That In-Between Place

Over centuries I’ve visited countless humans, often in their darkest hours. They’re usually alarmed at my presence and react with fear or confusion. I try to remain in the background, but sometimes, a subtle nudge is needed to communicate beyond words.

Reactions vary. Some hide under blankets, wishing me away. Others numb themselves hoping substances can push me out of their reality. But I remain, finding my way in their deepest consciousness. Some seek solace, hoping I might lead them through a portal into paradise. But it doesn’t work that way.

I manifest differently with each person, aiming to be understood. I know the tangled workings of their minds. I don’t prey on their weakness. I try to guide them out of it. But not everyone chooses the path I offer. Some cling to the darkness, following my sinister counterpart. He, lazy as he’s become, often targets those already on the brink of disaster.

Occasionally, he sets his sights on a grander target - someone with potential to pull down, corrupt and destroy while taking others along with him. Many of his marks already have dark seeds sprouting within them. Think of the clergy who misuse their power to harm the innocent, shielded by institutions prioritizing reputation over accountability. Or the preachers who live luxuriously, portraying holiness on camera while indulging in hypocrisy under cover of night behind closed doors. Deceit like this is plentiful and his prey often walks willing into the jaws of darkness, blind to its dangers. I’ve seen too much. I know too much. Young innocent souls drawn to shadows and eventually given over to the darkness. Yes, the devil is often in the details.

Such is the dichotomy of existence. Light cannot exist without darkness nor virtue without vice. It’s an endless cycle, echoing Dicken’s words from The Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness. It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity. It was the season of light, it was the season of darkness. It was the season of hope, it was the winter of despair.” It all inexplicably coexists together.

In my more private moments, I enjoy visiting some of the 19^th century authors I once influenced. They made a difference even if it was a simple whisper from me that sparked their creativity. They still question humanity’s foolhardy ways. They’re not all in the same place, but in my travels, I make a point of stopping by for a few fireside chats. Writers are interesting. Dante envisioned multiple levels of hell. I can neither confirm nor deny his insights, but his musings evoke questions of immortality and a life well lived. Is it possible to attain such a life on Earth or is it merely a series of obstacles, false prophets, hollow hopes and general apathy? I’ve been watching humanity for a very long time.

One of my 19^th century charges was Abigail. A spiritualist with genuine mediumistic abilities. She grew increasingly distant from me as her thirst for knowledge consumed her. Abigail’s intentions were good, but the messages she channeled darkened as a seemingly benevolent spirit revealed its demonic nature. She was well paid for her services, but the money meant nothing to her. In the end, her quest for ultimate knowledge led her to join the spiritual plane of the restless dead. The malevolent spirit controlling her was amassing souls and added Abigail’s to his ever increasing collection. She hanged herself in her attic, seeking answers in death that she couldn’t find in life. I tried to warn her, but she stopped perceiving my presence. I was the symbolic angel on her right, but she was seduced by the great deceiver on her left. Much to my disappointment, I had to let her go. It was her choice, her free will. What was done was done.

She still haunts her home, reliving her death over and over, believing it’s a portal to the other side, a path to the tree of knowledge and happiness. It’s the same old serpent trick. Remember Eden? Humans never seem to learn. Abigail doesn’t realize it’s not a gateway. It’s her first level of hell - a limbo. Perhaps one day she’ll become a vengeful spirit once she realizes she was deceived. For now, she’ll keep climbing onto that chair and into that noose. Watching it pains me.

Then there was Martha, who renamed herself Rowena, after a character from a television series. Rowena was a powerful witch in the show and Martha wanted to become her. I started visiting Martha as soon as she explored the occult. Alienated by her peers and stifled by her parents, she found solace in the dark arts. Her father’s sudden death sparked suspicions within herself, though her new friends dismissed it as mere coincidence. As her mother descended into grief, Martha embraced her new persona, pouring her inheritance into the occult. Her desire for power and revenge led to a Faustian bargain sealed by poison, administered by her own mother possessed by a sinister force. When the devil came to collect, he had no mercy. He’s not about redemption. He seeks to destroy. He’s bent on revenge, filling his kingdom with souls. I couldn’t save her. She was willingly bound to him. She and Abigail now reside in different realms – Martha in hellfire, knowing she sought her fate. And Abigail in an endless loop of her death state.

Bryson is another story entirely—never one of my charges, yet someone I’m compelled to keep tabs on. Born without a soul, he’s a rare anomaly, a void in human form cloaked in corporate benevolence but dangerous to the core. A corporate predator, his enterprises poison water sources, devastate forests, weaken food supplies, and spread disease among wildlife. Every venture he touches brings only harm.

His soul rejected his body at birth, and his mother sensed this, too. She relinquished him immediately. His dead, cold eyes betrayed something profoundly wrong. As he moved through foster care, he thrived academically but left a trail of chaos. People attributed his troubles to the instability of his upbringing. But in each foster home, fires erupted, pets vanished, and other children suffered unexplainable injuries. Bryson felt no empathy, only an empty hunger veiled in human flesh.

He senses my presence whenever I visit and mocks me, fully aware of his invulnerability. He is evil incarnate, incapable of goodness, yet possessing a purpose that even I am powerless to hinder. In him, the devil himself finds a vessel. Bryson may not be indestructible, but he knows his dark powers well—and uses them without constraint.

Now you may wonder who I am. I’ve been called many things: spirit guide, animal spirit, angel and even star being. I adapt to what each person needs. Through one of my charges, I document these encounters. Sara, perceptive but naïve, almost treats me as her muse. I let her stray just enough to find new truths. She records our encounters in her journal:

It was a dark and stormy night – or was it? A restless tension filled the air, mirroring my own turmoil. My mind buzzed with questions about angels, demons and all the in-betweens. Then, suddenly, I woke. The clock read 3:03 AM – the witching hour, caught between worlds.

As I lay there, a white haze began to fill the room. A figure emerged within it, tall and draped in a brown suit. He seemed ancient, but yet familiar., like someone from a forgotten story. A ring glinted on his finger, and his presence was steady, grounding.

Each night, he returned at the same hour, guiding me toward something just beyond understanding. Was he a memory from my past? A shadow of my future self in another life yet to be lived? I sensed he wasn’t here for bargains, but for the truth. Then one night, he didn’t come. Instead, a wolf appeared at the foot of my bed – another form of the guardian, a symbol of loyalty and courage.

His visits taught me that light and darkness are inseparable, that journeys being in mystery and lead us to truth. That night, the wolf watched over me, a new guardian guiding me forward.

Sara’s faith is strong, and her inner light grounds her when she drifts into dark questions. I’m always watching over her. She is my mouthpiece. Her journaling reveals our encounters in ways even I cannot foresee. Some things are preordained. Humanity’s journey is complex and personal, and in all choices, it is wise to keep the divine in mind.

THE END