Page 27 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

“Are you alright?” Luke’s voice is surprisingly gentle, as is the way his hand reaches across the table separating us to rest on top of mine. I didn’t even realize I was gripping the edge with white knuckles. “Breathe, Brie.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve been doing that my whole life. It’s one of my most honed skills,” I joke weakly. But his words and the warmth of his hand do help. I release my assault on the table. His hand retracts and I immediately miss the feeling of it covering mine. “I’m okay.”

He nods. “Now listen.”

A shudder sprints through me as I tune in to the murmurs filling the train, some in languages I can’t understand. The man beside me mumbles in Italian. A woman a few rows behind is saying a string of Hail Marys, looped over and over again.

“They’re praying,” I breathe, wishing Luke’s expression was half as horrified as mine must be.

“Too late, I’m afraid. But often, people turn to it when they don’t know what else to do,” he says grimly. “These are souls on their way to their afterlife. To have a one-way ticket to where we’re going, they must have done something worse than not pray enough.”

“Like what?”

His eyes skate over the rows behind me. “Murder. Rape. Ruthlessness. Nobody knows what or who is right to believe in or not. Even me. So if there really are pearly gates somewhere, I don’t know what it takes to get through them. But what I do know is if you’re on this train, it’s because you did something that goes beyond not believing. Something unforgivable.”

I’ve done something unforgivable. I bite back the words. Maybe I have time to avoid a seat on this train when my time comes.

If it hasn’t already.

I turn back to the window, too unsettled to keep my eyes anywhere but on the passing silhouettes of trees and whatever body of water we’re skirting the edge of. In the reflection, I can make out the translucent souls filling the train. It makes everyone look even more ghoulish than they already do.

“What happens to them?” I force out. “When we get there, where do they go?”

“We’re already there.”

“Right. I just don’t understand. It looks so…normal. I mean, the sky is strange, but there’s water and trees and…”

“The moon? Constellations?” Luke supplies. “What makes the underworld so dangerous is that it is just like the overworld. Everything will seem normal until it isn’t. The same moon, sun, and stars, but the sky itself is purple instead of blue. The same grass and greenery and trees, but instead of squirrels and songbirds living in them, there are vultures that feast on flesh and bones. A general rule of thumb is stay away from all shores, whether river or pond or lake or sea. Sirens and sea nymphs are known for their trickery.”

My mind swims with the information. “Aren’t those like…mythology?”

“Where do you think mythology stems from?”

“The books? History? Years and years of ancient lore dramatized with each new interpretation? Next, you’re going to tell me vampires and werewolves are real.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course they’re real.”

I throw my hands up. “Maybe we should start with what isn’t real.”

“Maybe we should start with you keeping your voice down,” he warns. “Right now, everyone assumes we’re souls doomed to eternal damnation. We need to blend in so that doesn’t change.”

“Should I be praying?” I ask semiseriously.

“You should be quiet,” he says. “Sleep while you can. As we get farther through the underworld, more people will board. They won’t all be souls. Monsters and demons have places to be, you know.”

“How inconsiderate of me to assume they don’t just roam the underworld wailing,” I mumble. But I am tired, and the more I think about the darkness outside, the harder it is to calm my frantic thoughts. “You’ll take first watch and wake me up if anything happens?”

He nods. I settle my forehead against the cool glass, imagining it’s a freshly flipped pillow and I’m in my bed back at home. Not my apartment in Tarrentown, but the colorful house I grew up in, that I inherited just to leave behind. That, and everything else.

I clutch my phone in the pocket of my denim jacket. I never replied to the texts from my ex. Maybe I should have, but now it’s too late.

I doubt hell has cell reception.

• • •

The nightmare starts like all the others.

The ball dropping on New Year’s Eve. The press of Mom’s lips to my cheek. Dad screeching “Happy New Year!” so loud in my ears, they ring. The restaurant filled with cheers and noisemakers and glistening cheap party decorations that gave it a dream-like quality in real time. It was the same neighborhood haunt we spent every major occasion at. Birthdays, graduations, my parents’ anniversary dinner that I was always brought along to.