Page 5 of Incarnate

With that, she pushes open the heavy, ornate door. It’s much darker inside, and I step through to follow her, more curious than cautious with what could await.

I immediately peer up to what must be five stories tall with no discernible ceiling. It’s just open and pitch black, with what looks like raw rock as its walls, perhaps even stars on the other end. As my gaze lowers, I take in buildings constructed into the rock itself, dark stone and slick black marble, pillars holding stairways aloft. It reminds me of the inside of a cruise ship, if the designer had gone medieval gothic for an underground headquarters.

A cruise… that feels so far away now.

There are even street lanterns, fires flicking away inside with gargoyles carved on top—my eyes widen when one moves to scratch its ear, before returning to its position.

“Why does that look like stars, when the courtyard…” I say and turn to the door behind me that lets in natural light from the stained glass at the top.

“That’s the Courtyard of Illusions. It is comforting for those not ready for the truth. Like death’s waiting room.”

“Right, because I am dead,” I darkly say, the words weighing more in my heart.

When considering my death, I want to picture family, or my job, or even my favorite reading nook. To grapple with the life I have lost, and yet it feels thinner than smoke to me. Like I’ve taken the highest dose of Xanax one can take, and everything is just numb.

And yet, I’m not numb. My curiosity is steadily rising, possibly even invigorating me. I don’t fully recall the details of Earth, but I’m still aware of the novelty of this place.

Well, novelty to myself.

I follow Margaret closely, observing those walking around. It’s a lot of what appears to be humans wearing the same bag for a dress, men and women alike. Then a group of—not humans—stroll out from another corridor in long black robes, the male in the middle with gray skin, his eyes completely black, and horns wrapped over his skull.

“Is that man real?” I ask, glaring in that direction.

“Yes, that is Seraph Primus Okgar. He oversees The Passing, which is what we are doing now. This whole place is for souls who are entering the Underworld.”

“Mhmm,” I hum, like it’s somehow not real.

And yet, so far, this is not like a dream. There’s no ethereal sense, no distortions that transcend logic. Everything here is moving at a normal speed, all five of my senses brightly burning, including the lingering sweetness of the apple still in my mouth.

We walk over to a black wooden door with a gilded doorknob surrounded by paned windows. I pause when I stare at a large painting on the wall over the many, interconnecting stairwells.

And just as I stared at my hands for understanding, I stare at this portrait of a man… he has to be more than that. Even the painting captures a haunting depth to his gaze, the whites of his eyes utterly black, his irises a bright yellowish orange. His hair is pitch black, slightly slicked back. His jaw is square, full yet masculine lips pursed together, and a furrow of his brow that’s so subtle, but even then, I can feel his intensity…

The man’s attire in the painting is a leather masterpiece of glinting metal decorations, befitting entirely for a king that I used to watch in my shows… shows I can’t even recall the names of.

“Did you get distracted?” Margaret asks, waving a hand in front of me.

I blink, gesturing vaguely with my hand. “Who is that?”

“Dominus Kallúm. He’s as much of a demon as they come. He’s the one we worship and show devotion. You won’t want to skip that. He’s a nasty creature to face in battle, but currently our Realm is reaping the benefits of it at the moment.”

“We actually worship a demon?” I ask with immense disappointment, my gaze roaming the gilded frame that has an old sea vessel at the bottom. “This is real?”

My heart rate picks up, my breathing growing shallow. Margaret’s touch on my shoulder is gentle. “It could be a lot worse, Penelope,” she croons, as if trying to console me. “Now come along, dear. He doesn’t concern you. You will only ever catch a glimpse of him if you end up living in the village near his castle, and that’ll be it. Live a normal, simple life and he will never harm you. We really need to understand your soul better, so let’s go.”

I follow her, glancing over my shoulders at his portrait, which I swear, for a moment, was looking at me.

P E N E L O P E

There’s a magic to the acceptance of this, and some part of me wonders if that’s how this works in general.

The building we enter reminds me of something out of the 1920s with a lot of dark wood and imperfect lines, round glass orbs attached to black metal for the lights. There are thirty desks staffed by men and women, papers covering their workspaces. At first glance, the workers are normal, with maybe an unearthly waxy texture to their skin. The longer I stare, though, the more I notice they are not normal at all. They have utterly no pores, and they all have bright red eyes.

“Margaret, what are you doing?” a woman in the back asks with curly ruby hair.

“I am worried about this one,” she says as we walk over to her. “Her name is Penelope Morris, but she is saying her name is just Penelope and that her last name doesn’t fit, and that even Penelope feels odd,” Margaret states as she pulls out a velvet chair for me. “She also just exorcised a hint of metaphysical power and broke a floor with just the movement of her arms, but her records indicate only two reincarnations, this being the first in the Underworld. The initial reincarnation was an immediate loop back to Earth. Someone got something wrong, and I want it fixed so we don’t have another Samuel.”

As I sit in, I pull my knees together, feeling severely underdressed as all the people here have on beautiful and well-fitted outfits, all the same shade of deep red.