Hell House (ONC 2024)

Chapter One: Angel Problems

If you're reading this, I'm already dead.

Wait, let me start over.

I drowned while on holiday at the beach. I was ten years old. My heart stopped for two whole minutes before paramedics revived me. It's been eighty years, but I look no older than thirty. You've got to love the perks of being immortal. The downside is I now have to assist recently departed souls when they cross over. It's not as fun or as easy as it sounds. Believe me.

There's one thing no living soul knows: it's a choice. Demons don't decide where you end up; neither do angels. You alone choose your fate. Live a decent life, and you'll go to heaven. That's a given. If there's any hint of guilt, you wind up in hell. The trouble is, humans never like to believe they're torturing themselves. That's where I come in. I'm a backward medium or therapist for the damned. That's my favourite way to describe my job. According to the official plaque on my office door, I'm a Reaper.

You can call me Connor.

The recently dead soul of former banker Clint Young from New York didn't get that privilege. He was annoying.

'Who are you? How did I get here?'

Clint paced in front of my desk. He thought being loud would intimidate me. All it did was give me a headache, as did his pink and blue pinstripe pyjamas. They also did little to hide his protruding belly, as several buttons were close to popping off.

'Did you drug me? Is that it?' he asked.

'Sir, please sit down.'

'Don't tell me to sit!' Clint said, pointing a fat finger at me. 'I demand answers! Get your manager in here!'

I raised my hand, and he flew backwards into the heavy brown leather couch that took up most of the office.

The rest of the décor was sporadic. It had heavy wooden cabinets in the corner. There were no pictures on the walls. Two doors. One that my clients used once they accepted their fate, the other would take me back to the living world after my shift. Even the wallpaper was a neutral cream colour. God forbid we made the place comfortable.

'What the hell?'

Clint's expression turned from anger to fear in the second it took me to stand up and walk around my polished glass desk towards him.

'Yes, that is the point.' I said, 'You died, Clint. It was a heart attack. The cleaner found you slumped over your desk. It was very sad. Now, you need to choose.'

'What do you mean, choose?'

'What comes next? It's your choice between heaven and hell. I'm only here to help you cross the boundary. Think of this as the middle ground. A holding room. It's almost lunchtime, so you'll have to hurry, I'm afraid. I have plans.' I said, glancing at my watch to emphasise the point.

You might think I'm being harsh. Clint was obnoxious, but should I give him a fair chance? Believe me, when you've done this job as long as I have, you'll understand why I no longer have patience.

'Okay, then I choose heaven.'

Clint grinned at me, showing off a movie star smile. He thought this would be easy. They always did.

'Interesting. I've read your notes, Mr Young. There is one event that could change everything.' I said, pulling a pair of black glasses from my jacket pocket as his file appeared from nowhere in my hand. 'A hit-and-run incident when you were eighteen. You ran over a young girl on a bike. Maddie Lowe.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Clint said, his voice cracking. 'You have no proof of anything.'

'Actually, I do. This is not an interrogation. My job is not prosecution or punishment. I am here to guide your soul to the right place. For that to happen, I need to assess any life events capable of altering your final destination. Maddie's death is one of those events.'