“This is a sanctuary for you to find your equilibrium,” Jeremiah had explained with the gravity of a rabbi reciting ancient Talmudic wisdom. “A realm where you'll rediscover that even amidst the chaos, shalom—peace—is not only possible but within reach.”

  “Even in Gehinnom?” Ruth had asked, using the Jewish term for Hell.

  Jeremiah's eyes met hers, and his mouth curved into a soft, enigmatic smile. It didn’t necessarily comfort her, nor did it strike fear into her soul, but the smile had a certain undeniable warmth. He was a strikingly handsome man.

  And yet, this striking man had vanished the moment his words had dissipated into the air, leaving Ruth alone in a dwelling that could only be described as a hell house.

  The structure bore an uncanny resemblance to the home she had shared with Asher, but it was as if every cozy corner had been drenched in shadow. Some doors revealed nothing but impassable brick walls, while others swung open to expose yawning chasms that plummeted into the abyss.

  It was a labyrinth reminiscent of the one in Jewish lore, replete with malevolent angels, but this one was more unsettling because it was meant to be familiar—a spiritual grounding as enduring as the Torah, as nourishing as challah on Shabbat, as love itself.

  But Ruth felt perpetually lost, like a wandering soul in a midrash that had no end.

  Time had turned nebulous since Jeremiah's last visit, but the sharp pang of loneliness pulled her back to some semblance of reality. Just as she began to contemplate her solitude, she realized, she wasn’t truly alone.

  There, at the end of a dimly lit corridor, stood a figure.

  Ruth strained her eyes in the murk. Pop! Overhead lights flickered to life, illuminating the mysterious presence.

  A gasp slipped through her lips, joining the stifled air. “Asher!”

  Her husband, miraculously, was there at the hallway's terminus. He was dressed exactly as he had been on their wedding day—his suit a vibrant shade of crimson, his shirt coal-black, and his buttons shimmering like golden Hanukkah gelt. Her face lit up, a brightness rivaling the Menorah.

  “I missed you so desperately,” Ruth began, her bare feet stirring up forgotten dust as she advanced, her wedding gown swaying gently. It was tinged gray at the hem, a ghostly echo of its original purity. “How are you here?”

  But Asher's eyes were focused elsewhere, riveted on a corridor veering to the right. His brow furrowed as if grappling with a complex piece of theological debate.

  “Is this a dybbuk’s trick, or did you descend from Shamayim—Heaven—to find me?” Ruth inquired. Her heart swelled with the thought that he might have crossed spiritual planes for her. “You came because I’m lost, didn’t you?”

  Finally, his gaze met hers. Something flickered in his eyes, like the first stars appearing at the onset of dusk. Then, as if spurred by an unseen force, he turned and bolted down the corridor. His footsteps echoed loudly, receding into the haunting silence of her perpetual maze.

  Caught in a sudden rush of adrenaline and yearning, Ruth instinctively dashed after him.

  “Asher, what are you doing? How did you come to be here?” Her voice reverberated through the maze-like halls, filled with desperation. “If you tell me, we might find a way out of this forsaken place together! I implore you, please!”

  But Asher was unyielding, vanishing around a corner and ascending a stairway carved from dark, thunderstruck marble, white veins zigzagging through its depths like kabbalistic symbols. Ruth halted at the staircase's summit, her lungs clamoring for air. The beginnings of tears clouded her vision, pooling at the brim of her eyes.

  “Why are you tunning from me?” Her words echoed within the confined stairwell, reverberating like a mournful nigun—a lament—sung during Tisha B'Av. Tentatively, she descended one step. The marble felt so bitingly cold under her foot, it was as though she had stepped onto an Arctic sheet of ice.

  Just as she moved, Asher reached the base of the stairs. He glanced back over his shoulder, his face paler than she remembered, devoid of its former warmth. His eyes held an unsettling look, but before Ruth could discern what it meant, he vanished into thin air.

  His disappearance galvanized her. Ignoring the icy cold that seeped into her feet from the freezing marble, she dashed down the stairs. Each step was like an icy brand against her flesh, leaving her feet red and raw by the time she reached the bottom; they were blistered and tinged with blood.

  Bloody footprints stained the marble in her wake. Leaning against the wall for support, Ruth steadied herself. Her cheeks were wet with tears—tears born of physical pain, but also of the fresh wound of Asher's second loss.

  I don't get it, she agonized internally. Why would he run away now? He must have been bound by a higher command, maybe a celestial clock ticking away the seconds he could remain in this Gehinnom. Perhaps he had only minutes to return to the heavenly realms.

  It was the only explanation that made any sense.

  Ruth walked over to the spot where Asher had vanished, half-expecting to find a single white feather—perhaps a remnant of the angelic wings she had envisioned him having in the afterlife. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing, but her hope remained untarnished.

  And it did little to quell the burgeoning hope within her soul, ignited by one undeniable fact: Asher had sought her out, crossing the borders of Heaven and Hell to find her.

  That had to signify something. It must signify something.

  It did signify something.

  Her fingers tightened into fists at her sides, each one like a small bundle of hope. The conflicting emotions within her—both despair and a newfound hope—intensified her resolve to reunite with Asher, one way or another.

  "I have to find Jeremiah," Ruth resolved, her thoughts taking on a newfound urgency. The idea of retracing her steps back up those icy stairs with her blistered feet was unfathomable. Instead, she carried on through the long, corridor adorned with framed pictures. They were captured moments from her previous life—snapshots of joy and sorrow, each a haunting reminder of what had been taken from her.

  With every step, the pain in her feet sharpened into a pulsing throb. Soon, it became apparent that she couldn't navigate the labyrinthine expanse of the house like this. She needed medical supplies, even if rudimentary, to treat her feet.

  Forging ahead, Ruth ascended another staircase, this one made of solid black marble that offered no betrayal of temperature. She opened a door, expecting to find the solace of a bathroom. Instead, she emerged into an unsettling rooftop garden—a dark, surreal rendition of an English garden, each plant perfectly arranged, yet seemingly nefarious in its intent.

  Various deadly plants occupied this high-altitude sanctuary. Nightshade, water hemlock, white snakeroot, and rosary pea, all accompanied by tags inscribed with their names in delicate, elegant handwriting. Among them, Persian cyclamen, poppy anemone, golden dracaena, and Persian buttercup swelled in vibrant clusters, their toxicity a hidden secret. Even the Venus fly trap on a twisted stalk seemed to watch her, pivoting as she limped through the intricate stonework.

  At the far edge of this rooftop Eden was a bench, sculpted from white stone. Its design was akin to something one would find in a cemetery—somber yet graceful. Gingerly lifting her tattered gown, Ruth sat, her gaze extending beyond the garden into an impenetrable void of blackness stretching out in front of her.

  And that's when it struck her—a fresh quandary emerged. The paradox of the garden was not lost on her: it was as beautiful as it was lethal, much like the netherworld she found herself in. Was this place a sanctuary or another layer of her torment? Could she find solace among deathly flora? And more critically, if the house was to serve as her grounding, what did it mean that her most peaceful place within it was also the most deadly?

  The questions loomed in her mind, mingling with thoughts of Jeremiah, Asher, and the enigma that her afterlife had become. Ruth looked back at the spectral garden, its complex beauty a mirror of her own complicated fate. It seemed, she realized, that even in Gehinom, there were layers of ambiguity she had yet to unravel.

  Even if she managed to bandage her wounded feet and set out again to find Jeremiah, the question lingered: how could she ever locate him in this sprawling house of nightmares? Before her eyes, nothing but boundless darkness stretched out, interrupted only by the far-off silhouette of a stone labyrinth. Intriguingly, a gate now obstructed its entrance, as if forbidding her another round of torment within its walls.

  Had she been barred because she had accepted her own death?

  Perplexed, Ruth's features tightened into a frown. She had no visible path to tread upon, no clear direction to follow.

  However, as she sat brooding on her carved stone bench, something astonishing unfolded. A path, obscured initially, began to materialize. It wasn't fashioned from stone or gravel, but from an effusion of oleander flowers. In an otherwise monochrome world, bursts of white, pink, and red emanated life and hue.

  The floral trail veered away from the house, beckoning her to follow. Surprisingly, when Ruth stood, she realized her feet had healed—the cold burns and emerging frostbite had mysteriously vanished. Taking careful steps, she approached the garden's edge and nearly stumbled over the rooftop's precipice.

  "Incredible!" Ruth couldn't help but exclaim aloud, although no one was there to witness her joy. "Look at this!"

  There was a euphoric quality to her voice, even in the absence of an audience. The path was not just a way out—it was immaculately designed, either to be strolled upon or alongside. The idea of crushing those delicate blossoms underfoot seemed sacrilegious, but the path seemed intended for her footsteps.

  A new surge of hope ignited within her, brighter and more potent than any that had come before. All she needed to do now was navigate her way back downstairs and through the front door, a task that suddenly seemed manageable. Ruth was confident she could do it, buoyed by this unexpected sign—a path of blooms in a realm where nothing was supposed to flourish.

  12

  Poisonous Garden

  Navigating her way through a landscape of perilous beauty, Ruth finally reached the front door. When she stepped outside, what greeted her was an ethereal garden. True, the flora consisted of poisonous plants, and yes, the angel statues wept trails of dark blood. But even in such a grim tableau, there was a haunting elegance that caught Ruth's eye.

  The sky above mirrored her complicated emotions—a murky blend of gray and black, with slivers of pale yellow light breaking through to dapple the earth beneath. Ruth had always been drawn to the brooding grandeur of stormy skies; they felt like a Talmudic passage, intricate and layered, that she could lose herself in.

  Opening her palm toward the heavens, she half-expected rain to fall. But not a single droplet obliged. Her fingers curled inward, almost in a subconscious nod to the Jewish concept of 'Gesher Tzar Me'od,' the narrow bridge of life that one must navigate with courage. "No rain, then," she murmured, a wistful smile spreading across her face. "The clouds are enough."

  She began her trek down the winding path. Along the way, her eyes fell upon a massive wrought-iron fence that had materialized, each corner crowned with twisted metal angels. Their wings had been removed, their feathers intricately woven into the ironwork like a morbid piece of art.

  A heart-shaped padlock hung from the imposing gate. Panic momentarily clawed at Ruth; she hadn't seen any keys in the labyrinthine mansion she'd just exited. But before her anxiety could fully bloom, an unusual plant beside the gate caught her attention. Among the ferns unfurled a tall stalk, culminating in a black flower. As if waiting for her, the petals parted to reveal a brass key nestled within.

  Ruth sighed, the key's appearance reminding her of the rabbinical teachings that even in the depths of Gehinnom, there is still the possibility for renewal. "Beauty persists, even here," she thought aloud.

  Unlocking the gate, she paused, then plucked the black flower, tucking it behind her ear. The scent was a mix of cleaning chemicals and a faint hint of orange, reminiscent of the sterile hospital where she'd lost Asher. It was an olfactory contradiction that she found oddly comforting.

  Leaving the flower where it was, she began her journey down the path of oleanders, carefully walking beside them to avoid crushing their fragile beauty. A new hope ignited within her, as if propelled by the eternal flicker of a menorah. She felt like Sarah traversing the desert, determined and focused.

  "Jeremiah!" she called out, noticing a structure looming in the distance. It took some time to reach it, and when she did, the discovery was unsettling. A rusty merry-go-round stood before her. Its horses were monstrous—copper oxidation giving them a hellish appearance. Their eyes blinked, and from their mouths came sounds, as though they were in torment.

  Though confronted with this new absurdity, Ruth's conviction didn't waver. If anything, the bizarre carousel seemed to affirm the importance of her quest. Someone had to be controlling these strings, and she was hell-bent on finding out who—or what—that was.

  The horses' tortured movements and anguished cries were like an aria of sorrow echoing in the air. Their heads tossed as if fighting invisible reins, and their voices croaked out in a pitiful cacophony.

  "Heaven must weep for this," Ruth murmured, her eyes brimming with empathy. She took a hesitant step toward the suffering creatures, a torrent of emotion threatening to spill over. Just as she moved, a firm, warm hand found its place on her shoulder, anchoring her. She turned to find Jeremiah's familiar face.

  "You can't alleviate their torment," Jeremiah advised, his words tinged with sorrow. "Their agony mirrors your own internal struggle. You must first free yourself through understanding." Gently, he reached out to sweep her hair from her mouth, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

  "Understand what, exactly?" Ruth queried. Before Jeremiah could answer, she waved off her own question. "Wait, never mind that. I saw Asher."

  Jeremiah's eyes sharpened, the corners of his mouth downturned. "Did you?"

  "I'm convinced it was him."

  "That likely means you yearned to see him deeply."

  Ruth nodded vehemently. "From the moment I entered this—what did you call it? Hellscape?—I've been seeking him. He disappeared before I could find out if there's a way to ascend to Shamayim with him. Tell me, is such a journey possible?"

  "It's feasible to escape your hellscape," Jeremiah offered, a statement that felt less like an answer and more like a puzzle piece.

  Ruth absorbed his words. "Hellscape, then. That's the term?"

  "For now," Jeremiah said cryptically. "Would you prefer a different name?"

  Unable to ignore the disturbing wails from the tormented horses, Ruth cast them a lingering glance. "Can you make them stop?"

  "I can't," Jeremiah admitted, "But I can lead you to a quieter space."

  As if walking through a veil, Jeremiah's cloak enveloped her, guiding her away from the grotesque merry-go-round and the path of blossoming oleanders, deeper into an abyss of shadow. When they emerged, the silence was so profound it was as if they had stepped into a vacuum.

  "Where are we?" Ruth's asked with awe.

  Jeremiah gestured around them. "You're still in your scape. I've just helped you discover a pocket of tranquility. Desire, Ruth, is a potent force, even here."

  Above them, the storm clouds brooded, seemingly on the verge of an emotional outburst. A muffled rumble of thunder taunted from a distance, yet the ground beneath them remained parched. Ruth felt a momentary pang. "Earlier, I was hurt."

  "Ahh," Jeremiah hummed in acknowledgement, his eyes searching hers for a clue. The atmosphere thickened around them, like an expectant pause in a dark fable, where the next line could either be a promise or a premonition.

  "But the wound healed," Ruth interjected, pulling Jeremiah from his reverie.

  "And?" His brows lifted in a question.

  "Shouldn't it not heal? I mean, this is Hell, isn't it? Aren't we all supposed to writhe in perpetual agony here?"

  Jeremiah considered this, lifting a hand to stall Ruth's impatient prodding. "It's not that simple. The dynamics of this realm are intricate and multifaceted. I'm sifting through the nuances to share what's pertinent."

  "You could just tell me everything."

  "Then we'd be here for eternity."

  Ruth arched an eyebrow. "Aren't I destined to spend that long here, anyway?"

  A flirtatious glint flickered across Jeremiah's eyes. "You'd be content to while away eternity listening to my theological musings? How flattering."

  Ruth felt a blush creep into her cheeks, unbidden. "Sorry."

  "You needn't apologize," Jeremiah reassured her. "Your presence is a refreshing change from my usual company."

  "Considering your other friends are nightmarish carousel horses, that's not a high bar." Ruth let out a soft, somewhat nervous laugh. As the words slipped through the air between them, she found herself swept away by the unsettling charm of her surroundings, almost forgetting her original line of questioning.

  Jeremiah tenderly brushed her hair back from her face once more, pointing toward the now-visible path ahead. "Shall I escort you home?"

  "I wish home was an option."

  He looked quizzical. "You don't think the house suits you?"

  Ruth sidestepped his query. "Where do you reside, Jeremiah?"

  His expression clouded for a moment.

  "You've been absent since we left the house. Where were you?"

  His countenance relaxed. "I've been here, safeguarding the perimeters of your domain."

  "You mean this place has limits?"

  "It's unending, yet bounded. Every end is but a segue to another beginning."

  "For me?"

  "For someone."

  Ruth chuckled. "You have a talent for being cryptic."

  Jeremiah grinned, his eyes meeting hers. "Shall we go?"

  "Only if you come with me," Ruth said, extending her hand toward him.

  For a moment, he stared at her open palm as if it were an artifact from a foreign land.