The Choice
If something sounds too good to be true...
The Choice
Plainsville was built from hard work and sweat. However, the once vibrant town was now in the depths of decay. The mills had once boomed, and the men had garnered large paychecks. They had steel dust in their lungs but walked with pride. When the factories closed the jobs were gone, and the town sagged like an old horse too stubborn to die. Welcome to the rustbelt.
At thirty-one, Harold Whitaker was a product of the ruins. As a freelance blogger he scratched out a living by writing articles few cared to read. His office was the living room of a crumbling house on Elm Street, his company the glow of a laptop and the rasp of his father’s failing lungs.
Sam Whitaker was eighty-four, tough as rusted iron but was breaking down fast. His recliner had molded to his frame, while an oxygen tank hissed at his side. Lung disease had ravaged Sam’s lungs, but Harold kept his dad going by feeding him soup and changed his air canisters. Harold wrote into the night, getting little sleep.
“Don’t waste your life in front of that screen,” Sam croaked one evening. “Life’s out there, even if it’s ugly. Don’t let it pass you by.”
Harold nodded, but his heart sank. Outside, the town was filled with boarded-up windows, shuttered shops, and drunk laughter spilling from dive bars. At home Harold had a purpose, writing and taking care of his father.
Harold was crossing Main Street one evening hoping to get an interview with the mayor about rising taxes. His head was down, half-dreaming about an article on the death of small towns, when the asphalt trembled. A sound like tearing cloth split the night. Then the pavement split open and Harold was swallowed up.
He didn’t hit the ground.
He gently fell into a warm light. It was like morning sunlight filtered through glass. He landed gently on grass, cool and damp beneath his palms.
When he looked up Harold saw paradise, not his old and decaying town.
Meadows stretched forever, impossibly green. A river glittered silver beneath a golden sky. Birds flew in perfect circles overhead. In the distance, castles of marble and glass stood immaculate.
He stared at the magnificent view for several minutes when he realized a woman was standing next to him.
She was beautiful in a way that felt sculpted. Hair the color of molten copper, skin flawless, and she wore a gown that shifted like liquid silver. Her smile was gentle, almost maternal.
“Harold,” she said, her voice like music. “Welcome.”
“What… what is this place?” Harold asked, his eyes wide open in disbelief.
“Home,” she said, offering her hand. “Or it could be.”
He didn’t take it but followed her when she turned toward the castles.
They walked through meadows full of laughter. Young couples strolled hand in hand. Children ran barefoot, their voices chiming in delight. Every face was radiant, each gesture graceful. Harold’s heart swelled against his will. It was exquisite. Perhaps too good to be true?
Suddenly, everything changed.
For a heartbeat, the children were gaunt, their laughter warped into coughing. The couples became gray and hunched, their smiles stretched over rotting teeth. The meadow browned, brittle stalks rising where lush grass had been.
Then, in a blink, all was perfect again.
Harold froze. “What… what was that?”
The woman’s smile didn’t falter. “Doubt,” she said softly. “It fades if you let it.”
She led him into a marble courtyard where music drifted through the air, and people danced in pairs. Harold stopped short.
Among them was Jennifer Pike.
He knew her instantly, sharp eyes, auburn hair with the same laugh he remembered from high school. But Jennifer had died ten years ago. A drug overdose in her twenties. Harold had read the obituary, saw her face in black and white.
Yet here she was, radiant and laughing.
She turned, saw him, and her eyes lit. “Harold! It’s been so long.”
He felt the blood drain from his face. “Jennifer? This is... impossible.”
Her laugh rang like chimes. “Nothing’s impossible here. I was lost, but here nothing is ever wasted.”
For just a moment, her face sagged, hair dulled, and her front teeth were missing. Jennifer resembled a corpse wearing a new dress. Only the coffin was missing. Then she was whole again, glowing with health.
She reached for his hand. Her touch was warm, familiar. “Stay,” she whispered. “You’ll never hurt again. You’ll never lose anyone.”
Harold yanked his hand back, shaking. Around them, the dancers blurred, their beauty unraveling into skeletal husks one moment, glowing youths the next. The music distorted, a death tune played beneath the pleasant melody. The castles in the distance cracked, blackened, then smoothed again like water over stone.
Paradise, pulsating with decomposition. Death.
The woman in silver stepped close. Her smile stretched too wide. “Don’t be afraid, Harold. This is forever. All it costs is your soul.”
“My… soul?”
She nodded gently, as if confirming a simple trade. “You will live here, eternal and unbroken. Free from pain, and loss. Your father will wake tomorrow, strong with his lungs full of natural air. Both of you could walk these fields together.”
Harold’s throat tightened. “And if I refuse?”
Her eyes glittered, hungry. “Then Sam Whitaker dies tonight. In his chair, choking. You will watch his light go out, and you will carry the guilt forever. Why suffer, when bliss is here?”
Jennifer stepped forward, her eyes pleading. “Don’t let him die, Harold. Don’t go back to that dying town. We’re all happy here. Stay.”
But even as she spoke, her face flickered again, flesh drooping, bones pushing through skin. Behind her, the dancers contorted, skeletal hands grasping, teeth clicking in hollow grins before snapping back to youthful beauty.
This was not paradise. It was death.
He thought of his father, Sam’s hand on his shoulder when he was a boy laughing. Sam’s cracked voice singing lullabies when his mother had left. Sam’s words just days ago. “Life’s out there, even if it’s ugly. Don’t let it pass you by.”
Life at times is hard but real.
Harold clenched his fists. “No.”
The woman’s smile faltered. “What did you say?”
“I said no.” His voice trembled, but he stood firm. “I won’t trade my soul. And I won’t let you use my father’s life in this manner.”
The woman’s pretty face peeled away. Beneath it, her skin was ancient and cracked. Jennifer’s laugh twisted into a wail. The dancers shrieked, their perfect faces splitting, rotting.
“You fool,” the woman hissed, her voice now a chorus of thousands. “You choose rot, sorrow, death. You could have had eternity.”
The castles tumbled to the ground, the fields burned, and the sky split open. Harold fell into darkness.
He woke upon Main Street.
The pavement beneath him was solid, the night air heavy. The sinkhole was gone, as if it had never existed.
Harold scrambled to his feet and ran, heart hammering.
When he burst into his house, the lamp still glowed. Sam was in his recliner, chest rising shallow but steady. The oxygen tank was still breathing life into him.
Sam stirred, eyes cloudy but warm. “You look like you’ve seen the devil himself, son.”
I thought it was Heaven, but it was Hell.
Harold dropped to his knees beside him, clutching his hand. Tears streaked down his face. “I’m here, Dad. I’m here.”
Sam frowned. “What happened?”
Harold shook his head, squeezing tighter. “It doesn’t matter.”
Through the window, Plainsville sagged broken and ugly, but genuine.
Harold sat with his father in silence, and for the first time in years, he felt alive.
The End