A Short Stay in Hell

by Steven L. Peck

Strange, how a moment of existence can cut so deeply into our being that while ages pass unnoticed, a brief love can structure and define the very topology of our consciousness ever after.

The first years are the easiest to describe. They were years of adventure, companionship, and love. I have not seen anyone for uncountable years. Yet, even after so long, I still listen for the sound of another’s voice, the ring of footsteps on the stairs, or a figure moving silhouetted in the distance.

Yet I labor on. By my count (which I know is accurate, for my memory in this place, it seems, is incapable of forgetting even the smallest detail) I have climbed innumerable light-years, from the lowest level to this one where I sit with this book in my hands reading of my stay here. It is not the story of my life, so it serves little purpose, but as I read I marvel that I’ve found such a book. It is close to the one I seek.

no single book could contain a number so large that the height and depth of this library could be expressed as a numerical digit. Silly thoughts in this monotonous place are inevitable I suppose.

One book I found not long ago was full of random characters except for pages 111 to 222, wherein I found an exposition that speculated that God had created the universe as a way of sorting through the great library, finding those books that were most beautiful and meaningful. It argued that in the mere sixteen billion years of my old universe’s existence, a vast store of great thought and literature had been produced during the short creative life of human existence on the planet. The work entertained the notion that evolution was the most effective sorting algorithm for finding the subsets of coherent and readable books that are scattered thinly throughout the randomness of the library. The argument took on special meaning to me because it had been almost 160 billion years since I had found such a long string of coherent text.

The Demon looked on quizzically. “You were a Christian then?” “Yes. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve been saved,” the man shouted, though with waning bravado. “Well, there’s your problem. You didn’t join the one true religion.” “What? I’m telling you, I was a Christian. I read the Bible every day. I donated money to the TV evangelists every Sunday. And I was saved.” “No. Sorry. The true religion is Zoroastrianism, I’m afraid. Bit of bad luck there. Christianity certainly borrowed a great deal from the one true religion, but not enough, unfortunately. Not nearly enough.”

“Zoroastrianism? Oh, there’s never been but a few hundred thousand of them at any one time, mostly located in Iran and India, but that’s it. The one true faith. If you’re not a Zoroastrian, I’m afraid you are bound for Hell.” The man looked stunned and shocked. “It’s not fair.” The demon gave a mirthful laugh. “Well, it was fair when you were sending all the Chinese to Hell who had never heard of Jesus. Wasn’t it? And what a cruel and vicious Hell it was. And your Hell was not our short little correct-you-a-little Hell. This was eternal damnation. At least in the true Zoroastrianism system you eventually get out of Hell. Do you have any idea how long eternity is? My heavens, what an imagination you humans have. What kind of God would leave you burning forever?

Hell is for your edification and wisdom. Punishment? Yes. But not forever.” “So those people will get out?” the woman continued, pointing shakily to those in agony outside the window. The demon considered for a moment. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this … well, no harm’s done, I’ve never really agreed with the policy anyway … but that’s all just make-believe. We keep the office windows showing that scene just to get the new arrivals to take things seriously. Those are all actors. They get off in about a half hour. So … anyway, we’d better push on.”

The demon was ignoring his tantrum. He began tapping his handheld device. “No … no, that’s not it, no, no … maybe, no, ah! No, I shouldn’t, but … no, that’s too cruel … I really shouldn’t.” Suddenly he gave a chuckle and sighed. “Oh, why not? The Great God created irony too.” Lester by this time was screaming at the top of his lungs about the injustice of it all. “Injustice?” queried the demon sarcastically. “You were never concerned with justice a day in your life except when it was in your favor. Bye.” With a tap of his claw to the rectangle the man disappeared briskly in mid-outrage, leaving the room in cold silence.

“I thought demons were under the control of Satan? Sort of the dark side of the Force.” “Why don’t I ever get the people who have studied a little Zoroastrianism here?” he said, shaking his head sadly. “No, that’s Christian. Ahriman has rebelled against God, but in charge of Hell? Heavens, no. How can you think God would let something like Hell exist if He’s really in charge of the universe? Sheesh. Running a Hell is an art of such imagination and brilliance, how could anyone but the Wise God of Judgment be in charge?”

Now, what Hell for you? Let’s see, you liked to read … in fact it seems you loved books. Interesting.” Suddenly the demon looked up. “Bye.” And so it began.

Could I pray my way out of Hell? Who was I praying to now? The God I believed in was a kind, wise Heavenly Father who loved me and sent His son to redeem me. He had an eternal plan, which would end in my deification if I lived according to the commandments and obtained the proper ordinances here in this life. I was supposed to go to a spirit world to share the gospel with other dead spirits until the resurrection. I would then go to the Celestial Kingdom and live with my wife forever – becoming a God like my Heavenly Father and continuing His work of redeeming the uncreated intelligences that filled the universe. This Hell did not fit anywhere in my belief system.

At six a.m. – and I knew it was six o’clock because there was a large (almost two meters in diameter) round clock near me on the wall, like a giant version of the kind that hung above my elementary school teacher’s desk, and underneath it was a digital readout that said, “Year 0000000, Day 2”

On every floor were rows upon rows of books. Millions of them (you will see soon what a terrible underestimate this is). It struck me as nothing so much as a prison block with books arranged on shelves on each floor rather than jail cells.

People were scattered everywhere on both sides of the abyss, some standing, staring blankly, others walking in a daze, some weeping uncontrollably, some kneeling in desperate prayer as I had done last night. Everyone looked as stunned and frightened as I felt. No one looked interested in talking, and everyone seemed as preoccupied as I was with trying to understand this strange afterlife into which we had unexpectedly been tossed.

When you are ready to leave, find the book describing your earthly life story (without errors, e.g., in spelling, grammar, etc.) and submit the story through the slot below this sign. If the story is accepted, you will be admitted into a glorious heaven filled with wonders and joys beyond your imagination. During your stay you may be interested in reading a book on Zoroastrianism. By special arrangement, there is one on every floor. The other books are randomized.

Please be kind. Treat others as you would like to be treated. Failure to do this will bring unhappiness and misery to you and your fellow citizens.

Do not get discouraged. Remember nothing lasts forever. Someday this will be a distant memory.

All contracts, bonds, commitments, covenants, pledges, and promises entered into prior to your entering Hell are null and void. This includes, but is not limited to: debt, marriage, natural births and adoptions, requirements of citizenship, military obligations, student loans, etc.

Remember you are never really alone. Although it may feel like it for very long stretches of time.

Lastly, you are here to learn something. Don’t try to figure out what it is. This can be frustrating and unproductive.

We hope you enjoy your stay here. We have done all we can to make your stay a pleasant and instructive one.

I found I could recall every detail of my life; every event ever experienced I could remember with perfect clarity. I could remember every word on every page I’d ever read. Every conversation. Every tax form I’d ever filled out. I could reconstruct every second of every day I’d been alive from the moment of my birth until the day I finally shut my eyes at the end.

(This was to be the greatest curse of Hell. Sometimes I would replay my entire life again and again for thousands of years. Remembering all the things I could have done differently, all the things … no. I won’t go there now. I must tell this story.)

I’m still a little surprised to find myself here. But it’s all so real. There’s a sense of actuality that I just can’t dismiss.

I looked at my companion, and tears were running down his face. It took me a minute to realize I was crying too. She looked up and soon we found ourselves in a group hug bawling furiously. We looked at one another, all strangers, all lost and alone, and the absurdity of our situation struck us. We all suddenly burst into an awkward laughter that just as quickly melted into sobs again.

There is a bottom. But “forever” would have been a better word. “Forever and ever” would hardly have described it. “Infinity” is even too small a word to describe the vastness of the distance to the bottom. But I’ve stood upon the bottom floor. The human mind cannot comprehend what it took to reach, but I’ve been there.)

“When I was looking at these, I was thinking about a lifetime spent reading great works of literature. Now I get it – this is Hell; an eternity surrounded by books, but they’re all nonsense.” She gave a sarcastic laugh and heaved the book over the railing.

I have to admit I found a certain strange pleasure in heaving books over the side. It was a feeling akin to popping bubble-wrap. Taking a book of nonsense, tossing it over the rail, and watching it until it disappeared flapping wildly into the oblivion below gave me a strange satisfaction, a small sense of purpose. Only Biscuit refrained from helping the general effort to clean the shelves. He just sat there smiling, shaking his head.

the basic idea from Borges’s story is that the library contains every possible book. So somewhere in here is a book of all A’s, a book of all periods, or a book of semicolons, or B’s. Any letter. There’s a book that alternates A’s and B’s for its entire length, but most books are just a random collection of symbols.”

every book ever written is there. And every book ever written is there backwards.”

“War and Peace would be in multiple volumes.” “With blank pages after it ended, completing the last volume,” added the woman standing next to me. “Or with the life story of Leo Tolstoy at the end,” added another woman. “Both,” said Biscuit. “There’s even one with the history of Leo Tolstoy’s nose hair completing the volume. But most are going to be pure and utter nonsense – random characters, with no order. Mostly nonsense.”

“There’s a second-by-second account of our lives, probably in multiple volumes, a minute-by-minute account, an hour-by-hour, a day-by-day. There’s one that covers the events of our lives as viewed by our mothers, one by our fathers, one by our neighbors, one by our dogs. There must be thousands of our biographies here. Which one do they want, I wonder?” Everyone seemed stunned, thinking about the different volumes in the library. “You mean there’s a biography of everything and everyone in this library. There’s even a biography of the guppies in my fish tank?” “Yes. Anything that can be written is there. The history of your big toe as viewed from the perspective of your shoe is there. Anything you can imagine, anything you can picture being written is here is this library.” Biscuit seemed to be astonishing even himself.

I remember my own father, a real man of the house, someone who knew what it was to be a man. He radiated confidence. I never felt like that. I felt as if I were an imposter all the time I was raising my kids. I felt lost and helpless. I was flying by the seat of my pants, always with a feeling I was not doing things right. Compared to my own father, I seemed completely clueless. My dad was still living when I died. I hope he ends up in a nice Hell. A nice Hell. I laughed at the thought. This wasn’t a bad place. It seemed like a tedious Hell, but there was plenty to eat, good company, and it sounded like after a while we would eventually get out.

Biscuit started dancing and shouting with joy. He called us over and we all looked in envy when he showed us he had found something that made sense. It was the phrase “sack it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said through his tears, “it’s just that …” He broke off, then said, “When I was alive, I …” Finally, after another bout of weeping, he steadied himself, laughed at himself, and started again. “When I was alive on earth, as you know, I was homeless and chronically mentally ill. I had an old green army laundry bag that I carried everything in. It was a sack that held everything I owned. A couple of times at night I’ve woken up reaching for it like I used to. It was my most prized possession. I carried that sack for twenty-three years, until one day the bottom fell out. I couldn’t let it go even then. I hitchhiked to the Vietnam memorial and placed it on the monument right above a friend’s name.”

“I was in the South Pacific in WWII. If you ask me that was more of a Hell than this giant bookshelf.”

Biscuit, though, took it as a sign that all would be well. And Dolores as a sign of comfort and hope. To be honest, I thought it was just a random word, but I didn’t say anything to the others. They seemed particularly moved by Biscuit’s story. He held on to the book all that day and took it to bed with him that night. Sure enough, because he’d held on to it, the book wasn’t returned to its place on the shelf in the morning. It was still in his arms when he woke up. All the rest of the week he carried it with him, much like the sack he once loved so much.

Being a Mormon, I had never even tasted coffee, let alone drunk a whole cupful. How could that matter now? Zoroastrianism had been shown true, and I was in a Hell that had no prohibitions against it. Still, it was hard. Lifelong habits are not easily broken. Keeping the Word of Wisdom, as we Mormons called our health code, had always been taken as a sign of my righteousness, my worthiness to attend the holy temple, and to participate fully in the church. Even here in Hell, after a lifetime of keeping the Word of Wisdom, I was having an ugly time deciding whether to try a cup.

I finished the cup, but I felt like I had betrayed something deep within me. Only a little over a week in Hell and I had abandoned a lifelong belief. What if this was just some sort of trial God had arranged to test my backbone? What if this Hell was really all a ruse concocted by God to see what I was made of? But no, there was something real and final about this Hell. I can’t describe it, but there was a deep sense that this was more real than anything I had experienced on earth. The difference in the quality of consciousness between dreaming and being awake was close to the difference between our old earth life and the one there. This reality carried with it a profound sense of itself – a deep sense that this Hell was indeed just what it seemed to be. There was a truth in it that denied second-guessing.

Despite this perception of reality, I felt strangely myself as well. I was still the Mormon, still the geologist, still as curious; I still loved my wife and missed my children terribly. I thought about them all the time and wondered what they were doing right then.

So I ran. I ran for a little over three hours. (The strange thing in Hell is, you always know what time it is. The great clocks are always visible.)

I walked back out and held what I would learn to call the usual conversation. Who I was. Where I had lived my life. What wonderful things I had accomplished. The things that had been left undone. Who I missed and what I should have done differently and, finally, how I died.

I began to think how strange it seemed that I never met a single person of color. Not an Asian, not a black person, not a Hispanic, not anything but a sea of white American Caucasians. Was there no diversity in Hell? What did this endless repetition of sameness and of uniformity in people and surroundings mean?

In the third week I quit. I felt like this was purposeless. There seemed to be no end. What if there wasn’t an end? What if Dolores was right? What if there was an infinite number of books, what if there really was no end? Suddenly, I missed my new friends. I had only known them a little over a week, but I’d formed a bond with them and, out here, I had not met anyone else I’d become so attached to. I wanted to see them and talk to them. I wanted to hear Biscuit talk about his sack. I wanted to listen to Larisa laugh.