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The familiar sight of the bathroom greeted Hugo. The black and white checkerboard tile. The white claw-foot tub. The ornate mirror above the porcelain sink pedestal. As Hugo moved closer to the mirror, there was no sign of Alice’s magical reflection staring back at him.
Hugo bent over and gritted his teeth. His eyes watered. He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t, as his throat constricted with every inhale. Hugo lifted himself and slapped the side of the porcelain sink with the palm of his hand. The internal rage and fury built up to a crescendo of screams.
His chest rose and fell with every breath now able to fill his lungs . . . at least, what he thought were his lungs. When the rage subsided, he gripped the sink and stared into the mirror. Only his reflection stared back. The other side, where Alice’s reflection should be, was empty.
“What do I do now?” he asked the mirror. “How do I get out of here?”
Hugo wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his black shirt. He left the bathroom and headed for the bedroom door. As he reached the threshold, he paused. A thought came over him.
The closet.
Hugo shut the bedroom door. He tiptoed to the closet door, not wanting to give away where he was headed. He placed a hand on the knob, lightly gripping the brass so it wouldn’t jiggle. He placed his other hand firmly in the center of the door to help guide it. He twisted the knob slow enough to not make a sound, and he opened the closet door. The boxes of various odds and ends remained inside, including the box markedHockey Stuff.
Hugo pulled the cardboard box closer to him, opened the flaps, and rummaged through the contents. The wooden mini hockey stick was gone.
“What is this place?” Hugo asked under his breath.
Something in the side of the closet caught his attention. Two black graphite hockey sticks nestled in the corner. The sticks he played with in recreational leagues after college. He checked the bedroom door. There were no footsteps following him up the stairs. He grabbed one stick, gingerly closed the closet door, and moved to the bed.
Hugo pulled up the covers from the side of the bed. He slid the stick in between the mattress and box frame. He shoved his arm into the mattress, to the middle of his forearm, ensuring it was well hidden. Hugo withdrew his hand and replaced the covers. With a gentle touch, he smoothed over the surface to conceal any signs of disturbance.
Hugo stood, gave a quick glance around the room, and left. He took his time walking down the stairs, letting the sound of each foot slamming into the step linger before continuing. Thaddeus still waited for Hugo in the living room entryway. He held one of Alice’s black and orange mugs, sipping tea.
“Or did you find what you were looking for up there?” Thaddeus asked before taking another sip.
Hugo reached the bottom of the stairs and glared at Thaddeus. His eyes narrowed and darkened, staring proverbial daggers at Thaddeus. “Start talking. What is this place?”
“This is the place you made for yourself. A little place to call home in the afterlife.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I am your guide, Mr. Dodds. I am here to help you transition.” Thaddeus curled an eyebrow and shot a glance at Hugo. “To make it easier on your soul.”
“This is nothing like they promised.”
“I told you. This is not that place. Neither place. Far worse, if you ask me,” Thaddeus replied. “Let me guess, when you were alive, you were guilt-ridden? Maybe you were impure of soul? Or you were cursed by someone or something? Or perhaps someone banished you here? Either way, she called out to your soul and brought you here.”
“Who?” Hugo’s grip on the newel post tightened. “Who brought me here?”
Thaddeus narrowed his eyes. “She is right outside, but if I were you, I would not . . .” His words trailed off.
Hugo rushed to the door and flung it open, charging across the porch and down the steps. His mind was ablaze with the various profanity-laden choice words he had for his captor.
The dark gray clouds swirled in the air like a raging ocean, roiling over each other like waves erupting and tumbling into murky torment. Lightning crashed, illuminating the sky above. The black carriage awaited in the dirt path between the rows of mismatched houses. A headless driver sat atop the carriage with ghostly pale horses bridled to the carriage’s axle.
Next to the carriage, atop a blackened horse, sat a rider clothed in a black hooded robe. His face unseen. A shadowconcealed where his head once rose above his shoulders. A sword sheathed at his side. Black boots primed in the stirrups of the horse’s saddle, with enough tension to take off at a moment’s notice.
The rider’s horse spewed fire with every breath. Wounds seeped with dark, ichorous blood onto its black hairs. The rider and horse followed Hugo’s every move as he charged toward the horse-drawn carriage.
Three knocks rang through the sky.
Hugo reached the end of the walkway. His eyes remained focused and determined on the horse-drawn carriage before him. Hugo’s hands clenched into fists. As he took a step off the walkway and onto the dirt path, the rider withdrew his sword.
Fire engulfed the sword’s blade. The flames roared to life and grew as the rider swung the sword above his head. Hugo reeled at the sight, nearly losing his balance and falling backward. Hugo held his breath, his mouth agape. His eyes traced the fiery path as the rider swung the sword.
Thaddeus grabbed onto his shirt, yanking Hugo backward, and putting himself in between Hugo and the rider.
“Wait!” Thaddeus shouted as he raised an arm. “Wait.”
