looking his parents in the eyes at a moment like this terrified him. Meeting one's parents at a police station at two in the morning never ends well.

              Unable to address the emotional distress on his face, he sat up stained by tear streaks. Keeping his focus on everyone's mouth, he avoided the awkward looks of confusion and accusation. "Officer Mihalski," the lawyer said. "I will be representing Alex Chilewbi and we need some time for private dialog, if you don't mind. Oh, also, please remove the handcuffs." Alex continued to avoid eye contact and he listened the morbidly obese officer wheeze out of the room.

              "Young man, eye contact please," the lawyer said. Raising his head from the cold, cheap aluminum table, Alex looked into the face of a disgruntled, middle-aged man, clearly not happy about being pulled from his evening slumber. "There are a number of questions to answer in the next few minutes," he said. "Please be concise, specific, and completely honest."

              "Yes, sir," Alex answered. Rotating his wrists to regain circulation, he stood up and paced the crowded room. He launched into the detailed recollection of the entire evening, beginning with their initial conversation from days before about visiting the Horowitz mansion. Each event rolled off his tongue exactly as he had rehearsed in his mind for the last hour. The crushing weight of the memory of the sound of his friends dropping to the floor nearly broke him again. "It's all there," he said. "That strangely empty and foul library will corroborate everything I've said."

              The silence that followed his monolog only amplified the awkward ambience. Again, averting his eyes, he returned to his chair and once again rested his forehead on the table. A shudder passed through his body as images and memories from the previous evening returned. A gentle nudge from his mother pulled him out of the sleep he didn't realize had overtaken him. "I haven't slept since yesterday," he groaned. "Do you need anything else from me?"

              "No, that will suffice," he answered. "I'll organize my documentation and submit it to the court. As your legal advisor, I should warn you that it is highly unlikely your retelling of the events of that evening will be embraced as true. Your recollection is bizarre and honestly, unconvincing. The judge and lawyers will decide how to proceed."

              The following morning, a large group of elderly neighbors stood on sidewalk opposite the yellow police tape fronting the Horowitz mansion. "There is something unnatural about that house," one of them said. "From the day those Jews moved in, something was very wrong." The group of gawkers fell into silence and watched as police officers and men in dark suits entered and exited the house. A heated argument erupted between what appeared to be FBI agents and construction workers.

              Another twenty-four hours transpired as the same collection of elderly watched from their windows while the crime scene tape was removed. An unusually strong wind carried flotsam through every available open space as well as the bitter stench of decay. "Oh, thank God," one of them said, stepping onto his front porch. "The demolition company has returned. But good lord, what is that smell?" The Horowitz mansion stared at him across the street with a sour look on its face, tempting him to continue his complaints.

              A massive front loader rolled down from the trailer carrying it and crept across the sidewalk toward the house, to suddenly stop. All four tires could be seen spinning while the tractor remained fixed in place. The crew chief stopped leaning on his shovel and walked around the entire tractor, scratching his head. The tractor was removed from the scene to be replaced by a dump truck that also failed in its attempt to approach the house. Again, the crew chief circled the dump truck, doubly confused. The elderly crowd could see him waving and pointing toward a group of laborers and back toward the house.

              The group of men with large necks and Carhartt's retrieved sledgehammers from the truck bed and approached the house, only to be stopped as their tools of destruction appeared to be stuck at the property line as well. The crew chief motioned for the workers to return and walked to the center of the street, talking on his phone. "It's the strangest thing," he said. "Something is stopping all of the demolition equipment from entering the property. My men are able to enter, but no tools. "

              He shoved his phone into his pocket and circled the workers around him. After a subdued explanation, which no one could hear, they and all of the equipment left the premises. Sometime after lunch, a small sedan pulled along the street in front of the mansion, to unceremoniously eject a haggard and overweight Roman Catholic priest to the sidewalk. A myriad of curtains shifted as elderly neighbors curiously watched the man pace the sidewalk in front of the house. Within moments, three men in suits arrived as well, to engage in a heated argument. "Fine, go ahead," one of them said, "but you cannot go in alone."

              The four men disappeared into the still gaping wide open front door. The neighbors watched, they waited, but nothing seemed to be happening. Eventually the entire neighborhood stood on their front steps looking at the house, expecting what they didn't know. Like the sound of a small explosion, the fat priest was violently vomited from an upstairs window, to only crumple in a bloodied, motionless heap upon the sidewalk. Within seconds, the three men in suits literally ran from the house and surrounded the body.

              The police arrived and gathered statements, leaving everyone doubly troubled, confused, and distraught, all at the same time. Just before evening arrived, a large group of city workers surrounded the mansion in chain link fence with warning signs.

A Jar of Darkness

 

            Josh stood in the dead of night, the horribly overgrown hedges pressed into his back and the light from the streetlamp barely touched his toes. He had snuck out of his second story bedroom window with the plan to meet his friend, Alex and their girlfriends at the abandoned Horowitz house. Being true to form, he was ten minutes early and the chill of a midnight in December was digging into him.

              The sudden appearance of headlights less than a block away motivated him to press his back into the hedges. His black jeans, black hoodie, and black tennis shoes caused him to disappear. "Phew, not a cop," he breathed. Easing out of the hedge as the taillights disappeared around the next block, he still avoided the streetlamp.

              A high pitched girlish "Boo" erupted immediately to his left and he did all he could to not react.

              "Dude, we've been watching you for like five minutes," Alex said. "This is our only chance to look inside before they tear this place down." Josh leaned down with his hands on his knees and tried to retain his composure.

              The four teenagers struggled through the hedge and cautiously ascended the oversize porch to try the front door. Alex squeezed the latch only to find it locked. "Who locks a condemned house?" he said. "Let's look for a window. There must be something accessible."

              On the third try, a side window leading into the kitchen slid open. "Awesome," he said. With a little jump, he leaned his upper body into the narrow space. The other three watched his lower body disappear into the blackened void. They returned to the porch to find the front door slightly open. A volley of sneezes erupted from Sarah as they encountered more dust than they thought possible. The relatching of the lock followed like a gunshot as Alex shut the door. "We need to stick together," he said. "Who knows what's in this place or if it's dangerous to walk around."

              Alex led the group, a short string of four teenagers holding hands with the girls in the middle, from room to room. Joshu looked behind him as they stopped and marveled at the clearly visible footprints on the dusty floor. "This is the living room, I guess," Alex said. "It's so weird how the house is completely furnished, books on the shelves, look, there's even a glass of water on that little table. I wonder what happened here?"

              "We all know the story, Alex," Sarah said. "The guy was ridiculously wealthy and just snapped one day. Everyone claims that he strangled his entire family and then drank poison. I guess money doesn't make it all better."

              Josh slowly arced flashlight around the room. He stopped upon a painting of an older man and woman that hung over the fireplace. "I would assume that's them?" he asked. "If I had to make a judgment, I'd say that they don't look like very happy people. Let's keep moving."

              "Hold on a minute," Josh said, pointing his own flashlight at the painting. "Look at the fingers on his left hand. That doesn't look normal or healthy. They look like lobster claws. That is disgusting."

              Sarah pushed open an intricately carved pocket door to expose a massive library and a foul, musty smell. "Nope, I'm not going in there. That is horrible." All four of them stepped back, holding their shirts over their noses to block the stench. Josh stepped forward, shining his flashlight into the room.

              "Hey, wait a minute," he said. "I thought this family was Jewish, but that's a pentagram painted on the floor. Something doesn't seem right. I'm going in. This is too weird."

              The other three followed him, their shirts still partially blocking the smell. "Guys, I don't know for sure, but I don't think this is paint. This looks like blood. When blood dries, it cracks and discolors different than any paint. This is so strange and look at all the bones on that shelf. For being a library, where are there so few books? The shelves are all empty, except that one way up at the top. That doesn't make any sense."

              Alex rolled the shelf ladder to the shelf that Josh had identified. He climbed to the top and loaded as many books into his arms as he could carry. "It looks like I can carry all six of them." After he descended the ladder, he spread the books out on the nearest table. "Is this Latin or something else?"

              "That's not Latin," Sarah said. "I learned a little bit of Latin at Catholic school a few years back. This is something else. And this artwork is really evil looking. You know, they are Jewish. I think this is Hebrew."

              "Hey guys, look at this," Josh said from across the room. "We thought those six books were the only things in here. Except for this jar I just found, well, and the pentagram. Bring your flashlights over. Something really weird is inside of it." The four teenagers stood in a semi-circle, enlightening the jar and its mysterious black contents. "I've tipped it and shook it a bit, but whatever is inside, it's black and it's not moving, so it's definitely not liquid."

              "You should take the lid off," Kelly said. "We came here to explore, and we cannot leave emptyhanded. This will be a story that we tell our children."

              "Here, hold my light, while I screw the top off," Josh said. Holding the jar chose to his chest, the veins in his neck protruded as he put all of his strength into his effort to open it. "Man, that is tight," he said. He dropped to his knees and placed the jar between them on the floor. "Errrr... ah, there it goes."

              He stood up and returned the jar to the shelf in front of them, at chest height. "Alright, here we go." As he twisted the lid, an extremely high-pitched screeching sound exploded into the room and all four of them tried to back up, only to see the light from their flashlights get swallowed by inky blackness from the jar.

              "Alex, I can't move and it's hard to breathe," Sarah said. "What's going on?" The four of them struggled to do anything. "I can't blink, I can't swallow, someone do something."

              "I can't move either," he said. The sound of dead weight sounded on the floor next to them. "Damn guys, that was Kelly," he said. "She just fell over. I wish I could see what's going on." A second thud immediately followed and a third. The high-pitched screech sounded again, and Alex's sole flashlight shone once again.

              "Freeze, don't move," a powerful male voice shouted from behind a bright flashlight. "What're you doing here kid?" he asked.

              "I'm just here with my friends, we wanted to explore before the house was torn down," he answered.

              "Your three friends?" he said. "You mean the three that are lying on the floor? Put your hands on your head and step out of this room."

              "This is Officer Blanchard," he said into his radio. "Yeah, I'm at the Horowitz house. The lights that the neighbor saw is just some kids looking around. Get an ambulance over here quick. I think he killed his friends."

              Alex walked off the porch in handcuffs, denying everything that was being said about him. "I didn't do it," he said. "There was something in that jar. We opened it and all three of them just fell down. I didn't do anything." The rear door of the police car slammed before he could finish his sentence.

Something Happened Here

            When he entered the room, he immediately knew that something had taken place. There were only two other people in the room, but he could see it in their eyes. A brief glance revealed a flicker of acknowledgment, or a confession of sorts. He knew it and he was certain that they had no idea what their eyes had confessed.

              There was a darkness in the room that he felt immediately upon entering. Though everything tried to be bright and cheery, a darkness hid in the corners, in the crevices, and in the words that were not spoken. "A well-lit room, a smiling and happy face, and the glint in an otherwise dead eye gives it all away," he thought. He had the ability to read a room, to read the body language, and the facade they all projected.

              Knowing what he knew and knowing that they didn't know that he knew, gave him a huge advantage in his awkward interaction with each one of them. He put on the smile, he said he was doing just fine, and a burning like acid reflux rose up within him. He hated lying but he knew full well that telling the truth with types such as these had little to no value.

              As time passed, more and more people joined them and somehow, he thought, everyone else seemed to be in on the secret. "The depth of depravity here is painfully clear," he thought. "There is a hatred, a perversion, a deep corruption within each of them. I know full well that I have my own issues so I'm not one to judge."

              The obvious princess or queen, or whatever descriptor suits you best, flitted about the room chatting with everyone, carrying the same plastic smile behind her dead eyes. He was introduced to more people that he could even remember and always gave the same answer. "Yep, I'm doing great," he would say. The inane chit-chat that followed turned his stomach, but he knew he had to play the game. The larger the crowd became, the more the hushed whispers became evident.

              He floated from one pointless conversation to the next and worked his way toward the massive bay window on the east side of the room. For reasons he could only guess at, it seemed that no one else wanted to stand in the glorious, gold sunlight that poured through them. As time went on, he stood in the warmth of golden light, a vast channel developed between himself and all of the others in this beautiful, well-decorated, and pretend social space.

              A group of well-built, handsome men had gathered and were all speaking to one another in hushed tones, frequently glancing toward him. Preparing for the worst, he sat his half empty glass of sparkling water on the nearest table. A quick review of the window revealed a wonderful secret that he was certain no one else realized. "The windows crank open," he thought. "That makes this much, much easier."

              He slowly and casually stepped in front of the first window and reached behind him to disconnect the crank mechanism. "Thank God, we're on the first floor," he thought. As if someone had suddenly flipped a switch, all of the smiling faces and friendly comments turned dark and hostile. The one against many separation in the room didn't change but the normal, casual mixture of men and women across from him disappeared and was now women on the right and men on the left.

              The men all removed their dinner jackets and rolled up their sleeves. Two of these men moved in front of the only door leading out of the room and unbuttoned their collars. "Okay then, here we go," he thought. "I should have known better than to stay here with the obvious darkness I saw at the beginning."

              "Who are you and why are you here?" one of the men said to him, in a volume far greater than was normally and socially acceptable. He played dumb and looked around the room a bit, hoping to find someone else upon whom to divert the attention. "Don't try to be smart," the man continued, "we all know that I'm talking to you."

              He moved himself a step closer to the window behind him and gave it a gentle nudge to assure himself that it would give way under his weight when he threw himself against it. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a sudden and violent knock on the door. The two men standing guard jumped at the sudden noise and braced themselves for the unknown.

              The door behind them slowly opened and an incredibly large man with a very kind face pushed past them and entered the vast, empty space between him and the crowd. "Whatever it is that is going on in here," he said, "will not end as you think it will. My associate and I will be leaving, right now. You all had your chance, but you chose wrongly. The loss is yours."

              The large man crossed the empty space and placed his massive hand upon his shoulder, leading the two of them out of the room. Everyone stood in silence, motionless, looking as if they really wanted to do something but were uncertain what that something would be. The two men left the room, traversed a long wood paneled hallway, descended the marble steps of the front entrance, and climbed into a jet-black Bugatti with its engine still running.

              "I'm sorry, do I know you," he asked.

              "Of course, you know me," he answered. "I've been with you all along. I am the light that has moved you from circumstance to circumstance. I am the subtle hint at the back of your mind in every decision that you've made. I am the fire in your chest that moves you to act. I hoped that you would have recognized me when I entered that room. You should not have been there, and you realized that a little too late. So, I intervened."

              "Oh, wow," he said. "I had no idea. Thank you."

              "But don't worry, it is never too late to make the right decision," he said. "Our journey forward from here is very long but it will be the most beautiful journey you've ever taken."

Windswept

 

When he opened his eyes all he could see was a clear, blue sky. He was facing upwards, but he was lying on nothing. The wind roared in his ears, and he had no recollection as to how he got to this place. There was no memory before this very instant. The situation in which he found himself was a strange combination of excitement, peace, and confusion. The wind was loud but was also a comforting embrace. At the same time, he felt extremely bothered by the lack of memory.

“Unless something unexpected happens in the next few moments, I don’t think that this is going to end well,” he thought to himself. Or maybe he said it out loud. He wasn’t sure, for the wind was deafening. Nothing above or around him gave him any sense of perspective or height. “The clouds could be anywhere,” he thought. He had no watch to judge his time and the sun stood directly overhead. Every time he rolled to his stomach, the ground appeared too far away to calculate a distance.

He was comfortable, and he felt more alive than he could ever remember feeling but that wasn’t saying much as he couldn’t remember anything other than this moment. He squinted his eyes and scanned over the ocean of blue above him, hoping to see something, anything that would give him a clue about his whereabouts.

After several minutes of this, a tiny black dot appeared far above him and very slowly grew larger. “Whatever that is, it looks like it's heading directly toward me,” he thought. “I really don’t want something running into me. I’m thinking that would be less than advantageous.”

He maintained his focus on the dot and eventually realized that it was a person. Their approach slowed as they drew closer. “Phew, I guess that’s a good thing.” The person slightly shifted to the right, and he realized that they had been in a head down position, seemingly trying to catch up to him. As they approached, they flattened out and matched his speed, placing themselves immediately next to him.

The man smiled and waved at him. He waved back, realizing that the man was not young but not old either, somewhere in the middle. He moved in close to his ear and shouted, “Hook yourself on. I can get you to safety, but you need to act quickly. We can do this together.”

He felt over himself to try to figure out what the man meant. “What do I hook onto and with what?” he wondered. The man, seemingly able to read his thoughts, held up two carabiners that were strapped to his skydiving suit. He continued to feel all across the front of his shirt and found multiple fabric loops. He pulled himself close to the man and latched onto the hooks.

As soon as he attached, the man pulled on two straps that snugged the two of them together. Their faces immediately slid across one another’s shoulders. The two of them began to slightly roll and he looked down as the ground now seemed to be much closer than he ever thought possible.

“Look down,” he shouted. “Look down. You need to do something.”

“It’s all good,” the man answered. “I know what I’m doing. We have plenty of time. Just hold on and don’t look at the ground. The landing might be a little rough but be ready to bend your legs when we land. Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

As he spoke, he looked straight across into the open air as another person shot past them with no parachute and seemingly no concern. “That guy better flatten out or he’s going to hit the ground headfirst. Not that it really matters at this point. He’s going to stop really quick when he reaches ground level.”

He closed his eyes and wrapped the man in a full bear hug.

“Okay, good job,” he said. “Here we go. I’ve got you.”

In what felt like a sudden jerk upward, the sudden deployment of the parachute shot past his face and the roaring of the wind immediately decreased. It wasn’t silence, mind you, but it was far, far quieter than before.

“Five, four, three, two, one,” the man shouted, “bend your legs.”

As soon as the word legs came from his mouth, he felt his feet touch solid ground. “And here we are,” the man said. “This is where we are supposed to be. Don’t look at the others that ignored my offer of help. They chose their own ending. There is nothing we can do for them now. They chose their path and as you can see, it didn’t end well.”

Like driving past a car crash, he couldn’t help but briefly glance at the many bodies lying around them. He breathed through his nose to try to keep the feeling of vomiting to a minimum. “Are they… are they all dead?” he asked.

“Yes, in a sense,” the man answered. “When anyone lands, no one actually dies. Their abrupt stop when they reached the ground is the last consequence of all the decisions they made during their descent. You, on the other hand, chose wisely by entrusting my wisdom and experience to help you reach the ground in a gentle manner. It is not unreasonable to feel bad for them,” he said. “But they made their choices.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “You would think that common sense would overrule the feeling of independence and selfishness. They certainly saw the end coming but… wow… did nothing about it.”

“I am so glad that we got to spend these few minutes together,” he said. “Your descent is complete, and you are free to roam around and visit wherever you like. There is so much to see now that you are here with us.”
              “Us?” he repeated.

“Yes, us…” he answered. “There are many, many others who made the same wise choice as you. Walk around. Introduce yourself. I know you will find many wonderful people to connect with. It only gets better from here on out.”