I turn to my left to see a young man standing there. He’s wearing old-fashioned attire from Europe. France, perhaps. Short pants; long, stockinged socks; a long dress jacket; and an elaborate shirt with a ruffled collar and cuffs. On his feet are pointed leather shoes. His long, dark hair is curled in front and pulled back with a light blue silk ribbon. His eyes are odd though, a strange gray color I’ve never seen in a person before.
“Who are you? What do you mean you’re expecting me?”
“I am Farnsworth Renard. Your guide.”
“Guide for what? I don’t understand.”
I catch movement behind the man—many dark figures. Shadows.
“Where am I?”
“Tell him,” a voice says from somewhere in the group.
“Tell him,” another voice repeats.
“Tell him.” A choir of voices speak, the sound vibrating through my feet.
Farnsworth raises his hand. “Edward Charles Wilkins, currently of Salem, Massachusetts, born the second day of February in the year 1790.”
“Yes. Now who are you?”
“As I stated, I am your guide. You’re dead. This is the afterlife.”
I swallow hard. “Afterlife? I really have died.” I nod. “I remember that part. Is this heaven or hell?”
The shadowy figures behind Farnsworth seem to chuckle, and Farnsworth raises his hand again to quiet them.
“I’m afraid the stories your man-made religions have taught you are incorrect. This is neither heaven nor hell because they do not exist. Fortunately, you’re here with me because you have options, given the circumstances of your untimely demise.”
“Options?”
“Yes.” He snaps his fingers and a rolled piece of parchment appears in his hands. “This is the Revival House. Your soul met the placement criteria to be here, but there are other houses.”
“What criteria?”
“We’ll get to that.” He unrolls the parchment, glances at it, then nods. “There are two realms: the Above and the Below. We are in between. The Above is the realm the living inhabit. The Below is where souls are sorted after their time in the Above comes to an end.”
“When they die?”
“When they die. The Revival House is home to the Soul Chasers’ Society. What is that, you ask? Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, the Above has some souls who are not always up to good things. Upon their death, they bypass us and go straight to the Below, where they spend eternity in a most unpleasant place. Asyou can imagine, they aren’t happy with their predicament and at times are capable of escape.”
“Escape?”
Farnsworth nods. “The living always provide openings. Séances, spirit boards, mediums—the list of portals is endless, and a crafty soul uses that to their advantage. We call them Horrors. In the Above, they’re called ghosts, spirits, poltergeists.”
His meaning becomes clear. This is what the pastors mean when they talk about being in league with the devil. “The dead get out and haunt people?”
“People, places, and the like. It’s the society’s job to get them back. That’s where you come in, Edward.” He gestures down a hall that fades into nothing but blackness. “Down there is a portal to the Below. It’s where we, the society members, return the Horrors upon capture.”
I nod, though I’m not entirely sure what he’s talking about.
“You are here because you met the criteria.” He shows me the parchment, my name scrolled in gold at the top of it. “Untimely demise, not your fault, animal lover, and a reasonably upstanding person.”
“But…” I furrow my brow. “I’m confused.”
“About?”
“The church says men like me are an abomination.”
