A dead man's diary

by Coulson Kernahan

My ideas about hell and heaven, even at the time of my death, were not very clear and not very many, although I do not think they were more cloudy and less practical than are the ideas entertained upon the subject by other folk. I had been brought up in all the old-fashioned orthodox and scriptural notions, and "going to heaven" was as inseparable in my mind from upward motion of some sort as "going to hell" was with downward motion. Each of the places was a separate and distinct one—the former being situated, according to my belief, somewhere in the direction of the zenith, while the latter I localized in the bowels of the earth, and connected in my thoughts with fire and darkness. Now let me give the results of my experiences, premising only that in regard to what I have to say about the after life, it must be understood that I am speaking only of that ante-chamber of the spirit-world—that in some sense purgatory, as I am half inclined to hold it—into which I have had admittance.

My experiences, then, are briefly these. The good and the bad are not parted, but exist together as they exist here, and heaven and hell as separate places have no existence.

I will tell you how I first came to discover this. I have said that after my change (in the spirit-world that which we call "death" is spoken of as the "change") I awoke to find myself in "hell," and I ought perhaps to add that I used the word as indicating a state of mental or physical suffering—in my case the former—and not with any local significance.

Even in hell, however, there are moments when the intensity of the suffering is, for a narrow space of time at least, relaxed, and when the anguish-stricken spirit is mercifully allowed a temporary reprieve. Such a moment occurred after the first awful paroxysm of self-loathing and torture which I experienced when my past life was made known to me in its true colours, and it was in this saner, and comparatively painless interval, that I met in the spirit realm one whom I had known and honoured on earth as a woman of the purest life and character. Being still under the impression that I was in "hell" in the sense in which I had been accustomed to think of that place, I started back upon seeing her, and hardly noticing her words of greeting, cried out in astonishment, "You here! You! and in Hades!"

"Where else should I be except where he is?" she answered quietly, adding, as she observed my look of evident perplexity, "It is Arthur, of course, of whom I speak."

I remembered then that when I had known her first, her only living relative was a worthless brother of that name, to whom she was passionately attached, but who had been dead so long that I had hardly any recollection of him. Before I could question her further, I suppose she saw something in my face which told her all that was necessary to be known of my own story, for she suddenly burst into tears, and taking both my hands in her own with a gesture of compassionate grief, exclaimed, "Forgive me my foolish and selfish forgetfulness! Oh, I am so, so sorry!"

It was from her that I first gathered that even for me there was yet hope, and it was from her lips that I learned much of that which I have to tell of the spirit-world.

"Do you think," said she to me, when I had again expressed my wonder at finding that heaven and hell were not as I had supposed, separate places, "Do you think that I could be happy anywhere separated from my brother? Why, even Dives in the parable was unable to forget the five brethren he had left behind him, and cried out amid the flames, asking that Lazarus might be sent to warn them, lest they too should come to that place of torment. Is it likely, then, that any wife, mother, or sister, worthy the name, would be content to settle down idle-handed in heaven knowing that a loved one was in hell and in agony? I know there are folk on earth who try to smooth out the creases that crop up in the creed-roll of their convictions, by asserting that the truly regenerate soul will unconditionally surrender everything to the will of God, and that they, for their part, are quite prepared to leave the fate of their erring fellow-creatures in the hands of the Creator. I don't say that they are not right in so speaking, although, as far as I am concerned, I have more sympathy with old Dives and his wish to warn his sinning brethren. But how are we to know what is the final will of God in regard to one's fellows? When we are satisfied that a man who has fallen into the water is dead, we may not unnaturally conclude that the will of God, as far as this world is concerned, is that he should come to an end by drowning, and we must bow to that will; but as long as we can see a 'kick' left in him, we feel that we must do all we can to bring him round again. Isn't that natural?"

I suppose I must have manifested some surprise at the plainness of her speaking, for after glancing at me for a moment with an amused smile, and with a twinkle of her old humour (I mean that kindly eye-twinkling of humour which is not far removed from the trickle of a tear-drop, and which, for all her piety, had been a noticeable element in her personality), she said, as if in reply to what was in my mind, "No, I don't speak like a sanctified spirit, do I?"

I was a little taken aback by her question, but answered that I was somewhat surprised at the homeliness of her speech, but was glad to find that death had left her old personality unaltered.