"That all who have ever been born men from the beginning of creation, and are deceased, are either in heaven or in hell, follows from those things which have been said and shown in the preceding article, namely, that Heaven and Hell are from the human race." - Emmanuel Swedenborg

I watched all of this happening around me. I bore witness to the tumult in my world and in the other worlds.

As a little girl, the voices had been as much a part of me as my ability to color with crayons or run in the sunshine. It's just the way things were. When other children were whining about boredom, I was romping around happily in the back yard with a dozen "invisible friends." Some mothers probably would have raced their kids off to a therapist if they'd said some of the things I came up with, but my mom wasn't like that. She came from a school of thought where anything short of bubonic plague was treated with a strong hot toddy and a good night's rest. An "over-active imagination" surely wasn't worth a trip to the doctor and a thirty five dollar co-pay.

Years passed and things changed. Darker thoughts accompanied puberty. With darker thoughts came new voices, voices that spoke to me of things beyond. They pushed me to cross over to their world. They described an ecstasy of sexual pleasure only attained by allowing them greater access to my body and mind. They teased me with promises of immortality. They offered me tidbits of knowledge and wisdom, never explaining how each nugget of truth came at a price.

In high school I struggled to maintain focus. It's hard to take a test when you're surrounded by voices whispering about blood, and glory, and magic.

I never did drugs or drank. I was terrified to give up control. What if they came into my mind or body, and I couldn't get them out?

Having sex with any of the boys I knew was out of the question. What could a sixteen year old kid offer in comparison to what I'd already been told of by beings considered to be gods of pleasure and love?

Once, I went to my minister in tears. "What if the angels and demons tried to talk to someone? Would that be like when people hear voices in their heads?"

Pastor Mark, all straight white teeth and stylish charm, sat on the other side of his polished antique desk in his starched white shirt and striped tie. His silver hair was perfectly trimmed. He smiled what I thought of as his "kind pastor smile."

"Jesus took care of all that stuff for us a long time ago, Simone. You don't need to worry about spirits and ghosts. You're a good girl, right? You listen to your parents, and try hard in school. That's what really matters."

That was the moment I realized my pastor didn't really believe in anything bigger than the human race, except, perhaps, in the abstract. I think I nodded and mumbled a thank you. I had never felt so absolutely alone.

I wondered if I was demon-possessed. Who, in modern day America, could ever help me if I was?

Around that time, Michael found me standing on the river bank, staring at the racing water. If I jumped in, I'd be dashed against the rocks and killed. It seemed less messy than shooting myself, and more certain than pills. It even seemed kinder, in a way. My family would be able to convince themselves it was an accident. Maybe the voices were right. Maybe the other side would be better. It often seemed whoever was over there understood me better than those who were here anyway. I took a tiny step closer to the edge and stopped again. I didn't really care that some stranger had approached. In that moment, I was more with the others than connected to anything happening in my own world.

"It looks cold," the boy said after a moment. His voice pulled me back to the physical plane, and I looked up at him. He'd actually said exactly what I'd been thinking. The river was full of snow melt and the water was freezing cold. I didn't mind dying, but I didn't want to hurt. I suppose I was a coward in that way. It was such a silly thing, when contemplating death, to worry about physical pain. "Yes, it does," I answered.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. It was a simple question, absurd in this context. He stood there, just an average guy, hands in his pockets, waiting for me to answer, and acting like it was no big deal to stop someone from killing themselves. It struck me that the whole situation was ridiculous. Me, thinking I wanted to die and him, thinking he could stop me with a cheeseburger. I came very near to laughing and realized that, yes, I was hungry. I was starving, in more ways than one.

We married when I was nineteen years old. He was twenty one and, despite the predictions of nearly everyone we knew, we never regretted it for a single second.

I had to admit, since I'd spoken with Raziel and agreed to do what he was asking, I felt indescribably free. At last my true nature shone. The acceptance, and all of the changes happening around me, caused me to think a lot about my younger days and those thoughts often came to settle on that single meeting with Pastor Mark. I didn't think that he was a bad man. He had certainly never intended to push me down the path of suicide. He wasn't evil in the way of those who would abuse the children trusted into their care. Really, I couldn't even imagine him ever acting any way other than helpful and kind. But he was obviously not truly a man of faith. Not in his heart. I felt compelled to see him again, and to speak with him. Now that the voices were such a central part of my life again, the desire to finish that long ago conversation nagged at me. Also, I couldn't help but think about the fact that he was a man who had the ear of thousands. If anyone could help me spread the message of hope, sure it would be him. One day, at breakfast, I asked Michael if he had time to watch the boys.

I left the house right after lunch, and decided to take the long way through town. If a person hadn't been paying close attention, perhaps they wouldn't have noticed anything much different from the way it had been a few months ago. A careful inspection hinted at something more ominous. The parking lot of one local market was empty, the windows boarded over, and tagged with spray paint in a riot of chaotic creative expression. Whether it was closed because they could no longer remain stocked with goods, or because the owners had fled for locations unknown wasn't clear. However, the supermarket down the street was so busy there was a line of cars waiting to turn into the parking lot. One street featured a single house where every tree in the yard was ablaze in autumn color, though it was only now coming into the peak of summer. On another, the gutters were choked with the broken bodies of a thousand little brown birds. Strange was the new normal.

I pulled into the parking lot of the church I'd grown up in. It was a beautiful building. It had been built just after World War II, when the pews and the offering plates were full, and no expense had been spared. Gorgeous brickwork led up to hand carved solid wooden doors. The gemstone colors of the stained glass windows sparkled in the sun. Those entrusted with the care of the property had been diligent. The lawn was perfectly manicured. The parking lot was smooth asphalt with brightly painted lines. I pulled into one of the spots marked, "reserved for visitors," and stepped out of the car into the bright sun, and into the middle of a conversation.

There is no good to be had, crossing the Realms. We were not created to be of that world. We belong here, amongst our own kind.

Others cross. Do they deserve freedom more than us?

We have freedom, as do all creatures. Remaining here we are free to be as we were destined and designed.

I hated walking through the thin spots in the veil, as I'd come to think of them. They were the places where the voices were as clear to me as the voices of my family around the dinner tableIt made me feel like an interloper, eavesdropping on a conversation I'd not been intended to hear.

I moved away from that spot, and the conversation died off into the distance. I passed the elaborate front doors, and followed the sidewalk along the side of the building toward the more modest glass doors marked, "church offices." A man walked out of the building and past me. He seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him. Maybe I'd known him from my childhood? If so, I couldn't put a name with his face. He met my eye and smiled. The urge to run into the church for safety washed over me. You're being stupid, I told myself. Middle aged guys in suits, coming out of churches are nothing to be afraid of. I put the stranger out of my mind, and pulled the door open. By the time it shut behind me, I'd all but forgotten him and the dread I felt at his appearance.

Inside, the building smelled of coffee and cinnamon-scented air freshener. A round cheeked woman in a horrible flowered dress from a decade long gone sat at a tidy desk typing at her computer. She greeted me with enthusiasm. "Well, good morning! How can I help you?"

"I'd like to see Pastor Mark, if he's available."

"Certainly! May I tell him who's here?"

"Simone Fitzgerald... uhm Evans. He knew me as Simone Evans, before I was married."

She scampered off down the hall, returning a moment later, looking less certain. "Go right on in, dear."

"Thank you." I followed the same path she had down the hallway painted with the rainbow colored handprints of some nursery class most likely now well on their way to college, and found the door over which there was a little brass plaque that simply read, "Pastor." The voices snickered and giggled. They whispered, like children playing a prank. It made me jumpy and nervous. I entered the room and looked at the thin, gray-haired man sitting there. The dark circles under his eyes dominated his face, which had the sallow, unhealthy pallor of one who hadn't slept or eaten properly in a long time. His hair was disheveled and his suit rumpled. I had always thought he looked too put-together, like his whole appearance was a carefully constructed facade. Perhaps this was the real man, beginning to show through.

"Simone," he said with an odd grin. "Come on in! It's been a long time."

I entered, leaving the door open behind me. "Yes. Probably almost 15 years now."

"It goes so quickly, doesn't it?"

"The days are long and the years are short." I had no idea where that had come from. It sounded like something my grandmother would have said.

"I've been thinking of you lately."

"Really?" I figured he hadn't given me a thought since the door hit me on the bum on my way out, over a decade ago.

"Yes." He tittered. Everything about him seemed slightly off balance. "I suppose you remember coming to me to ask if demons still possessed people?"

"I remember, though I'm a little surprised that you do."

"I thought you were a bona fide schizophrenic. I told them to take you off the list of approved nursery workers. Couldn't have a crazy person in there with the babies, you know! Haha!" That titter again.

And here I thought I'd kept my secret so well! No point in denying anything now. "I thought maybe I was, too."

"Ah, but now we both know better, yes? All those things that go bump in the night are taking over the suburbs these days."

"It would seem so."

"Is that why you came here? To prophesize? Or unleash the demon forces of Hell?"

I doubted my wisdom in seeking him out, but I'd come this far. "I just want to talk."

"Haha! Great then! Let's talk. What shall we talk about?" He folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward expectantly.

I studied his care-worn face. "The day I came to you was a day that stuck with me forever. It was the day I realized religion and faith are not the same thing. You were the most religious person I knew, but you had no faith at all. You couldn't believe in the existence of something you couldn't see and touch. That's why you found me frightening, isn't it? Not because you thought I was crazy, but because you were terrified that I wasn't, and that would have just been too big of a shift in your world view."

His tittering laughter was wiped away and replaced by red rimmed, tear-filled eyes. "It's true. I never believed any of it. I thought the whole, great, mad, thing was just a lovely metaphor. The Bible was a good book of life lessons, with some interesting stories, and a lot of laws written by superstitious primitives. I didn't believe in God. I never told a single person to follow Him. I preached about being good, and doing good works, and living a nice life, and they followed me in droves. Now I'm going to go to Hell for all I've done, and for all I failed to do." He whispered the next bit, glancing around as though to be careful not to be overheard. "I think I may already be there."

Vague whispering surrounded him. I couldn't make it out, but I could sense the constant, never-ending drone. As he'd spoken, lights and colors swirled into focus. Ghostly dark green, like pond scum, clung to the man before me. My fingertips tingled and burned, and my face flushed hot. The buzz built within me, as it had before.

Speak, Simone. Raziel's deep, melodious voice resonated in my mind.

I opened my mouth, and words that were not my own poured out of me. "Your words are foolishness. You are an educated man. You've read the Bible. Is that what it tells us? That we get one chance to do what's right and if we screw it up... well... that's it. Sayonara! Good night and goodbye! If you truly believe in God now, then you must believe that He is a God of Grace, and Mercy, and Love. He created you to stand strong as a man of faith, spreading His message of hope and salvation from the darkness within our own hearts. You still have breath. Stand up and shine with the Light planted within you!

"These creatures who walk among us now feed on the weak. You must allow your faith to fill you and be strong--not in your own way, but filled with the strength of He who made you. Let His Light pour forth from you and heal the broken world in which you stand. Don't become a part of the brokenness, but a part of the restoration. It is not too late for any of us.

"You, especially, are in a position to help. You said so yourself. They flock to you in droves. Thousands listen to you when you speak. You can be the leader they all look to you to be. Have faith, and believe in something bigger than yourself."

He laughed again and smacked the desktop. "I was right! You DID come here to prophesize. Well, aren't you the one! Little Simone, all grown up and keeping people out of Hell."

"I know nothing of Hell beyond the Hell we build for ourselves on this earth. You can be free of this torment if you simply believe. Believe that you were created to do great things. Find the passion within yourself to help someone. Believe that something greater than you can work in you and through you." I knew, in that moment that would be my message, not just to him, but to the world.

"I'm afraid you're much too late, young lady. Too early at first, and too late now. See how God is? He can't even send his prophets at the right times. You should go. There is nothing for you here."

Just behind his right shoulder a creature shimmered into my view. His black eyes glittered in triumph and he grinned at me, gloating. I knew that his words were true. There was nothing left to say and so I stood up to leave. "It's never too late," I told him. "Not ever. Even if you have given up on God, even if you never had enough belief to have something to give up on, He never gives up on you."

As if I wasn't even in the room anymore, as if I'd never been there at all, he picked up a brass crucifix and started polishing it, humming softly to himself in that odd, mad way.

He had made his choice. There was nothing left to be said. I walked out.

"He hasn't been himself lately," the woman at the front desk said as I emerged. She looked around as though making sure no one else was in earshot and said, "You don't think he's... you know..." I waited, quite uncertain what it was I was supposed to know. "Possessed or anything. Do you?" She whispered this last bit with great dramatic flair.

"No. I don't think he's possessed, though anyone so weak and directionless is certainly at risk of possession. I think he's surrounded by forces who are playing with him--influencing him for their own amusement. For your own well-being, I suggest you find a different job. Those who surround him will bore of one so easily influenced. They will seek new delights."

She blinked at me with wide eyes full of fear, and said nothing as I walked out the door into the summer heat.

My thoughts were razor edged shards, slicing arcs of clarity through the jungle of my mind. I understood that those who had embraced the darkness did not need to go to any great lengths to destroy us. All too often, humans are content to destroy themselves through self-doubt and failure to act. The One who created us is the ultimate expression of love, and love is constant motion. It is caring, comforting, aiding, and encouraging.

Apathy is a cancer that festers in the foundation of our souls. The tiniest push by the forces of darkness will cause the entire rotten structure to fall to pieces.

I reached my car to find Raziel standing there, looking positively exhilarated. "You have begun to Speak."