Somebody Goofed

CONTENT WARNING: Substance abuse, suicide, vehicular accident/slight hint of gore

The sirens painted the alley red and blue, ricocheting off brick walls slick with evening drizzle. Paramedics crouched over the limp body of Brady Kane—twenty-two, bones sharp against paper-thin skin, a needle still dangling from the crook of his arm.

“Charge to two-fifty,” one medic barked. The defibrillator pads stuck to Brady’s chest like white flags.

A crowd pressed against the yellow tape: neighbors, stragglers from the liquor store, kids with phones raised. Their breath fogged the cold air.

“Clear!”

Brady’s body jumped, then slumped again.

They worked for fifteen minutes—compressions, adrenaline, another jolt—but the flatline never wavered.

One medic glanced at the other, shaking his head. “Call it.”

“Time of death: 8:43 p.m.”

A ripple of murmurs rolled through the onlookers.

“Poor kid.”

“Knew it would happen someday.”

“He said tonight was the night,” someone whispered. “Guess he meant it.”

A woman sobbed into her partner’s chest. An older man with a grizzled jaw muttered, “No more pain for him. He’s free now.”

Television crews had already arrived, shoving microphones toward the medics as they zipped the body bag.

Standing a little apart was Pastor Manfred Harrington—Pastor Manny to most—of Greater Grace Seabrook. Rain dripped from the brim of his battered felt hat as he lifted his voice.

“Friends,” he called, “Brady’s soul is what matters most right now. If he knew Jesus as Lord, he’s safe in His arms. If not, we must pray for mercy.”

A man near the front scoffed. He was lean, dressed in an expensive charcoal coat, dark hair combed with meticulous care. “That’s a sick thing to say while the boy’s still warm,” he snapped.

Pastor Manny regarded him calmly. “I only speak truth from Scripture. Christ offers salvation to all who believe.”

“Salvation, damnation—you preachers are obsessed with dividing people,” the man retorted. “God isn’t a tyrant. He doesn’t send anyone to Hell.”

“That’s why He sent His Son,” Manny replied. “To rescue us from the judgment our sins deserve.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Judgment? I believe in a God of pure love. No wrath. No punishment.”

A few people nodded uneasily. Others looked away.

Near the tape, a lanky kid about Brady’s age watched, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie. He leaned toward the man in the coat. “Kinda heavy, huh?”

“Don’t let the preacher scare you,” the man said, voice gentle now. “God’s not like that. He wants us happy, free. No strings.”

“You think?” the kid asked.

“I know.” The man smiled, reassuring, magnetic. “Come, walk with me. I’ll explain.”

The boy hesitated, then followed as they slipped from the crowd.

They drove in the kid’s battered sedan, rain streaking the windshield. The man kept talking, weaving a picture of a deity who asked nothing, condemned nothing. The boy—Eli, he finally said—listened, torn between grief and a strange, soothing warmth that radiated from his companion.

A flashing red signal appeared ahead: the crossing where freight trains barreled through the industrial strip.

Eli slowed. “Looks like we’ll have to wait.”

“Nonsense,” the man said lightly. “You’ve got plenty of room. Floor it—we’ll beat it.”

“I don’t know—”

“You can do it, son. Trust me.”

Eli pressed the accelerator.

The engine howled. The train’s horn split the rain. Metal screamed against metal, then everything dissolved into white fire.

When Eli opened his eyes, he was standing.

The air was thick and warm, curling around him like breath. A dim cavern stretched out, walls lost in haze. Flickers of orange light glimmered far off, like campfires scattered in fog.

“Where… where are we?” he asked.

The man beside him was brushing soot from his coat, unfazed. “We’re in the In-Between.”

“The what?”

“A waiting ground,” the man said smoothly. “A place souls go after death—before they meet the Almighty.”

“You mean… we died?”

“I’m afraid so. Instantaneous, though. No pain.”

Eli clutched his head. “But you said there’s no Hell.”

“There isn’t,” the man assured him. “No Purgatory, no flames. Just this, and then the Throne. Everyone gets a hearing.”

Relief flickered in Eli’s eyes. “So… I could still, you know, make things right with God? Accept Jesus?”

The man’s smile froze, then shifted—still pleasant, but harder. “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The moment of decision is for the living,” the man said quietly. “Once you cross, the record is sealed.”

Eli’s stomach turned. “That pastor… he was right, wasn’t he?”

The man tilted his head, watching.

“You tricked me,” Eli said, voice rising. “You said God wouldn’t judge!”

“I said what you wanted to hear.” The man’s tone grew silken. “But the choice was always yours.”

“You messed up,” Eli shouted, jabbing a finger at him. “You messed up and now we’re stuck!”

For the first time, the man laughed—a low, cold ripple that echoed against the cavern walls.

“Oh, my boy,” he said, wiping a tear of mirth. “I didn’t goof. You did.”

Before Eli could speak, the man reached to his face and gripped the skin at his jaw. He peeled it downward like a mask.

Underneath was no human visage but something ancient and slick, black as pitch, eyes burning amber. Horn-like ridges framed a mouth too wide, filled with razored teeth.

“I am Malach, servant of the Pit,” the creature hissed. “I walk the alleys, whisper in ears, steer hands from grace. Tonight, I claimed you.”

Eli stumbled back, horrified.

Malach advanced slowly, his voice a purr.

“You listened to my comforts instead of the preacher’s plea. You cherished the thought of freedom while I slid the hook.”

“Get away from me!” Eli shouted, backing into the mist.

“You had a moment,” Malach said. “A single heartbeat when you could have called on Him. But you chose my lie.”

Eli turned and ran.

The cavern twisted, corridors branching like veins. Fires flared and died as he passed. Somewhere far off, wailing rose—an ocean of voices swallowed by fog.

He tripped over stones, scrambled upright, kept running. At last he burst into a clearing where the haze thinned. A bridge of black rock arched across a chasm, leading to a towering gate shrouded in smoke.

A figure stood there: tall, cloaked in white light. Not Malach.

“Help me!” Eli gasped.

The figure regarded him, face hidden by radiance. A voice like many waters spoke.

“Why have you come without the mark of the Lamb?”

“I—I didn’t know—”

“You heard.” The voice was sorrowful, not angry. “But your heart clung to the flatterer.”

Behind him, Malach’s laughter rolled closer.

“Please,” Eli begged. “Isn’t there still time?”

“The hour to believe is bound to breath,” the being said. “This realm records choices, not makes them.”

The gate began to close.

Malach sprang onto the bridge, talons scraping stone. “He’s mine,” the demon snarled. “By his own lips, mine.”

Eli looked from light to shadow. Regret crashed over him, heavier than the cavern walls. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The light receded. The gate sealed with a boom.

Malach seized Eli’s arm.

They plunged downward.

The chasm opened into a plain lit by endless, smoldering fires. Shapes writhed in the gloom—souls, wandering aimlessly, eyes hollow. Some whispered prayers that vanished before leaving their tongues.

“This,” Malach said, spreading clawed hands, “is the In-Between’s heart. Not torment—not yet. Just waiting. Waiting for the Great White Throne.”

Eli sank to his knees. “And after?”

Malach grinned. “After comes the Lake. Unless, of course, you belong to the King. But you don’t.”

He turned, his cloak of shadow swirling, and melted into the fog, leaving Eli alone among the wandering dead.

Far above, on rain-drenched asphalt, Pastor Manny remained with the dwindling crowd. He bowed his head, praying for Brady’s family, for the lost who had watched tonight and scoffed.

In the alley’s darkness, a whisper slithered unheard: Another taken.

The pastor straightened, unsettled, but saw only the empty street.

“The time to choose is the time you breathe.”

Author’s Notes: Some denominations believe (as do I) that Hell is an in-between place—a temporary holding cell, if you will, before the Final Judgment and the Lake of Fire.