Page 160 of Evil Hearts

Finding the Ferryman

A Greek Mythology Charon storyline

Lindsay Reign

1

I’ve never reallygiven much thought to what happens after you die. Some people say it’s a bright light, big pearly gates, the pits of a volcano, or even utter darkness. I found none of those things when my soul was violently ripped from my body.

No bright lights.

No dark void.

No peace.

What I did find is an entire maze-like wasteland full of creatures that are hellbent on shredding what remains of my soul into tiny pieces. At this point, I’m not even sure if I’m dead or just stuck in some endless loop of a coma-induced fever dream, doomed to wander within the dark recesses of my mind for the rest of my days. Or until someone pulls the plug on my life support.

The soles of my bare feet smack against the cracked terrain as I push my tired legs to the max, the muscles burning with each stride. My chapped lips stick together, and my tongue feels like sandpaper in my mouth as I round a corner and skid to a halt, coming face-to-face with yet another solid wall of black mist.

Another dead end.

This wasteland is nothing like the land my Sunday School teacher promised in the third grade. It’s desolate, disconcerting, and dangerous. With no evidence of escape in sight. It’s brutaland unforgiving on the body, even if it is just the remnant of my soul. The searing heat of this place has sucked every bit of moisture from my cells and left me little more than a dehydrated shell.

Every breath is like drawing burning acid into my lungs.

I double back and make a left at the fork in the maze, but I’m not hopeful. I’ve been wandering aimlessly for days, or maybe it’s been weeks. I’ve lost all sense of time. Sometimes, I’m so weak that I stumble and faint from the heat, while other times, I’m running for my life from the creature that patrols this labyrinth. Today, I’m running. I take a deep, steadying breath and prepare to forge ahead through another winding path, but the air gets stuck in my lungs.

A skeletal hand reaches through the wall of churning mist, gripping my throat so tightly that the sharp points break through the tender skin under my jaw. I grapple with the radius and ulna exposed from his black cloak, trying to find a purchase as my feet leave the charred earth.

I kick my legs out and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fight against whatever lurks beneath the black, swirling cloak. My lungs burn from lack of oxygen, and black spots begin to encroach on my vision. Through the hypoxic disorientation, I catch sight of a wicked sneer beneath the shadows of the hood, and when it opens its mouth, my blood runs cold.

“Why do you keep running,Mikroúla?” His guttural voice glides across my skin and slices my thoughts. It’s so loud in my mind. “You cannot escape me.” His words echo through the maze, reverberating off the walls and surrounding me in a shroud of hopelessness.

Anger courses through my body as I fight against his hold. It’s the same song and dance we’ve played for what feels like an eternity, but I can only remember pieces of the game. Fragments that my mind’s eye holds onto despite being forced to forgetafter each battle. The terrain and the combat transform and shift, but he remains a constant in every echo of a memory.

I run.

He catches me.

We fight.

Both physically and emotionally on my part. His proximity ignites a fire deep inside my core, and I find myself craving his presence, longing for his nearness. When he’s not with me, I feel like I’m adrift in an ocean of desperation, a wanton ship sailing aimlessly toward nonexistent shores.

He also makes my blood boil with anger because I can never outwit him. I can never make it through the maze without him catching up to me first. And the way he speaks in that ancient tongue, knowing that I can’t understand him. For all I know, he’s insulting and degrading me with every breath he takes.

“Astériskos,” he whispers the word like a broken prayer, and it sends shivers down my spine. He presses his forehead to mine and lowers me until the soles of my feet make contact with the scorched earth once more. He gently runs the bony fingers of his free hand through my tangled mass of curls, loosening his hold on my throat ever so slightly.

I know I should pull away. I should take this momentary pause to turn and run as fast as my legs can carry me, but I can’t. That ever-present sense of familiarity washes over me.

I should know him.

He knows me.

Intimately.

The memories prickle against the back of my mind, fighting to get free, but the void of memory loss envelopes them, sending them tumbling back into the abyss.

“I don’t know what that means!” I hiss through clenched teeth and jerk against his hold.

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