Homesick for Heaven

He tightened his tie at the front desk and, realizing that he was sweating, used his suit’s sleeve to soak up his forehead. He could feel drops of water falling down his sides. He felt like crap.

“I’m with Mr. Cedar,” Warren told the man at the front desk.

The man’s eyes lit up, and he nodded.

“Yes! Sir Cedar is expecting you! Please, come this way!”

Warren was led to the back of the restaurant, to a lavish booth beside a full window, which held a magnificent view of the restaurant’s back garden. Brilliantly colored flowers were in full bloom around statues of naked angels, ashamed of their indecency.

“Mr. Newbury, I presume,” said Mr. Cedar. He arose from his seat and extended his hand. He was a slender man with a thin, but healthy looking face. He had the awkward but handsome appeal of a mannequin, smooth and sexless.

Warren wiped his damp hand dry against his pant and shook hands with Mr. Cedar.

“Mr. Cedar, it’s nice to meet you.”

Mr. Cedar smiled and with a wave of his hand beckoned Warren to sit.

“What do you drink?” Mr. Cedar asked.

Warren placed his hands flat against the table, and shook his head, raising his fingers up as he did. “No, I don’t drink. Thank you, though.”

“Nothing? I’ll order you anything you’d like.”

“I don’t drink,” Warren said. “It’s nothing personal.”

“I understand,” Mr. Cedar said, which such confidence that Warren actually believed that Mr. Cedar understood his reasons for not drinking. This made Warren feel more unnerved.

He took attention away from his trembling fingers by reaching for the menu. He opened it up and scanned the appetizers. None of the dishes had prices next to their names. Warren folded the menu closed and placed it on the table.

“I hear you like to mountain climb,” Mr. Cedar said.

Warren’s head tilted to a side. “Who told you that?” he asked.

“No one. I just did my research on you to make sure you were the right man for the job.”

Warren grunted a sound which may have been a word and said, “I actually don’t climb anymore. I haven’t in awhile.”

“Yes,” Mr. Cedar said. His voice was low and sympathetic.

“Mr. Cedar, if you don’t mind, could we just get down to business?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Cedar said. He paused while a waiter walked over to the table. Warren nervously smiled and waved his hand as the waiter awaited his order.

“I’m fine, really,” Warren said.

Mr. Cedar ordered a plate of angel hair pasta in a lobster sauce, and two sparkling waters.

“Right away, sirs.” The waiter left.

“Down to business, is it? Good. I like that about you, Warren. You’re all about business,” Mr. Cedar said.

“You have to be in my line of work, or else you’d starve,” Warren said. He laughed nervously.

Mr. Cedar shook his head. “Nonsense! I’m sure your pay offs are very ample! And of all the people I’ve checked, you seem the most qualified for the position.”

“I’m very good at what I do, sir,” Warren said.

“Cedar, Mr. Newbury. You can just call me Cedar.”

“Uh.. Yes, Cedar,” Warren said. The name felt awkward coming out of his mouth. He wondered what Cedar’s first name was. He didn’t feel brave enough to ask.

“I need you to find something for me,” Cedar said.

Warren took a small note pad out of his coat pocket and readied his pen.

“It’s a photograph.”

Warren didn’t write anything.

In his line of work, Warren searched for dozens of things, ranging from people to automobiles to books. But photographs were different. They came from negatives, and were able to be reproduced countless times.

“A..er... photograph?” Warren asked. He scribbled a word onto his note pad.

“That’s right. A photograph. It’s a very rare one, too. You wouldn’t be able to read up on it on the net or anything like that. The print is old, dating back to 1842. Do you know how they made photos back then?”

Warren’s head shook.

“They took plates of silver coated copper and exposed them to iodine. Then they coated the plate with mercury, giving it a mirror-like appearance. The image that the plate caught was transferred onto the metal. It was sort of like a mirror which kept hold of its reflection.

“The photograph is called ‘Directus Caelum.’ I believe the print is floating somewhere around this city.” Mr. Cedar leaned over the table, coming very close to Warren. “I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars up front. Upon delivery of the print, I’ll pay two hundred thousand more.”

Warren’s head suddenly felt very light. He gulped down the saliva that had accumulated in his mouth and scribbled some more words onto his note pad.

“Fifty thousand up front?” he muttered.

“Fifty up front,” Mr. Cedar assured. “I know you’re good for it, Mr. Newbury. And I know you need the money.”

Mr. Cedar reached beneath the table and produced an old text. The cover was worn and the words which were once printed on the leather had faded away. The pages emitted a strong aroma of old paper.

“Everything you need to know about the photo is in here. You won’t read about it anywhere else.” He took a bulging manila envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Warren. Warren took it in his hand and felt its weight. Fifty thousand dollars felt much heavier than he expected it to.

“You know my information, Mr. Newbury. Keep in touch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and one more detail. Do you have a gun?”

“No, sir,” Warren said.

“You should definitely invest in one, then,” Mr. Cedar said.

“Okay.”

Warren found himself rising from his seat, shaking hands with Mr. Cedar and walking away, just as the waiter brought a plate of pasta to the table.

“Best of luck to you, Mr. Newbury. Don’t disappoint.”

Warren walked back home. He could feel the envelope hanging heavily in his coat pocket, digging into his ribs like a knife. He walked hunched over his coat, with his arm crossed against his coat. People watching him on the streets thought the worse of him.

He locked his apartment door, and bolted the door and latched the chain. Then he slid his living room chair under the door knob. Warren tossed the envelope onto his kitchen table. The money spilt out of it, layers and layers of twenties, all bound together in wads of a thousand by strips of paper. Fifty thousand dollar’s worth. Months worth of hard work, all in that envelope and just for him showing up and meeting with a man he’d never met before.

Warren hid the money in his pillow, and then drew a warm bath. That’s what he needed, he decided, since he was still feeling very light headed.

Something had happened. Warren wasn’t exactly sure what it was. The moment he took the money from Mr. Cedar, he suddenly felt very oily and despicable. His body submerged into the rushing hot water. Dirt and sweat came off his body and floated to the surface of the bath water. He hadn’t gone out that day prior to his appointment.

Things were happening in Warren’s stomach. He could feel liquids gurgling and popping, and feel acids burning and stinging. There was something about Mr. Cedar that Warren didn’t like, but he wasn’t able to pin point what it was. Perhaps it was Mr. Cedar’s blue eyes, which were glossy and sad, or maybe it was the way he smiled with these sad eyes, his mouth hung crooked and questionable.

Mr. Cedar was a business man. Warren rarely dealt with business men. They knew how to talk and how to make gestures to put their clients and the people they work for at ease. Warren didn’t like that. He liked everything up front, whether it be cash or emotion.

“Fifty grand up front,” Warren muttered to himself. He still couldn’t believe it.

“That crazy son of a bitch.”

Successful business men aren’t stupid. Business men who eat at Luciano’s are successful. After Warren dried himself off, he ran a few searches on Mr. Cedar, and reviewed the e-mail Mr. Cedar sent him the day prior. Warren was unable to conclude what Cedar’s first name was, and all internet searches for him and the picture he sought came up empty.

Warren then changed the words in his search.

“Revolver.”

He wasn’t sure why Mr. Cedar had asked him to purchase a gun, but the suggestion was branded in Warren’s head. Mafia, he thought. Cedar was definitely some sort of mafia member. That would explain the large amounts of bills, and those sad eyes and smiling mouth.

At a few minutes to midnight, Warren crawled into bed with the book. He flipped it open and began to absorb its content. The book was old and it read like a 1980’s VCR manual. Warren had a hard time making it past the first page. The more he read, and the more he didn’t understand what was written, the heavier his eye lids grew.

Of the mess of words before him, Warren could only remember two; Keeper and Gamwell.

Warren was thankful for having a heavy workload set out in front of him, and for being tired. Work and sleep were the only two things left that could distract him from what had happened.

He fell asleep five minutes after opening the book, with its pages resting against his chest. Like clockwork, he had his nightmares. They haunted him every night, depriving him of his sleep and pulling even more puffiness into the bags beneath his eyes.

That was one of the reasons Warren depended on the internet so much. His tired appearance usually sent his clients running before numbers and bills entered the equation.

One second Warren was in his bed, reading things that sure sounded English, but weren’t, and in the next minute he was in a car. Nobody drove the car, but somehow it knew where to go. It drove itself up a snowy mountain.

“This is going to be fun, dad!” Melissa said from the backseat. She was dressed up in her camping gear, which included a rain hat which was too big for her head and flopped over her eyes. Warren looked over his shoulder. “It is,” he said.

As he turned back towards the front of the car, he found himself at a campsite. The fire was dying beneath two charred logs. Two sticks with melted marshmallow stained onto their tips were laying against the floor, sticking to the dark earth. Melissa’s tiny body was wrapped in a sleeping bag. Her back was to her father.

Warren felt tired in his dream, and, as he did every night, he reached out to give his daughter one final kiss. His hand reached out and fell onto the sleeping bag. As it came down on Melissa’s hard, crunchy body, the slithering and hissing of snakes erupted from inside the bag.

Panicked, Warren pulled his daughter’s body towards him. Her skin was black and shriveled, and her eyes were no longer in their gaping sockets. Melissa’s jaw hung loosely open, and within her mouth was a handful of rotting teeth.

Warren awoke from the dream screaming. That’s how it usually went every morning. It was 5:53 am. Warren felt too scared to go back to sleep, so instead he went into his kitchen.

Things had been easier for Warren back when he was a drinker. He would awake to a tall cup of wine, filled to its brim, straight from the box, and go through his day, breath stinking of alcohol. Janet left him shortly after what had happened to Melissa. She said she didn’t blame Warren for what happened, but she did. Warren knew that, and when he was drunk he would scream aloud how much he hated himself and how sorry he was for what had happened.

Janet hated Warren, really. She hated him so much that she helped Warren stop drinking. She said that drinking was going to kill him, which it was. Warren could begin to notice the whites of his eyes turning a sickly tint of yellow. Janet took Warren to all of his meetings and stuck around him whenever things were really tough.

Janet wanted Warren to live, because dying was too good for him. She wanted Warren to suffer through the pain of knowing that he killed her daughter a little longer.

Warren made a few calls to some people who knew people who sold guns. Warren was good like that; it was his job to find things. He made friends with a parol officer a few years back, and through him got the number of a guy who sold guns out of his apartment.

“It’s not going to be cheap,” he friend told him. “Prices on those pieces have been going up ever since the mayor had his crackdown.”

Warren e-mailed the man a picture of the gun he wanted, and within the hour received a message saying that he had one ready.

The apartment was off Lexington and 23rd. Warren was there by noon. He knocked on the door.

“You Jamel’s friend?” said a voice from inside the apartment.

“Yes,” Warren said. He heard some rustling within the apartment.

“You ain’t a cop, right?” the man said, very lowly.

“I am not a cop.”

There was a brief pause, and then the lock clicked open. The door opened slightly. Warren moved to enter the room, but was cut off by a hand.

“Whoa, whoa,” the man whispered. “First thing’s first. You got the cash?”

Warren looked up and down the hallway. It was completely empty. He retrieved a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to the man. He took it and closed the door.

Warren stood awkwardly in the hallway. He briefly wondered if the man in the apartment would just steal the money and kick his apartment door open and unload a bullet into Warren’s head.

Warren might have actually enjoyed it.

That didn’t happen, though, and after a few moments, in which the man counted the money, the door opened and a small revolver wrapped in a black cloth was handed to him.

“Things loaded,” he said. “Safety’s on. You know how to turn it off?”

“Yes,” Warren said, although he actually didn’t.

“Ight. You didn’t get this from me, got it?”

“Got it.”

Holding the gun against his body gave Warren a rush. It made him nervous.

He made it quickly back to his apartment, and put the gun as far away from him as possible; in the bathroom, on top of the sink. He didn’t trust himself with it. He had many urges telling him to suck down on the barrel and squeeze, paint the walls a different color.

Warren had to work after that to get his mind off things. He opened the book to try to read it. He got through five pages in an hour. He couldn’t retain any of the information, save the words keeper and Gamwell.

“Gamwell,” Warren muttered.

He placed a call to an old friend who worked at the MET.

Her name was Lynn, and she had written many books about the history of art and its influences. She was an elderly woman. When Warren thinks back on it, she had always been an elderly woman, even back in the early eighties when they first met.

“Lynn speaking, how can I help you?” was the way she answered her cell phone.

“Lynn, it’s Warren. How are you?”

“Oh! Warren! It’s been ages,” she said, straining each syllable out longer than it had to be. “I’m fine. Things are a bit busy here and I’m booking this art show for September. But other than that, fine. How are you?”

“Peachy,” Warren said. “I was hoping you could help me. I’ve got a job. Have to find this old, rare photo from the 1800s.”

“Whoa,” Lynn said. “There’s not many of those lying around.”

“I bet. The photo’s called Directus Caelum. I’ve been reading this book about it. It’s supposed to be a picture of the sky, or something.”

Lynn didn’t say a word.

“Lynn? You there?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” she said, nearly breathless. “Sorry. I must have spaced out or something. The Directus Caelum. Yeah.”

“Have you heard of it?”

“Who’s asking for this photo, Warren, if you don’t mind me asking?

“Eh, beats me. Some business man named Mr. Cedar. Couldn’t find a lick of information about the guy. My guess is that he works with shady deals.”

“Yeah. Must be a big price on a piece like that.”

“Come on, Lynn. Tell me what you know about this thing.” There was a long pause. Warren looked down at his phone to see if the call was still connected. “Lynn?”

“I’m... I’m sorry, Warren,” she said. “I’m sorry for this to happen to you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t think there’s anyway of convincing you not to go through with this job.”

“The guy gave me fifty up front and will give me another two hundred upon delivery,” Warren said.

“Do you think the money’s worth it?” Lynn asked.

“Worth what?! Lynn, please tell me what’s going on.”

There was another pause. “Okay. We’ve known each other for a long time, right Warren?”

“Right.”

“You know my hardships, and I know yours. I’m only telling you this because it might help you out. Not with your job or anything, but with you. It might cheer you up. But I’m telling you right now, that-photo-is-dangerous. Do you understand me?”

“How can a picture be dangerous?”

“It’s not the picture itself that you should worry about. It’s the people looking for the picture. Some people, like your Mr. Cedar, will do anything for it.”

“Don’t worry about that. He told me to pick up a gun. I’ll be safe.”

Lynn laughed a low, sad laugh. “Guns. That’s just noise to them. Might scare them away, but I doubt it.”

“Lynn, talk to me here. What’s this all about?”

“There’s a man who owns a book store down in Soho. His name is Arnaub. He has the picture.”

Lynn gave Warren some brief directions to the store.

“Good luck, Warren. And God bless.” Lynn hung up the phone.

Warren shoved his gun into his coat pocket and left for the subway. The car he stood in was packed with people. He held onto the overhead pole, and swayed with the rocking train. He bumped into other people, and felt his gun hitting against them. Warren wondered if they knew what it was; if they could feel the chamber of the revolver smacking against their backs and thighs.

Warren hopped off at his stop and walked the streets of Soho. Lynn was usually good with information. She had never let him down in the past, and her knowledge seemed ageless. Just as she said, there was a small book store. It was an old looking thing, with dust stained windows and old wooden signs hanging up which had seen decades.

The inside of the shop smelt like dust. It was poorly lit. Warren could hardly read the titles off of the books, and when he tired, it made his eyes ache. A man stood behind the counter. He looked scared by nature; an emaciated shell with large, grape like eyes popping out of his head. He watched Warren with an unfaltering suspicion, as if he suspected him of stealing.

“Hello,” Warren said to the man.

The man grunted.

“Are you Arnaub?” Warren asked.

The man’s face wrinkled with an audacious disgust.

“Who are you?!” he yelled. His name was Raziel, and he looked homesick for sunlight.

Warren backed away and raised his hands up to his chest. “Calm down. My name’s Warren Newbury. A friend of mine said you had something that I needed.”

“Yeah? Who’s your friend?”

“Lynn Gamwell,” Warren said.

The look on Raziel’s face melted away. He cleared his throat and pushed his hands through his thinning hair, greasing them to his skull.

“Lynn sent you to see Arnaub?” he asked.

“For the Directus Caelum,” Warren said.

Somehow, Raziel’s bulging eyes appeared to bulge even further out of his head. His mouth parted in disbelief. He shook his head.

“She sent you here for that?” he whispered.

“Yeah. I brought cash,” Warren said.

A nervous laugh briefly erupted from Raziel’s mouth, and then his face formed back to that dumbed look of disbelief.

“Why?” he said.

Warren didn’t exactly know what the man was asking, and could offer no response. His mouth moved and sort of words came out, and he shrugged.

“Why do you want that thing?” he asked, again.

“It’s not for me. It’s for a client.”

Raziel mouthed an “Oh” and nodded his head. “Arnaub has it. He’s in the back.”

Warren was led by Raziel into a back room. The door to the room was nearly impossible to see, and blended into the wall. They walked through rooms with back storage and more books, and through another door. This one led to the cellar. The men walked down the stairs.

In the center of the cellar hung a bare light bulb. Beneath the bulb was a chair, and a small table, and sitting upon the table was Arnaub. He looked oddly similar to Mr. Cedar, except Arnaub’s sexless, mannequin like face was old and wrinkled, and his eyes were pure white. He was shirtless, and his skin hung sickly to his bone. Rolls of loose flesh puddled by his stomach and beneath his nipples.

Arnaub sat Indian style upon the table. Sitting in his lap was a thin plate of metal. Arnaub’s eyes never left the photo. They never did.

There were four peculiar stones located around the table. Each of them held a different color. No matter how hard Warren tried to decipher what color each one was, he couldn’t. The stones may have been changing colors.

“Is that him?” Warren asked. He had never seen a person in such poor condition before. Raziel nodded his head.

Raziel had a sad look in his eyes. Warren saw it, and it reminded him of the look he probably had whenever he spoke with Janet. It was the sort of look that said, “I love you, but we can never be together.”

“This guy needs an ambulance,” Warren said.

Raziel’s head shook. “There’s nothing an ambulance can do for him now,” he said.

Warren was fascinated with the breathing corpse. He wanted to touch it to feel if the skin was as brittle and scaly as it looked. He found himself fighting the urge to.

“There it is,” Raziel said, fighting the urge to look at the picture. “The Directus Caelum.” Raziel made it no secret that he wasn’t willing to look at the picture. His hands were visors over his eyes, and his head was tilted down, and he stared at his own stomach.

“So... Do I... Can I take it?” Warren asked.

Raziel nodded. “Arnaub has been looking at that photo for decades. It has done terrible things to his mind. I think that if you take it off his lap, he wouldn’t even notice.”

Two hundred thousand dollars sat on the old thing’s lap. It would be the easiest, and oddest job Warren had ever done. And it would feed him for the next few years. He didn’t even have to use his gun, as Mr. Cedar had suggested.

Warren carefully reached for the photo, took it up slowly from Arnaub’s lap, and stepped away from the naked light of the bare bulb.

Drops of water formed in Arnaub’s eyes. They fell down his cheeks. He still didn’t move. Raziel watched the silent tears with a heavy heart. He walked over to Arnaub and held his face in his hands.

“Arnaub, it’s going to be okay now. The picture’s gone. Do you hear me?” Raziel leaned in and pressed his lips against Arnaub’s. Arnaub still didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

Warren had seen this and became very anxious. He was feeling that same bad feeling he felt back at the restaurant. He felt oily and filthy.

“You must leave now,” Raziel said. He nodded towards the colorful stones. “Those are the ruins. I’m sure Lynn told you of them before you came here.”

“Ruins?” Warren knew Lynn was holding back information. He was no good at bullying information out of friends.

“Yes, the ruins! They hid the location of the photo so that no other would have to suffer Arnaub’s fate! But now that its out, they can sense the photo and the idiots will be after it! So get out of here quickly!”

“You’re just going to give it up?” Warren asked. He was usually a good business man, and under different circumstances would have just left without offering any money, but because of the amount he was going to receive for the item, he felt it would be bad karma to not give something back in return.

“Just give it up?” the man said, and scoffed. “I should be paying you to take it away! Now just get out of here quick, before somebody notices!”

Warren nodded and quickly walked out of the store. The sky had turned black. It was only three in the afternoon, and none of the street lamps were turned on. Manhattan looked darker than Warren had ever seen it before.

He walked quickly back to the subway. He could feel the picture pressed against his body. It was hidden under his coat, and felt very warm to the touch. He still hadn’t seen what it looked like. He felt too much in a rush to take a moment to look.

The subway train he got on was almost empty. Not many people were heading uptown at that hour. They rarely did. Warren found a seat next to the door. His revolver thumped against the plastic as he sat down.

There was a homeless man sleeping on the other side of the train car. He was the only other person in the car besides Warren. The train rocked back and forth, and the homeless man’s head arose from his ragged sleeves. His head and face were clean shaven, and he had no eye brows. Warren figured that the man was sick, and felt bad for him.

The homeless man stared at Warren. Warren could feel it, like cold water running against his skin. Warren glanced at the man. Their eyes met, and Warren quickly looked away. The homeless man stood up and slowly walked towards Warren.

Warren pulled his jacket tightly closed and shimmied as far towards the train’s door as he could. His body was pressed against the arm rest bars.

The homeless man opened his mouth, and exhaled a heavy breath. Warren could smell the breath from where he stood. It smelt like old cigarette butts and rain.

“What do you want?” Warren said to the man. He deepened his voice when he said it, hoping that that would somehow scare the man away.

The homeless man said nothing. He walked closer. When he was within arm’s length of Warren, Warren stood up and staggered back. The train rocked and Warren was having a hard time finding his balance.

The homeless man’s arm reached out for Warren.

“You have it,” he hissed. His voice sounded dry. “Can I see it? Please! Just for a second.”

“Get away from me,” Warren said. His hand was in his coat. He was touching the handle of his revolver. It gave him an awful adrenaline rush which made his head feel numb, and his breath very thin.

“Please,” the man said, walking closer. “Please. Please! PLEASE!!”

He screamed.

Warren took out his revolver in one jumbled motion and pointed it at the homeless man’s chest. The lights in the train flicked off. Warren squeezed the trigger. Fire erupted from the butt of the gun, giving a brief moment of light. In the light of the shot, Warren saw the homeless man. He didn’t look like a homeless man, though.

The man’s fleshy skin had turn red and rocky. His eyes looked like cat eyes, and were blue. From his back came two monstrous wings. They were covered with awful black feathers, which looked as if they had been plucked from a long dead, diseased raven. His hands were large red claws. They looked as if they could easy shred a cow in minutes. They were reaching out towards Warren.

The gun’s fire died. Warren was left in the dark.

The train rocked hard to the left. Warren’s hand shot out to search for a pole for support, but finding none, he fell onto the floor. The lights came back on in the train. The homeless man was standing over him. He looked as he did when Warren had first seen him. There was no bullet wound in the man’s chest. Warren could have sworn the bullet hit him, though. He shot the gun at point blank.

The train stopped and the doors opened. Warren ran out.

“Wait! Please!” the homeless man screamed.

The train’s doors closed. The homeless man watched Warren run up the subway stairs. He began to cry hysterically.

Warren got home the safest way he knew how; walking on the streets, surrounded by millions of people. He locked his door, latched it and barricaded it with his chair. He put his gun in the kitchen, on top of his refrigerator, and took out a large butcher knife for his own protection. He walked into his living room.

The first thing he did was send an e-mail out to Mr. Cedar.

“Warren here. I got the picture. Give me a drop off and a time.”

He wish he had Cedar’s number. He figured with fifty grand up front, the less he knew about Cedar, the better. He’d always have the opportunity to disappear if things went sour.

Warren sat down on his couch. It was an old couch, and the first thing he and Janet bought together after they were married. Much like their marriage, the couch was once a beautiful, comfortable thing that two people could relax on and be content with for a very long time. But now it was old and stained and the fabric was frayed. A spring was popping out of the couch in one part. Warren always placed a pillow over the spring. He never had company, but if he did, he wanted them to know that, yeah, the couch is old and broken, but it can still work as a couch, if you were willing to look past an exposed spring and some tears.

There were eyes all around. Warren couldn’t see them, but he could feel them. They were staring at him, just like the homeless man was on the train. The hairs on the back of Warren’s neck went stiff. They prickled against the couch and made shivers go down his back. He felt very cold.

Warren kept imagining the beast he saw on the train. It’s claws were so close to his chest. With no effort at all, they could have split his chest open. He quickly looked over his shoulder. His face was beginning to sweat. In only moments, he would be covered with a thick film of oil.

Warren pulled the shades of his windows closed. He still felt the eyes. Scared, he hid underneath a blanket, on the old couch in his living room.

He found his phone under the pillow, next to a lump of hair, and quickly dialed a number. It was Lynn’s cell phone.

“Lynn speaking, how can I help you?”

“Lynn! I need your help!” Warren said, breathlessly.

Lynn didn’t say a word.

“Warren?”

“It’s the picture! I have it. And now those....those things are after me.”

“They just want to look at the photo,” Lynn said. “I don’t think any of them would actually go out of their way to hurt you. They know better than that.”

“I saw one on the train! It has these claws! And wings!”

“Are you okay, Warren?”

“It was so close to me! I could feel its breath on my face!”

“Did you read that book Mr. Cedar gave you?”

“I tried to. It wasn’t in English. Not really.”

“Have you looked at the photo yet, Warren?”

“No,” he said. He was beginning to cry.

“Oh,” Lynn whined. “Warren, I think I did a bad thing telling you to go to Arnaub’s. I thought you could handle it, after what happened to your daughter and all.”

“What the hell’s going on, Lynn! Tell me!” The butcher knife’s blade vibrated in Warren’s hand. He was ready to slash out at the slightest sound.

“It’s the picture, Warren. It’s not just some normal picture. It’s not a picture that just anyone could take.”

The picture was still hidden beneath Warren’s coat, which was now draped along the floor. He could still feel it against his body.

“The picture was taken at such a terrific time. It was a fluke that it had been taken at all, really,” Lynn began. Warren hung on her every word. His eyes were sweeping the apartment. “The artist’s name was Pierre Laroque. Much like the picture, you won’t find his name in any text book other than the one in your home. He took a picture of the sky right as an angel was falling.”

“Falling?” Warren mumbled.

“Yes. Falling from Heaven. That picture you have is a picture of Heaven.”

Warren didn’t say anything. He glanced over at his coat, and wondered what the picture looked like.

“Once an angel falls from Heaven, it can never go back. Heaven’s a long way away. That’s why the photo is so dangerous, Warren. There’s fallen angels all over the place. People you wouldn’t expect. They’d do anything to get just one more look at their home. One more look at Heaven.”

Warren froze.

“I’m so sorry, Warren. I shouldn’t have told you about the picture. I thought you could handle it. You’ve been through so much. You’re so strong.”

“Eyes,” was the last word Lynn could hear before the phone was disconnected. The angels could see through walls, Warren rationalized. There had to be at least a thousand of them, all over the world, somehow staring at him in his apartment.

Warren thought about looking at the Directus Caelum. He was very worried, though. Warren had lost his faith the moment his daughter died. He just couldn’t comprehend how an all good, all knowing God would let something like that happen to good people like Warren and Janet. While Janet blamed Warren for the death of their only child, Warren blamed God, even though nobody can really be blamed over a snake bite.

Warren didn’t want to see the killer.

Warren hopped off the couch and picked up his coat in a bundle. He held it away from his body like some toxic thing and walked it into the bathroom. He dropped it into the bathtub. He could hear the picture clank against the tub’s bottom. He walked back to his couch.

The computer rested upon a thrift shop table, not too far from the couch. Warren had a special e-mail account he used for business reasons. He waited for an automated voice to tell him that he had mail from Cedar. He wanted to get rid of the photo.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder. What you are?” said a small voice. It was coming from behind Warren. He knew the little girl’s voice too well.

Warren quickly spun around. He couldn’t see anyone.

“No,” Warren said. He threw his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. He felt very vulnerable in this position, unable to see or hear anything around him.

“Up above the world so high. Like a diamond. In the sky.”

“You’re dead!” Warren cried. “You can’t be here!”

Warren opened his eyes, finding that everything in his room was slanted slightly to the left. As his head moved, the images he saw were doubled. His head spun to the left. The images he saw stayed in place for a moment, before falling into their rightful positions.

He blinked. When his eyes opened, he found everything in his room slanted slightly to the right. He became nauseous. A thin, slimy vomit crawled up his throat. Warren pushed himself off his couch and ran for the bathroom.

It was as if there was a very bad camera man with a very bad camera operating behind Warren’s eyes. He could only see blurs, and it was all very shaking. Warren lost his footing after three steps and fell hard onto his chest. He couldn’t breathe for five seconds, although the five seconds felt much longer. Before he could take his breath, Warren vomited up the thin vile. He felt weak and pathetic, and rested his cheek against the vile. Warren didn’t care.

“Daddy!” said the voice again. It was coming from the bathroom.

“No,” Warren mumbled. He didn’t have the energy to push himself up, and instead rolled onto his back. The ceiling was crawling. It moved to the left for about three feet, and then to the right, and then back to the left again. It looked like a hoard of bugs running.

“When the blazing sun is gone. When he nothing shines upon.”

“Shut up!” Warren screamed.

“When you show your little light. Twinkle, twinkle all the night.”

“Melissa!” Warren said. He wept. His tears fell down his cheek, and stuck to the vile that was still on his face.

“You’ve got mail!” said the computer. It was no cheery, automated voice programmed by the aol company to sound pleasant and welcoming. It was a harsh, gargling voice.

Warren looked at his computer. He figured that the monster from the subway was on it. Probably playing spider solitaire, or browsing iTunes.

His computer was alone. The screen emanated a sickly blue hue which rendered everything around the monitor black. The things were behind the computer. They were watching Warren. Waiting.

Warren lost consciousness and fell asleep. He didn’t know he fell asleep. He had odd dreams which he wasn’t able to remember. He didn’t know they were dreams, even when he woke up. He was awoken, or he was awoken in his dream, by two small hands pressed against his chest. That was how Melissa used to wake him up every Sunday. Sunday was daddy daughter day, and she would rise with the sun and tickle her father’s chest and sing a made up song to awake him.

“Daddy, you’ve got to get up! I’m lonely!”

Warren’s eyes opened and he sat up. He was still laying in the center of the living, beside a puddle of dried up vile. He was awake now, and he knew he was awake. Feeling eyes staring at his back, Warren turned around, finding an empty apartment and a computer that had fallen into sleep mode. He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep. It felt like forty days. It was probably only a half hour.

Warren’s eyes were no longer acting like amateur camera men, and the things in his apartment all appeared to be standing straight up, none leaning. Warren wiped his mouth. There was a thick slime at the corners of his lips and the at the roof of his mouth, which he scraped away with his tongue.

With a wiggle of the mouse, the computer awoke. There was one new e-mail in Warren’s mailbox. Relieved, he clicked it open.

“Find Sexy Young Singles Tonight108378539x,” read the subject line.

Warren cursed and deleted the e-mail. He was cold and felt a constant cool breeze. Goose bumps were erect all up his arms. All of his windows were closed. Warren crossed his arms and huddled within his own warmth and sat down on the couch.

“Where is this guy?” he muttered, and then he cried out, “I’ve got your damn picture!” He immediately regretted screaming, and covered his mouth with his hands. He just gave his location away. All of those watching eyes were now watching harder, studying his quickening breathing, and the way the sweat hung to the puffy bags beneath his eyes.

“Just... Just leave me alone,” he stuttered. “Just... Just leave. Please.”

His stomach began to make noises and he felt something hot rush down his intestine.

“Just stop! I don’t have the picture!” he said. At this point, there very well could have been things around Warren, hiding behind his computer and beneath his couch pillows. There was. And they breathed very loudly.

“It’s not here!” he said. He stumbled towards his bathroom. The coldness of the room had turned the dried vile into a slick spot of ice. Warren could now see his breath in front of his face. The white clouds were thin, and disappeared as quickly as they appeared. Warren’s heel came in contact with the frozen vile. He slipped and fell hard onto the small of his back. Brown sludge squirted out of Warren’s rectum.

He laid there for a moment. His body felt too numb to feel the pain. The ceiling began shift around. Its corners were lifting up and its middle was sinking down. It was smiling.

“Heaven’s a place for the dead,” it said.

Warren nodded. He understood that, which was one of the reasons he didn’t look at the picture once he got it. He didn’t let his curiosity get to him.

“Living things aren’t meant to get too close to Heaven, or to any representation of it. It doesn’t work that way. When they get too close, bad things happen.”

Two arms slid beneath Warren’s pits and propped him up.

“I’m sorry,” Lynn said. Warren looked up at Lynn and realized that his ceiling hadn’t learned a new trick, and that it was Lynn who had been speaking with him. “I shouldn’t have told you where that damn photo was.”

Lynn shook her head and dragged Warren onto the irreparable, old, uncomfortable couch. She disappeared out of Warren’s vision, into the bathroom. She exited with the picture in her hands. Its image was pressed against her body. Its warmth was running through her. Her pale skin seemed to radiate.

“If I told you what this picture was going to do to you, would you still have gone after it?” Lynn asked.

Warren’s head bobbed up and down.

“Good. That makes me feel a little better. Money’s a terrible thing, Warren. What were you planning on doing with two hundred thousand dollars?”

Warren spoke without thinking. His words were as lazy as his joints. “I was going to give it to Janet. So she’d forgive me. And then we could get married again.” His hand moved around like a rag doll’s and hit the couch’s exposed string. He drew a bulb of blood on his finger.

“You’re very sweet, Warren,” Lynn said. She sounded so sympathetic, letting Warren know that she really did feel for him, and that his plan would never work. Warren knew, though.

“Can I see?” Warren asked, pointing at the photo with his chin.

“Are you sure?” Lynn asked.

Warren head bobbed again.

“Okay. Here it is.”

Lynn was no longer Lynn. She was now some terrible thing with huge black wings, man ripping claws and sharp, black teeth. She slowly turned the picture around, and Warren looked at it.

He thought no thoughts and spoke no words. He just stared at the photo of Heaven. Their were clouds in the picture. They moved ever so slightly. In the center of the photo, Warren saw Melissa. She wasn’t alone. She was with a nice angel, one with white wings and hands and pale skin.

Warren began to cry.

Lynn turned the photo back around. She was Lynn again, the seemingly ageless, old woman. She dared not look at the picture.

Three gentle knocks riddled the front door, and the door opened and Mr. Cedar cautiously popped his head in. The lock bolt had somehow become undone, and the chair was resting against the wall, beside the door.

“Hello? Anybody home?” he asked. Mr. Cedar walked into the home. When he saw Lynn, his head popped back.

“Lynn. It’s been ages.”

“Hello, Cedar,” she said.

Cedar looked at the picture in Lynn’s hands. He wanted it badly. His hand reached out.

“Please,” he said. “It’s been too long.”

Lynn turned away and handed the picture to Cedar, making sure not to look at it. “You’re weak,” she said. “You know what happened to Arnaub.”

“I... I know. Raziel told me about the picture. He told me to take it away.” And a half mile away, Raziel held his limp lover’s body in his arms. His tears splashed against Arnaub’s vacant eyes. The empty shell was homesick for Heaven. He’d never respond to Raziel’s warm touch ever again. Raziel wish he could kill himself.

“You think this picture’s going to help you?” Lynn asked.

“Yes,” Cedar said. “I think it’ll take away the pain.”

Cedar tucked the picture into his coat and wrote a check and placed it on Warren’s table.

“Thank you,” Cedar said to Warren. Warren didn’t reply. Cedar left the apartment.

“Listen,” Lynn said. She lightly smacked Warren’s cheek and looked into his eyes to get his attention. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Huh?... Oh... Yeah,” Warren said. His eyes trailed to the floor. He had dropped his butcher knife when he fell. Its tip had broken off. Lynn picked up the knife and put it away in her pocket.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Warren. Okay? I’ve got to get back to work and plan out the art show. If you need anything, you call me, okay?”

“Sure.”

Before leaving, Lynn went through Warren’s kitchen draws and took out every sharp knife and object she could, any long ropes and chords, pill bottles and Warren’s toaster. She told Warren to take care, and God bless, and left the apartment.

Warren didn’t feel as if he was being watched anymore. He felt empty, and alone. Just like when Janet left him. He had no energy to do work to distract himself from his pains.

Melissa’s face was branded in his memory. She looked so happy, up above the world high, like a diamond in the sky.

When he found the energy to, Warren walked into his kitchen and reached on top of the refrigerator. The revolver was still in place, waiting for its owner.

Warren tried not to think about anything, but it was too hard. He had too much heart break on his mind. Janet would never get back with him; the look on his daughter’s dead, black face. Warren placed the gun in his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

He felt a harsh jolt, and then everything went black. For a moment, Warren saw that image he had seen in the picture. The clouds were moving ever so slowly. Melissa was there. She was crying. The angel beside her combed its fingers through her hair and pressed her head against its stomach, holding her tenderly.

Then the image went away and Warren fell.