For some time, she had sought a way to catapult herself out of her numbing, single-mother routine: getting up at six, eating breakfast, waking and feeding the kids, getting them to school, shopping, going work, and so on. Sandra found the drudgery endless. Months before, she had complained to her therapist, the cigarette-puffing Father Harold Blackstone, that her life had become as tasteless as unseasoned mashed potatoes.

"To turn things around, I’d even accept a trip to Hell—if I still believed that shit," she’d said, sipping from a steaming cup of sugared coffee. "Once, I wanted to be a nun. Now, life’s a muddy pit."

It had been after seven in the September evening, and she had sat in the black leather chair in front of Blackstone’s desk.

"You’ve lost your faith, have?" he’d asked from his chair behind the desk. In the semi-darkness of the office, smoke had seemed pour out of the eyes, ears, and nose of the man whose face was a silhouette.

"Probably never had it, Father," she’d mumbled.

"Oh," he’d said, then inhaled on his cigarette. "I do believe you did have it. We all once had ‘the faith.’"

She’d wondered what the last statement meant.

"Believe anything?" he’d asked, coughing slightly.

"Tried witchcraft once."

"Me, too."

Exhaling a huge cloud of smoke, Blackstone droned, "Yes, Sandra, your life has been quite routine--unless, of course, you count your senior year in high school when, in defense of your loud-mouthed sister, you got in numerous fights, and in everyone of the bloody things you apparently knocked the other girl senseless; or four years ago when you stalked a boyfriend who walked out on you; or those nightmares in a strange twilight land where green ooze hangs from the trees and the river runs red with blood." The week before, during the first session, Sandra had told him about her past.

Dizzy from smoke, sick from boredom, Sandra had now leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and asked, "So, Father, tell me: what do I do?"

The Father had sat silently behind his desk, blowing smoke rings. Then, he had spoken the challenge: "What to do? Why, child, do what all good Catholics all do: to use a popular line, create your own fucking reality."

"I do the driving?"

"You do the driving. Don’t be afraid to go at high speeds into dangerous places."

"Cataclysmic, huh?"

"Cataclysmic."

Relishing taking control, Sandra had smiled and given no thought to the incongruity of a priest’s giving advice that included anything from diving off a cliff into crystal blue water to joining a blood cult and participating in child sacrifice.

II. Now, on the brink, Sandra eyed the Seven Eleven across the street from her. In less than twenty-four hours her life should be hurtling in a new direction. The igniting act would require courage, but she had that.

Several times in the past four hours, she had mentally rehearsed the incident: around 3:10 am, with no one in the store, she would walk into the Seven-Eleven; masked, she would stick the revolver in the face of the proprietor and hand him a note demanding all the money in the cash register; carrying the money in a bag, she would leave and jog seven blocks to the Laundromat where the car would be waiting.

She had conceived the plan one week before while sitting across from a customer in a dark corner at Whistle Willy’s. Willy’s was the smoky, seedy redneck restaurant where she worked. A wall-eyed part-time English instructor at the community college, Ray had often rambled on about "the evil ooze in every man, woman, and child." Occasionally, for kicks, he had read from the Satanic Bible.

Sandra had always found sessions with Ray refreshing. Feeling kinship with the academic, Sandra had told him that day in the corner about the house she had grown up in: the black cat that she and her sister had seen walking up the side of their two-story house, leaving a trail of bloody paw prints; the closet doors that opened and slammed shut twenty or thirty times a night; the twittering, jabbering voices in the attic that sang the names of each family member. It had been like a confession, and Ray had listened with bated breath. Eyeballs bulging, he had finally told her that he was basing his next story around her.

"Tell me about that story, Ray," she had asked, tickled pink.

"You ever seen Stigmata or The Exorcist?" Ray had asked just before biting into his buffalo chicken sandwich.

Sandra had shuddered. A staunch Catholic, Sandra had found these films terrifyingly truthful. She had never cared for movies or novels about possession.

"Sure," she’d said.

His mouth full of crusty chicken, Ray had continued. "Well, that’s kind of what this story takes off from: good-looking brunette with great tits and nice ass removes her clothes and, with the help of her Ouija Board, summons a spirit from Hell that nearly fucks her to death, claims her soul and turns her into a knife-wielding killer. Pretty good, huh?"

Easily imagining herself in this role, she’d laughed nervously, remarking, "Yeah. Sure. I’ve always wanted to have sex with the devil."

"What?" Ray had quipped. "Why the Devil? Why not me?"

"Eat your damned sandwich," she’d playfully snapped, her mind suddenly fixing on a plan that she now knew could transform her life.

The plan had been forming in her mind like an unfinished painting all week, and with a burning heart, as Ray had devoured the sandwich, Sandra had leaned forward and whispered, "All right, bad boy. Wanna have some fun, Ray? Some real evil fun? Just once?"

Ray had stopped chewing and looked at her, his right eye pulling out of focus. Then, he had asked, "You’re joking, right?"

"Deadly as God," she’d remarked.

"What you got in mind?"

"I wanna rob a store." She had looked around to make sure no one else was listening.

"You what?" Ray had exclaimed, holding the three-quarters-eaten sandwich an inch or two from his mouth.

"Sssshhhh. You heard me. Rob a store. Hold it up. I need your car."

Ray had set the sandwich down. "You’re serious."

"Perfectly," she had responded.

Ray had looked away. "I don’t think I want anything to do with this."

"Sure you do," she’d responded. "You love me."

Ray had looked at her, paused and chewed. Aside from his part-time job at the college, he had no life; that much she knew about him.

"Sure I do," he’d mumbled, taking a huge bite from his sandwich. "Sure I do. Just fill me in."

As Sandra had watched Ray finish the sandwich, the man’s eyes had seemed to spin in their sockets.

III. 2:46 am. An hour before, the arctic front had exploded across the valley with apocalyptic force and dropped the temperature to below twenty. Sandra left her apartment bundled in a Colorado Avalanche ski parka, baggy white slacks that she had purchased days ago at K-mart, and blue running shoes. In the wind, she walked across the street. The parking lot and store looked empty.

This has to be perfect, she thought, fucking perfect. Standing just outside the store, chilled, she took the revolver from her side coat pocket. Then, after reciting a prayer to the lords of darkness and putting on her Krusty the Clown mask, she entered.

Inside, she instantly recognized the tall and skinny middle-aged man hunched over the counter: a reputed pedophile, he had been her college economics professor two years before. She couldn’t remember his name, but as he looked up from his magazine with a nervous grin revealing crooked yellow teeth, she felt nothing but contempt.

"Hi, Krusty," he’d said nervously.

Continuing to point the gun at him, she’d said nothing.

He raised trembling hands, his eyes gray with the grief of a condemned man. Keeping the weapon on him, she shuffled forward.

"Anything you want," he rasped. As he stepped back, she took the note out of her coat pocket and set it on the counter.

Trembling, he stared at her, then reached for the note.

"Don’t shoot, please, please, don’t shoot me," he whispered, picking up the paper. His lips trembled and moved as he began to read.

He took forever, it seemed, and Sandra wondered how often he would read the message. It occurred to her that the man was taunting her. Perhaps, she thought, I should do the same.

Reaching forward, she banged her gun on the counter. He continued to read.

"Hey!" she bellowed.

Apparently ignoring her, the man read, his lips moving slowly.

Angry, she screamed, words flying out of her mouth: "Give me the money, you masturbating mother fucker, or I’ll shove the barrel up your ass and pull the trigger."

Sandra couldn’t believe what she’d just said and began giggling. Lowering the letter, the man looked at her and forced a trembling laugh.

The store lights dimmed and the storm outside exploded against the window. Many times, she had wondered what it would be like to put a bullet in someone. Killing fascinated her, and as she thought of taking the man’s life, she felt heavy, invisible arms wrapping around her and a voice whispering to put a bullet in his heart.

It was a wonderful idea. Thought became desire, and desire became compulsion. Gun leveled at the man’s chest, she knew she could get away with it. Ready to squeeze the trigger, she suddenly remembered a painting that she had seen years ago: Hieronymus Bosch’s The Temptation of St. Anthony. Even at the time, tormented by destructive impulses, Sandra had been moved by the depiction of the praying saint, surrounded by grotesque figures representing demons with a medieval town burning in the distance.

The image had come unbidden and with an unnerving thump, and silently cursing the God who had turned her life into something as dull as cold oatmeal, Sandra pushed the painting from her mind. As the wind howled beyond the door, the voice again spoke from within her: do it, do it now. Ordering herself to act before the moment passed, she squeezed, heard the short, quick burst, saw the man’s dumbfounded expression, and watched the man stumble backwards and collapse.

For an instant, she listened to her own heartbeat. Than, feeling as if her soul had just been yanked out, she stepped forward, leaned over the counter, and looked down. The large red stain soaking the front of the man’s shirt told her that the bullet had entered the chest or stomach. The man gasped and began choking, his eyes wide open, and when he looked at her, silently pleading, she pointed the gun at his heart and fired again.

With the second shot, she returned to herself; killing someone was what she’d wanted to do all along, and she wished she could tell Father Blackstone. Turning, she shoved her weapon in her coat pocket, and walked out of the store. On the coldest night of the year, the parking lot and the street out front were empty.

In the biting wind, she pulled off the mask, stuck it her pocket, and began jogging down the small street to the left of the store. At the end of the first row of low-income apartment buildings, she cut to the left again and toward the alley.

Hours later, it seemed, she reached the parking lot behind the all-night Laundromat. Winded, she saw Ray’s car behind a large green trash dumpster. The keys, she knew, would be under the front seat.

IV. Sandra had another plan: she would keep driving up through Nevada on the dark icy, snowy roads until she reached northern Idaho. There she planned to stay with some friends from Chicago and then maybe go into Canada.

As the wind fiercely pounded her car, she peered through snowy darkness and saw looming in the distance a yellow sign with bold, blue lettering. The sign read "EAT" and underneath it "GAS." As she rounded a bend, she saw the small store. Lights pouring through the glass door told her the place was open. Hungry enough for raw steak, she slowed the car and pulled onto the gravel in the front of the store.

When she got out, she was struck by how incredibly windy and cold it was. She looked up. Jagged gray mountains stood against the black sky. Somewhere behind the clouds was the moon.

She began walking to the store when a sudden violent blast of wind knocked her backward into a pile of snow. For a time, she remained unstill, struggling to will herself to move. As her head cleared, she felt sharp pain shooting from her shoulder to her wrists and stomach, as if she’d just been slugged in the arm.

It took her several minutes to get up, and when she did, another hard wind came, crumpling her with a blow to the side of her head. She yelled as she fell backwards, and when she reached the ground her head struck a sharp rock. The pain tore through her.

"What is this?" she whimpered.

The freezing wind howled. On her back, staring into darkness, she felt warm moistness at the base of her skull. She was bleeding profusely. As the pain grew, she began drifting into unconsciousness.

"Why is this happening?" she gasped, unable to move, wondering if she were victim of a dark cosmic design.

The wind blasted around her, freezing blood and bones. Then, strength ebbing from her, she heard the voice. She didn’t know whether it came from her mind or the wind.

--Don’t you really know? After all, you did commit your soul to Hell.

Sandra remembered. Just before entering the store, she had prayed. She waited for the voice to say something more.

Snow turned to sleet. Curiously, in place of freezing cold, she felt a soothing blackness descend over her, and as closing her eyes she felt herself floating. Wondering if she were going to die, she could not open her eyes. The wind shrieking around her, she relaxed and felt herself being sucked into a dark, swirling vortex, hands pulling her down, down, down.

V. Eons later, she awoke.

Where am I? she silently cried.

Sandra opened her eyes and gazed at the dark gray landscape. In the distance, in place of the sun, a huge unblinking eye studied her. In front of the eye loomed silhouettes of towering, jagged mountains that reminded her of broken glass. The air thick with smoke, fire consumed the village in front of the mountains. Just above the flames, large bat-like creatures circled like deformed butterflies.

Near her, on the other side of the square and beneath a decaying tower, a bearded, black-cloaked saint, who reminded her of Father Blackstone and whose eyes were hooked to thin wires, prayed to a woman clothed in red. Between Sandra and the saint grotesque things littered the ground: a young brunette woman’s head buried in sand, a large speckled spider crawling across a tiled floor, a dead fish with a hook through its gill, disease-blackened plants crawling with green snakes, a dead wall-eyed man hanging by a rope from the branch of a twisted tree.

In her worst nightmare, she had never seen this. She wondered where she was and what she was doing here.

And she suddenly knew, as if the words had been burned into her brain, that she had been condemned as a witch. Arms tied tightly behind her, she was bound naked to a stake on a small hill. The bruises and cuts covering her body and face suggested that she had been beaten, and the immense pain between her legs made her wonder if she had been raped repeatedly. Kindling of brush, branches, and logs, all soaked in oil, were piled around her.

--Care for some mashed potatoes? or maybe a raw steak? the silent voice finally mocked.

Her head snapped left, then right. It was the same voice she’d heard while lying in the snow.

--Where am I? she wondered, heart rate jumping.

--Where do you think you are? came the calm reply.

--God, I don’t know, she said, muscles in her face and stomach tensing.

--Guess. Please. I love guessing games. And don’t call me God.

To her far right, she saw a river of blood meandering through parched land. A stench of rotting flesh filled the air. Darkness pierced her heart. Then it hit her.

--It can’t be… she sighed, truth dawning on her.

--Oh, but it is, the voice chimed.

--Am I in Hell? she guessed.

--Well, now, what do you think?

She looked up and noticed that the spider had one eye.

--My guess is that I am in Hell, or a kind of Hell, she responded.

The response came quickly.

--Yes! That is exactly where you are, beautiful woman. You are in the very Pit of Hell—or, as you say, a kind of Hell, whatever that is. Welcome.

This situation, she knew from years of schooling, went against science and reason.

--But this can’t be Hell, she answered; Hell is a fiction.

Somewhere, she heard laughter.

--Yes, the voice hissed; that’s what Hell is: a sick fiction, twisted as your freakish friend Ray.

She thought about the corpse hanging from the tree.

--Hell is impossible, she said; no God would create it.

--That’s right, said the voice. Let’s ponder the will of the Almighty, who, in his infinite and glorious wisdom, created this smoking little oven. Go ahead think about that as flames fry your fucking entrails.

She paused, unable to breathe, and looked up at the eye in the sky. She was trembling.

--Am I dead? she asked.

--What do you think?

--That I’m dead.

--Yes, you are very, very dead, came the caustic reply.

Frantic, she moved her eyes to the saint, saw his mouth moving frantically. She expected his eyeballs to be yanked from their sockets soon.

--What happens now? Sarah wheezed, probably from the smoke. She felt a slight desperation born from the suspicion that this was not just a bad dream.

--Ah, a question right out of catechism. You tell me, Sandra: what happens in Hell? What? Harold Blackstone knows. Harold can’t wait.

--Harold the praying saint? she asked, glancing over at the praying man.

--The same.

--Will he burn?

--Certainly. Eventually.

--Will I burn, then…?

She looked to the distance and saw the eye behind the jagged mountains blink.

--Yes, the voice continued. Forever and ever. Once the fire is lit, the pain and flames will never stop. It’s worse than getting up with the fucking kids.

Fear coursing through her like bad electricity, Sandra struggled to reconstruct her thoughts and erase the horrid reality that she hoped she had created in her mind.

But the landscape remained.

--Your flesh will melt, the voice sang, and your eyeballs will pop, and your tongue fry in your mouth. You’ll repeat the horror an infinite number of times. Each time it will be as if you’ve never experienced being burned alive. The terror and pain will be unbelievable. It’s an experience you will endure forever.

Terror now pierced her soul

--Until the end of time? she asked, shaking, unbelieving.

--There is no end of time.

It was too much to grasp. She gazed at the huge black bat-like creature flying just overhead. The creature also had one eye.

--Where are you? Sandra finally asked, feeling faint.

In the prolonged silence, she heard the moaning of souls.

--I’m looking at you, kid, the thing said.

She looked through the smoke at the distant eye just beyond the mountains and felt she was going to vomit. Her heart pounded furiously as she panted and sweated like a dog.

--Peek-a-boo, the voice teased. It’s me, the all-seeing eye.

Horror now reality, Sandra could not think.

--Now, the surprise we’ve all been waiting for, said the voice, the eye blinking.

In the dark gray land, she noticed something shuffling toward her, a tall, thin, smiling man with crooked yellow teeth and an enormous bulge in his pants; whistling a Disney tune, he was approaching from the tower with a torch in hand. The man stopped inches from the kindling, bowed, then lowered the torch to the wood.

Tense, dizzy to the point of delirium, Sandra waited. As her legs were slowly forced apart, she felt something huge and slick slide into her. Silent, cruel laughter filled the air.

--A little send-off for my favorite girl, said the voice.

--Oh, God, please, no, not this she pleaded, pain actually giving way to temporary, fiery pleasure.

With effort, Sandra glanced down.

The fire crackled at her feet, moving quickly through the kindling, gathering into flames, and building into intense heat. Terror increased with heat.

Muscles convulsing, Sandra wanted to scream but could make no sound come from her mouth. Sickened yet resigned, she watched her punishment as flames licked her legs, stomach, and breasts. All the way from her skull to her feet, her bones filled with savage heat, and her flesh began to melt.

"God, help me," she sobbed, as the flames danced over her head and crept through her ears into her boiling brain.

It was just a matter of time. Flames roared and danced, branches popped; flesh and bones hissed and melted. Her vision fading to gray, then to black, she felt her heart and stomach explode. Flame shot from her mouth as she silently screamed for her eternal soul.

A million miles from God, Sandra stood on the small patio of her fourth story apartment. Always spectacular in southern Nevada, the December sunset bled the sky yellow, orange, red, purple and blue. Studying the colors, she felt suddenly afraid and knew something was watching her.

Brushing away her fears, she turned her mind to last night’s weather report. An arctic front was supposed to move in that night, dropping the temperatures to zero. She had never liked the cold. Wondering what it would be like to freeze to death, Sandra thought of Ray, her wall-eyed therapist, mentally rehearsed her robbery, and wondered if Blackstone would remember to leave the keys in the car.

As she walked back into her apartment, she hoped Blackstone’s car did not smell of smoke.