Getting Better

Content Note: Death, grief, psychological manipulation, and implied violence.

John’s world was crumbling. For three weeks he would come home every night, hoping she would be there, only to be met with a house that no longer held any purpose.

He first heard what had happened by listening to the news one morning. “A major accident happened twenty minutes ago on Route 89 near Yellowbrook Road. A tour bus was found crashed at the bottom of a two-hundred-foot cliff. It seemed to have lost control on the road and drove straight through the guardrail. Police are still searching the site for any survivors.”

John was standing next to the radio in his kitchen. His legs began to lose their feeling and he fell into a chair. His wife led history tours, and her bus regularly traveled in that area. Was it her bus? Maybe someone else was leading the tour that morning.

He picked up the landline, his fingers trembling. He dialed his wife’s work number and waited.

After three rings, a hoarse voice answered. “Hello? Who’s calling?”

“It’s John Yeomans,” he said, his voice barely there.

There was a sob on the other line. John gripped the phone, his eyes wide.

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry!”

It was as if he had been shot. His body lost all its strength and he slumped over.

The woman on the phone began to cry. “John, I’m so, so sorry! Amber was scheduled to be on that bus this morning, and—and I don’t know what happened! I think the driver lost control of the wheel or got distracted by something—”

John hung up the phone and squeezed his eyes shut.

The three weeks since that call were nothing but a waking nightmare.

John stared across the dimly-lit table at his seventeen-year-old son. He hated himself for being so cold to him. He knew Marty felt just as dead as he did, but there was nothing that motivated him to provide any comfort. He felt empty.

John didn’t spend much time at home anymore. He would bring food for him and his son, and they would eat dinner together in silence, but then John would leave, sometimes for the whole night. He knew he was being a terrible father, but he kept telling Marty that things would get better soon.

“I’m sorry, Marty,” said John. He pushed his chair back and got up from the table. His Chinese takeout was only half-eaten. He tried to put on a smile, but didn’t know if what was forming on his face felt like one.

His son didn’t say a word. His eyes met his father’s for a second. They were red behind his smudged glasses, but there were no tears. John wondered if he too was approaching indifference to life.

John cleared his throat. “It won’t always be like this,” he lied. Marty continued to stare at him. He didn’t even nod. John searched his son’s eyes. Was there any love there? He hated it, but he was OK if there wasn’t. Not much mattered to him anymore.

Their eye contact slipped away as Marty stood up and walked to the stairs, up to his room. John watched him go, trying to think of the last time they spoke. He wished he cared. He left his coat on the rack and stepped out of the house.

John sipped a negroni at the bar in Stu’s Pub. It was where he had met her. He was lonely back then. Evidently, so was she. John had seen her sit down on the stool beside him. Her long, dirty blonde hair was held together in a ponytail halfway down her back, and as their eyes met, he noticed hers were a beautiful shade of russet brown.

Even though he swore his smile was what started their chemistry, she always claimed to have made the first move.

“Well, I never thought I’d meet Robert Redford in this dingy place,” she said, giving John a sly wink.

He smirked. “Oh yeah? Point him out for me. He still owes me money.”

She laughed. It was a laugh he had instantly fallen in love with. It made him feel like he was a millionaire—that nothing in life could ever keep him down. He craved it.

She leaned over the bar and grinned. “Wow, mister, sounds like you mean business.”

“Only sometimes. Right now I’m on a little break.” He offered his hand. “I’m John. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

She placed her hand in his, sending a current from there to his stomach.

“I’m Amber.”

Present-day John opened his watery eyes and took another sip. Even though he cherished the memories, remembering what life was like with her made living without her that much harder.

An older, hunched man sat down at his right and ordered a drink. John gave him a weak smile and tugged out his wallet. He pulled out a twenty and was about to lay it on the bar and leave when he saw her photograph. He pulled it out of his wallet. Even though he had looked at this photo at least six times that day, he gazed at it like it was the first time he’d seen it. It was a picture of his wife, taken nineteen years ago, just seconds before he proposed.

John gazed at it with tears swelling up in his eyes. She was so beautiful. He remembered the long talks they would have about all there was to experience together: starting a home, having children, getting grandchildren, growing old together…

Tears came streaking down his face. He couldn’t take it anymore. John got up to leave, but someone grabbed him. “Don’t go,” said a man’s voice. He looked to see the man next to him gripping his arm.

“Wha-?”

The man looked at him. He had pale, milky blue eyes and wore a gray wool jacket. “John,” he whispered.

John looked into his face. It was slightly distorted: his cheeks were droopy and his left eye was fixed pointing upward.

“Who are you?” asked John. His voice was shaky.

“John, do you want to see her again?”

“What?” He yanked his arm back. “Of course I want to see her again.” He glared at him. The old man probably saw him crying over the picture, so he likely understood that his wife was dead. Then why would he ask such a stupid question?

“Please listen,” said the man. “You can see her again.”

John felt rage boil up. He raised his voice. “What’s your problem? I’m never going to see her again. I don’t believe in an afterlife. She's gone.”

“But your wife is not dead.”

Before John could smack him, the old man held something in front of his face. It was a letter. John recognized the handwriting; tight and loopy, just like Amber’s. He slowly picked it up.

John,

It may be hard to believe, but I am still alive. They rescued me from the crash. And more than that. They rescued me from this world. And they can rescue you, too.

There’s something you need to see, John. Please go with Albert. I want to be with you again, and this is the only way. We had a good life together, but there’s a new life for us where I am now, a life that’s better than anything the world can offer. Please come. I need you.

So much love,

Amber

John stared at the letter in disbelief. He flipped it over. On the back, in the same loopy script, was one name: Tabitha Ruby.

His mouth went dry. The letter was enough, but the name on the back was what really turned his world upside-down.

“John,” said the old man softly. “The name on the back. Whose is it?”

John didn't look up. He kept staring at the name. “It’s...the name we would have used if we ever had a daughter.” He swallowed. “We always wanted a girl, and...we tried, but nothing worked after we had Marty. I don’t understand.” He looked up at the man. “We never told this to anyone. How did—”

“But you already know!” His pale eyes were shining. “If your wife was the only one who knew that name, who else could have written that letter but her?”

John didn’t know what to think. The old man leaned in close. “Listen. She’s still alive, and she’s with us.”

John looked at him, new tears brimming in his eyes. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice quivering. “Please.”

The old man shook his head. “You have my word. She’s alive and well, and we’ve given her a life that not many in this world will ever experience. Let me take you to her. Tonight.”

He stood and walked to the pub’s door. John watched him. Was Amber truly still alive? If she was, where was she? And who were the people that saved her? Could he trust this man? Maybe. Maybe not. If nothing else, he knew he could trust the letter. Or at least, he needed to trust it. He needed to be with Amber again.

John followed the man out the door.

“I’m glad to see you making this choice, John,” said the old man. He led John past the dark parking lot of the pub and onto a sidewalk.

The night was cold and clear. Stars shone bright in the cloudless sky. John walked next to him, his heart pounding. “Where are we going?”

The old man hummed. “You’ll see soon enough.” They continued walking through the cold night. John wished he hadn’t left his coat on the rack back home. After five minutes the old man led John down an alley between two shops.

Halfway down the alley, the man stopped. He turned to look at John. “This is where we leave each other for the time being. But soon you will awake in the place you need to be.”

John sensed something move behind him. “Hey! Wait—” As he spun around, something huge and heavy smashed into him, knocking him to the ground. Before he could get back up, he was flattened by whoever had tackled him. John thrashed as hard as he could. “Help! Someone! Help—” But he was muffled by hands covering his face with a cloth.

John felt his consciousness drifting, and then everything slipped away.

The floor was hard and cold. John rolled onto his back and groaned. His hip felt bruised. As he shifted, he realized he wasn’t wearing any clothes. He opened his eyes.

He was in a large, round room, about one thousand square feet in area. The floor was elevated around its perimeter, and eight evenly-dispersed doors stood against the walls. The ceiling was high, and the recessed lights were dim. White paint peeled off the walls, and the floor’s tiling was chipped and dirty. A silverfish scuttled into a crack at the bottom of a wall.

John scanned the room and saw that he was completely alone save for a bundle of cloth laying in front of him. He crawled to it on his knees.

John picked it up and immediately recoiled. Underneath it on the floor was a large red stain.

“Blood?” whispered John. He stood up and backed away from the dried bloodstain.

He unfolded the cloth to reveal a hooded robe. It was dyed black around the legs and waist, and white for the upper body. Seeing it made John realize how scared he was. Any hope he had that Amber was still alive slipped away the second his kidnapping began. Now, staring at the robe, he wondered where his kidnappers were and what they were about to do to him. All he knew for sure was that he was naked and wanted something to feel less exposed.

He put the robe on, but was filled with dread as he did so. They wanted him to put it on. He was doing what they wanted.

He looked around the room. No one was there. All the doors were closed. One of them had to be an exit. He listened for any movement. Silence. His heart was thrashing against his chest.

John took a deep breath and moved toward a door.

A noise behind him made all the blood drain from his face. He whipped his head around. Two of the doors behind him flung open, and two figures emerged, wearing the same robes as he was wearing. But instead of just black and white, their robes had an additional element: dark red blood was smeared across their middles, separating the black and white.

While he eyed them, he heard steps echoing throughout the round room. His head shot back around and he saw more robed people entering the room.

John gave a yelp of surprise. The lights had been turned up in the room; they blinded him for a second. Blinking back the imprints of the harsh light, John tried to distance himself from all the figures surrounding him. They weren’t approaching; they were just standing around the raised perimeter of the room. He counted twelve of them, all cloaked with their hoods on, all with the same blood stain around the middle. He wished he had a weapon.

A short, hunched man took a step forward and removed his hood. John recognized him as the old man from before. The letter from the bar said his name was Albert.

The man raised his arms. “Brethren, we come together tonight as one being. With the knowledge imparted to us, we have been chosen to restore this broken world.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

“And tonight, we have found a new member. Let us impart to him the same knowledge that we ourselves have received.” The old man moved aside to let another person forward. This person took off their hood, and John saw that he shared the same pale blue eyes as Albert. He was carrying a bowl of liquid and began to walk straight toward John.

Instinct kicked in. John broke into a run, aiming for a door blocked by only two men, but he was grabbed by a strong pair of hands. “Let me go!” he screamed. He struggled as the man with the bowl approached. He tried to break free, but it didn’t seem possible. The strong hands forced his head back, and the other man brought the bowl to John’s mouth. He screamed as it poured over his lips and his face, tasting like a mixture of urine and vodka.

The man with the bowl backed away and returned to stand beside Arnold. John sputtered, helpless in the hands of his captor. When he caught his breath, he glared up at Arnold.

“You promised me I’d see my wife!” he screamed. “What did you lie to me for? Where am I?”

Arnold smiled. “I have been true to my word, John Yeomans.” He motioned to the person standing next to him.

The hood came off, and when John saw who it was, he crumpled to the floor. He couldn’t believe it. “Amber,” he moaned.

His wife stepped down from the platform. She had the same dirty blonde hair and the same face that John knew and loved. “John,” she said with a sad smile. “You came for me.”

John stumbled to his feet and limped toward her. “Baby,” he croaked. “Of course I did. I can’t live without—” but he froze when he reached her. Horror coursed through his body. Her eyes, unlike their usual russet brown, were now a pale, milky blue. He tripped backwards.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, taking another step forward. Others in the room started to take their hoods off. John looked frantically and saw that each one had the same pair of pale, blue eyes.

“God!” he screamed.

“John!” yelled Amber. “You need to understand! I was worse than dead when they found me! These people gave me a new life. A better life.”

“This is a better life?” cried John. “How can you say that? We had the perfect life together!”

Amber shook her head. “They opened my eyes, John. They showed me the truth.” She held out her hand. “And they’ll show it to you, too.”

John looked into his wife’s eyes and sobbed. He missed her so much and would give anything to be back with her.

He wanted nothing more than to be with his wife.

But this was not his wife.

John spun around and shoved the guard behind him to the ground. Amber screamed. “Grab him!” John plowed down two more men, until a fist rammed into his stomach.

John doubled over. Need to get up, need to get out—but there were too many hands grabbing him. They dragged him to the center of the room, right over the dried blood on the floor.

He was too weak to do anything.

“Now,” came the voice of Albert. “We shall begin the ritual. You will see soon enough, John.”

Marty woke up to a knock on the door. He checked his alarm clock. 1:00AM. He ignored it.

Then another knock. A voice carried up to his room: “—lost my keys. Marty, can you let me in?” It was his dad. Marty put on his glasses and slumped out of bed. He turned on the light and trudged down the stairs.

His dad knocked again. “Marty, it’s me. Can you let me in? I lost my keys somewhere.”

“Yeah, I got it.” He opened the door.

His dad stood on the threshold in the darkness.

“Dad. What are you wearing?”

He had on a strange robe: half black, half white, and an unsettling smear of what looked like blood in the middle.

“Marty.”

He looked into his dad’s eyes. Marty’s heart began to pound. They weren’t his usual green. They were pale and blue.

“I told you things were going to get better.”