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MALPHUS STROLLED OFF , his gait odd and bird-like. I kneeled in the dirt outside a hovel in some nether realm while a red, impish creature was scrubbing the cabin floor with an old cloth after being told that I had recently died. Surely, the second of Satan could give me a moment to absorb all that had recently befallen me.

“Come along, Coachman. Your duties await,” he called over his shoulder. The clearing of the spirits had shown me a wide open space with ashen willows scattered here and there, two outbuildings—one an outhouse and the other a shed—and a rather large stable.

Or perhaps not. Unable to make two and two equal four, I pushed to my boots and found my top hat that had fallen off when I had been flailing about madly to drive back lost souls that were seemingly bound to this space.

Madness was a terrible thing. I would never speak ill of those who had lost their senses again.

“You say I died,” I dared to say as I replaced my hat to fall in behind him. His unpleasant aroma left a wake that I took care to avoid, striding faster to come up beside him. The willows hung limply, their long tendrils the color of sour milk lying listlessly on the lifeless ground.

“I did, yes, burned to death,” he replied. I had to stop. My lungs felt thick with grief. A fire. I recalled no fire. Where? How? “Your soul was unable to be claimed by either my Lord or the others who dwell above. Therefore, it was sent here, purgatory, to join with the mists that linger, awaiting a final judgment.”

“I did not go to Heaven?” He paused just long enough to level a burning glare at me, then motioned to our surroundings. Right, yes, this was not the Heaven Pastor Colfax spoke of every Sunday at the Avers Mill Baptist Church. “Why did I not join the angels?”

“Why do you think, Coachman?” he asked, suddenly seeming to be taking some enjoyment from my dilemma. Which was understandable. He was a hell-spawn.

Had I sinned that greatly? Why had I burned? When did that happen? “What year is it?”

“The same year it was when you were plucked from the heap. Eighteen fourteen.” He walked toward the barn, a massive building that housed a huge ebony coach parked under an awning attached to the stable. The odor of horse and hay reached me. I breathed it in deeply. That smell was a familiar one. I’d worked the stables since I was ten, starting as a lowly stall cleaner and then, over time, moving into being a stable hand and groom. I was now head groom. No, no, I was not. I was now dead. My legs felt unable to hold me up. “Please, if you drop to your knee again, I shall either kick your face in or feed you my cock. Given your proclivities in your former life, that should be a well-known feeling for you.”

My eyes widened. They knew about my attraction to men? How? I had always been discreet.

“How do you know…that I am…”

“An invert?” He chuckled as he reached for his fly. I staggered away from him, wobbly yes, but staying on my feet. “We know all of your secrets, Coachman.” I let my back rest on the rough bark of the willow. Malphus rolled his blood-red eyes. “For a man of your imposing size, you are certainly faint of heart.”

“Pardon me, but I just learned that I died,” I ground out as I patted at my face, sure that I would find it scarred but no malformity was to be felt. It was smooth, or as smooth as normal, given I had not shaved in what felt to be many days.

“Yes, you died. Burned, terribly. You were a horrid mess when you were brought to the coachman’s cabin.”

“Who brought me here?”

“The master.”

Oh. Well, it seems I’d caught Beelzebub’s eye. That was glorious news. “How did he know about my death?”

“He knows all. Now, are you willing to be silent and let me explain what has transpired over the past several weeks, or would you prefer to ask inane questions that will only delay your taking the reins?”

“I thought that only the Lord knew all,” I replied and got a look of utter disdain.

“The rulers of both realms are aware of everything. I understand that your preachers and priests enjoy telling their flocks that only their savior is all-seeing, but that is a fallacy. We know when souls are ready to leave their bodies, which is why you are here now. Your duty to fulfill is to gather the souls that are judged to be ours and take them to the gates of perdition.”

The tree behind me was sturdy. Thankfully. If not for it holding me up, I would have been on my ass yet again.

“Why was I chosen?” A small mote of a spirited drifted past as if seeking someone. I could not feel a breeze, but it seemed there was one. “Where is the coachman who served before me?”

“His tenure expired. It is now your turn. Our master has chosen you. Your knowledge of equines must have been part of his decision. I do not question those above me. I merely serve.” He gave me a pointed look. “Is there anything else you wish to know?”

“Yes, many things! Where was I when I perished? How long have I been here? If this is truly purgatory and all the souls who were banished here cannot leave, how is it that the one who ferries the souls to Hell can push through the shroud? What exactly is the shroud?”

What kind of devilry had brought me back? What sort of dark magic healed my flesh? There was a mountain of questions that needed answers.

He held up a hand with long, long fingers and dark nails. “Your curiosity is not my concern. I am here to show you your job and then set you upon your duties. The very fact that I have given you the time I have suggests that I am in a good mindset on this day. Do not push your luck, Coachman.”

He walked off. My inquisitive mind had always been a problem. Poor lads who forked manure were not supposed to be bright or eager to learn. Only I had been. I’d been taught to read and write and knew how to tend to the books and ledgers, all because of the grace of my great-aunt Hester Martin, the wife of Norman Martin, the owner of the town’s stables. She had never been blessed with children of her own, so when I was orphaned, they welcomed me into their home. Norman for free labor as he cared little for young ones, but Aunt Hester clucked about like an old mother hen, shielding me under her wing from the less-than-kind boys of the well-to-do families.

My knowledge of horses and carriages was what caught the eye of the dark lord. Maybe I should have studied less and played more nine pins on the green. Many had been the time that Norman had taken a switch to me for reading books instead of forking shit. He always claimed that a lad of low birth should only be educated enough to make an X on a sale paper and know how to say “Yes, sir” to his betters. His putting food into my mouth was mentioned daily, more so when he might catch me hidden away in the hay manger with my nose in a novel. Mayhap old Norman had been right. If Aunt Hester had left me uneducated, I’d not be here. Then again…

The whinny of a horse pulled me from my thoughts. I jogged ahead of Malphus, threw open the door of the large stable, and felt my breath catch in my newly healed lungs. In a large stall that rested beside a shining black brougham carriage of the finest make stood a massive steed of pure ebony. The horse was easily seventeen hands, with a flowing black mane and eyes of purest white. He reared up as we entered. I took note that Malphus did not move closer to the horse, unlike me, who walked slowly to the stall, removing my hat so the horse could see me clearly while speaking to him—he was too magnificent and big to not be a stallion—about silly things. Apples, sugar cubes, pretty mares, lush pastures, sweet hay. His ears flicked back and forth as I neared. I now wished I’d have thought to bring those pale carrots from the cabin, but I’d not imagined I would end up here. Dead. Locked in some sickly world between worlds.

“His name is Abyss,” Malphus called from the barn door. “He is yours now to care for and keep groomed. Do not let the pissant creature who will clean your chamber pot anywhere near him, for the horse despises Delmar as much as he dislikes me.”

“Abyss,” I whispered, drawing closer. The horse—even with those unearthly eyes—was the only thing of any comfort I’d discovered since coming awake, naked and alone. I touched his nose. It was soft and warm, solid, not an imagining of a fetid mind. So I was truly here, somehow, and not in the confines of a mental illness, for fever dreams were not flesh and bone. “We shall talk, I think, you and I, of many things that confuse us.”

The horse’s flat ears lifted upright as he sniffed my hand, mouthed my fingers, and then shoved his head against my hand. Maybe if I closed my eyes, this whole nightmare would dissolve, and I would come awake back at the stables with a slight hangover.

“You and he seem to have bonded nicely. That will serve you well. You will know when you’re needed to fetch a soul from the earthly plane, for the summons is unmistakable.” I listened half-heartedly, my mind too cluttered with misery and confusion. “When the call comes, do not tarry, for you are one of the privileged of those who serve our master, and thus that privilege can be revoked if you fail to please our Lord. Take heed when you set out. Abyss is not a normal horse as his speed is impressive.” Did this hellion think I was daft? Even an unschooled man such as I could see that this steed was otherworldly. “He knows where the portal is that will take you to where you have been called. Do your duty well, Coachman, for your time here shall be determined by how well you perform.”

A scoff bubbled out of me. Surely my tenure in the service of the dark lord was not judged by a high job performance. That was a lie. Blatant and crude. Pastor Colfax always spoke of the forked tongue of the Hell dwellers. How they would lie, manipulate, and seduce to lure a man into sin. My emotions were tender, anger and sorrow broiling about inside me. I spun to confront him on his untruth, but all I caught sight of was a black feather tumbling down to the acrid soil. Abyss gave his stall a sound kick. I went back to rubbing his sleek nose, letting my brow come to rest between his eyes. That seemed to please him. How long I stood there with the horse, I cannot say. There seemed to be no day or night here, just the dour gray nothingness. I wept softly for a long time as I mourned the life I had once lived. What would Theo do with me gone? He would be grief-stricken. Theo was a tender heart, a refined male with elegant tastes. The fact he had chosen me from among many who were indeed better-suited lovers had always puzzled me. Could it be due solely to the fact that men of our ilk were few and far between.

Yet, if I were dead, how was it that I was here in this shadow realm, experiencing loss and pain and fear and hunger and thirst? Did a soul that had passed over not require such things as food and drink? Did my stomach snarl because I was not heaven-bound?

Confusion warred with misery. I went to my knees, my cheek scrubbing the stall door, the smell of horse dung and cheerlessness thick in my nose. There I kneeled as if in prayer, brow to a rough wooden gate, asking the Almighty what I had done to deserve such a fate. A debt owed from a pact with my father. Another untruth, I was sure. Unless Lucifer truly did know of my lineage…

“Whatever is the point of living a good life if one is to be plucked from his body as if his soul were a loose thread in a tapestry and then dropped into a wastebin of existence?” I asked Abyss who, it seemed, enjoyed chewing on ascots, for mine had been left sodden. It mattered not. Given how much succor he had given me, his spittle on my tie was fair recompense.

I stayed there in the stable for many hours, moving from my sore knees to my ass, the shuffling of Abyss the only sound that soothed me. Outside, the whispering spirits whirled past, spinning up and around. A waltz of lost souls. My heart ached for them, for me, for my great-aunt. I cried, I railed at the ashy sky, and I slept fitfully. My dreams were horrific. Many hours later, who knew how long, I came awake with a shout, drenched in sweat. Gasping, I bowed my head, the lingering nightmare of flames and screams clinging to me as I pushed to my feet. Abyss stuck his head out, his mouth filled with hay, his ears twitching madly.

“My apologies. I did not mean to frighten you,” I said softly as I placed my hand on his neck. The feeling of strong muscles under a sleek black coat instantly calmed me. His chewing was loud in my ear. It eased the grip of the dream slightly. “Bear with me. My life has ended, but not quite. Perhaps that is how the afterlife is. Death then more work, which is not at all how the good pastor described it.”

“Coachman, the carrots is ready! I want to spit boots, but they were on big feet. I wash floor. Is he in the horse box?” Abyss bared his teeth at the imp shouting from the doorway. I gave the horse a final pat before turning to look at the little demon peeking around the stable doorway. “Look at his teeth! They are mean teeth. And his cockery is monstrous!”

“You seem to spend a goodly time discussing cocks,” I said, taking a moment to step over to the carriage and run my hand over the dickey box, or the coachman’s seat. It was a beautiful carriage. I’d never seen one finer, and our little town was a popular stop for people traveling to Boston. I’d seen many grand gigs and phaetons but none that shined in such an otherworldly way. It seemed to hum under my touch as if it, much like Abyss, sensed I was its new handler. But that could not be possible, for a carriage was not alive. Most generally. This new life after death held many mysteries.

“What else should I discuss? Rocks?” Delmar peered inside, his big ears flopping to one side. Abyss squealed as irate horses do. “Ah, his hate for me is big!”

Delmar raced off caterwauling, and Abyss whinnied in a pleased way. I untied my crusty chewed-on cravat, stuffed it in the pocket of my waistcoat, and stood outside the stable, surveying the wasteland that I’d awoken in. The area around the cabin was now free of the spirits, but they moved in waves just on the other side of the ring of willows. With the clearing of the souls, my sight touched a withered garden at the back of the cabin. Oddities upon oddities. What manner of vegetables could grow in a realm with no sun? Did it rain here? The ground was hard-packed and ashen. Yet, the garden sat there, overcome with weeds and brambles. So even in the outreach of Hell weeds existed. That came as no surprise. A few brave souls moved my way, shapeless forms that inched closer. Stepping out of the stable, I made my way to the cottage, unsure if I was hungry or not. My stomach cried out for food, but my heart was too heavy to care if I ate or not. What matter did it make if I were already dead?

But did dead men hunger? Frustration settled on me as the lost souls drew near again. I wished no further interaction with them, but they seemed to seek me out as I made my way to the cabin. With a growl and a warning, they fled back as I opened the door to the shanty I was to call home for who knew how long. Malphus had been little help, if I were to be honest.

Once inside, the whispers disappeared. The spirits returned to swirl around the cabin though, thick gray clouds that moved past the lone window. The fire in the hearth was burning hotly. The soup kettle resting on the table. I eased around the flames, my skin prickling.

“Carrot soup,” Delmar announced as he crawled like a cat to sit atop an old cupboard with no doors, only far uglier than any cat I had ever seen. I peeled off my tailcoat and went to the sink to wash my hands. “Dirty horse hands,” he sing-songed while I washed up with strong lye soap that burned some deep cracks in my fingers. Surely, I was still partially alive, for I felt pain. Or was that the norm for all who dwelled in purgatory? Did not the fine pastor say that torment followed a damned soul to perdition, so mind thy sins and repent?

“Tell me, Delmar,” I said as I dried my hands on my trousers, for there were no towels to wipe them on. “Did you serve under the previous coachman?”

“Yes, he had small cockery,” he replied while picking about inside his ear, his eyes closing as he found the itch he sought.

“I do not need to know that. What I wish to know is if you can tell me about him. Why did he leave?” I sat down with a huff, unsure if I truly wanted to eat what appeared to be a bowl of boiled carrots with some chopped grass thrown in. With deliberate care, I placed my hat on the table and picked up a spoon that lay beside the chipped bowl. I poked at one of the haphazardly sliced carrots. “Is it possible he perished from bad food that was befouled by your dirty hands?”

I looked up. He yanked his finger from his ear and sniffed it. “You are mean too.”

“Yes, Hell is full of mean people. You’re not surprised by this. Are you not a creature of these realms, born in the pits of torture?”

“No. Yes. Still so mean! I work hard for many days for making soup! Mean! Mean!” he shouted after licking the finger that had been in his pointed ear.

I opted not to eat the carrot and weed soup. Maybe if I simply wasted away, Malphus would find my bones, toss them into the fire, and go pluck some other poor bastard from the recently deceased. A wave of unholy fear washed over me as I thought of my bones being charred yet again.

“I will cook from here on,” I announced as I stared up at the little red face glowering down at me. “You may tend to the cleaning. I will handle the carriage repairs and—”

“It never breaks. Never. Always new. No break! Not ever.” Oh. That was helpful. Enchanted with some black magic then. It should have been alarming, but after the past day, little seemed to upset me. “Bad horse all yours. All yours! He kicks and bites. Bit off my tail!”

He reached round to pat his ass. A coin fell from atop the cupboard. He screamed and then dove at it, catching it before it hit the floor, then darted back to his perch to mutter to himself.

“Then you best stay out of the stable. So, what happened to the coachman who came before me?”

“He went away. Malphus kicked in his face, then dragged him to the pits.”

I gaped at the monster picking at his beak-like nose. “Wait.” I sat back to try to digest what I had just heard. “Malphus murdered him?”

“No. Yes. Claw out his eyes, bash in his head. Bang!” He held up a wooden spoon and hammered the top of the cupboard with it, giggling with glee. “Bang. Splat. Head mush. Off to the pits. Pits. Pits. Nasty pits. Filled with mean people.”

“Why would he do that? Does Lucifer himself not pick his coachmen?” I was truly befuddled. Yes, I knew that the minions of Hell were diabolical, but that seemed extreme.

“Great master bid him to. Coachman make bad ride. Bad ride, bash head.” Bang, bang, bang, the spoon went as I stared at the imp.

“And to think that I used to bemoan a lashing with a switch,” I mumbled, my appetite gone completely, not that it had been strong before I sat down.

“No make bad rides. Make good rides you keep head whole,” Delmar told me before lying down to sleep. He cradled the spoon to his chest as his big eyes closed. Within seconds, he was snoring loudly, drool leaking from his mouth.

Bad rides. What did that mean? And how was I to avoid making one when I had no information about what made a good ride? I was growing quite aggravated. My first day of being undead was turning decidedly sour. As I shoved the soup away, a tingle erupted in my chest, a flash of pain like that of eating hot peppers, and it began to grow and grow, the agony flaring outward swiftly. I cried out, grasping my chest, sure that I was suffering from an apoplexy. But if I were dead, was my heart even beating? The pull to leave was enormous. It felt as if I had been harpooned, the shank now piercing my sternum, barbs embedded in flesh, as the hunting line was being reeled in by joyous whalers.

Delmar shot up from his nap, eyes wide, waving his spoon around in a defensive way as I struggled to my boots. He looked down at me and lowered his utensil.

“You are summoned. Go. Go fast, Coachman! Make a good ride. Face too pretty for kicking brain stew.”

Ah, so this was the calling. It was miserable and painful. A calling card asking for my attendance or a chime of some sort would have been pleasant, but my current employers did not deal in pleasantries. As there was no denying the beckoning of my master, I stumbled about, grabbed my hat, tailcoat, and duster, and fumbled my way to the door.

There truly was no peace for the wicked or the weary.