The Second Existence

Darren was dead. He'd fallen through a five storey window in Dublin city centre, and landed next to a bus stop filled with immediately astonished city-goers. How he'd fallen, was no mystery. To him anyway. He'd been tackled from behind, and pushed through one of the unnecessarily large windows that covered the building's wall. His broken body was taken to a nearby morgue, examined and then placed in a metal coffin lined with padding, and then placed six feet in the ground in a graveyard on the outskirts of the city. Darren had no real family to speak of (he lived alone with his forty year old cousin in a tiny apartment), and he had few friends. There were no special requests as to where he'd be buried, or whether he'd be buried or cremated. So, he was gone. Poof! Out of this life, and into whatever lay beyond. His body lay in the coffin, and would for many years, until his flesh and bones would have decomposed, and faded away. His body was gone. His life, however: was not.

Darren sat up in a comfortable armchair in a dark room, panic gripping his psyche. He looked around frantically, trying to get a bearing on his surroundings. The room, as previously stated: was dark. It was dark, but he could still make out the masculine figure leaning against the wall directly opposite him. The figure clicked his fingers and a small ember appeared on the wall behind him. The ember grew, until it was about the size of a torch's flame. The figure stepped forward, and his features became clear. He was tall, and slim; that much, Darren could tell. His face was smooth, and his features soft. He had a round chin and nose, and his cheekbones didn't protrude to any great extent. He was bald, and his eyes were an unusually bright shade of blue. So bright, that they glowed.

"Hello!" He said, in a very distinct London accent, "How's it goin'?" He waved in a friendly manner and smiled widely. Darren looked at him, blankly,

"Yeah, not everyone understands at first. You're dead,"

"Dead?" Interrupted Darren, in his unusual accent that echoed with fragments of Norse, Irish and Manx. If who he was talking to didn't know him: they would find it nigh-on impossible to pinpoint his nationality,

"As a doornail. You're dead. A corpse. You've gone to see your proverbial maker who, I might add, is not me. You're pushing up daisies,"

"B-but, I can't be dead… I'm talking to you!" Darren said. His voice cracked. He was only seventeen, and he had never been dead before. Is this what it was really like, or was someone messing with him?

"Well, you are. It's probably best not to think about it. I did, and look where it got me," The man turned and showed Darren the back of his head, where a large line of stitching ran around his scalp,


"Not important," He turned back to face Darren, "Look, now that we've clarified that you're dead, we've got some stuff to do,"

"Stuff to do?"

"Stuff to do."

"Should I be worried?"


"Are we… Going to meet God, or something?"

"God? How juvenile." Scoffed the man, "Follow me," He clapped his hands and a wooden door materialised behind him. He opened it and stepped through,

"Who are you?" Asked Darren, stepping through behind him,

"I'm Pruflas," The door led the two into a long corridor. The walls were of Victorian design, and painted red and a strange form of cream. At intervals along the walls, dark wooden beams led to the roof and arced until they met in the centre. The corridor had no windows, and no doors on the sides. Only one large iron door at the opposite end.

"Where are we going?" Asked Darren, struggling to keep up with Pruflas' long, graceful strides.

"You'll see," Replied Pruflas. They reached the iron door and Pruflas pushed it open with ease. It must have weighed over five hundred kilos, and yet he pushed it open as if it were made of wood, and was only an inch thick. They stepped through, and found themselves in a small garden. A mossy cobbled path rounded the garden, and beautiful flowers and various small trees grew. In the centre, was a large tree with a thick trunk and white bark. Sat atop a low hanging branch was a beautiful young woman,

"Hello," She said. Her voice was as smooth as silk, and was spoken, almost like a whisper, but perfectly audible,

"Babalon," Said Pruflas, "What are you doing here?"

"I like it here, Pruflas. I thought you knew that,"

"Wait, Babalon?" Blurted Darren, shocked by all of the information that was being thrown at him, "Are you both-,"

"Demons. Yes, we are." Said Pruflas. He smiled. As did Babalon. He started to approach Darren,

"Back up!" He shouted, slowly backing away from Pruflas, hoping to reach the iron door and run. He turned and went to sprint, but the door was gone. Instead, he ran into a red brick wall. He fell back and stammered, "Wait, what!?" Pruflas chuckled at the sight,

"You're in hell, Darren. You're here to stay,"