Somewhere in New Jersey or Boston… Or maybe Chicago, possibly even Detroit, whatever.

  Inside a drab, joyless and pathetic excuse for an apartment complex, there was a hallway. There was a hallway on each floor, of course, but it’s one hallway in particular that is worthy of note, on a very specific floor. Which specific floor doesn’t actually matter (the complex had only five, maybe six floors in total), but it wasn’t the first floor, that much is clear. Upon reflection, it probably wasn’t the top, either, so one of the other three… or four.

  Each level had the same layout: four apartments (the largest by itself on one side, the three smaller rooms on the side opposite), plus a hallway in the middle with a cracked, grungy window at one end, and an elevator at the other (its door was almost always left wide open) –– all infused with the same atmosphere of mildewed melancholia and inviable dreams so thick and cloying it had virtually precipitated and dripped down the hideous, yellowed wallpaper in brown snotty streaks, so it’s quite easy to forget which level was which. Thus, it doesn’t matter. Pedantic intellectuals of a certain sort might disagree with that, those with the severe, stoically harsh scowl of one exhausted from the grand and unsolicited burden of knowing more than everyone else; but for all their knowledge –– its very mass tilting their head back so they are permanently forced to stare down their nose –– they all seem blissfully ignorant of the fact that no one else gives a shit about what they think.

  What happened took place in a hallway; pick a floor, and be happy about it, dammit.

  It was on that floor where the event occurred, something so spectacular and extraordinary that it could have been perchance misconstrued as a miracle, if anyone had been around to witness it. Several rats were scurrying about across the stained, musty carpet of the hallway, darting to and fro from their many ratholes in the corners of the hall; one of them happened to notice the event, stopping in its tracks while it watched, but quickly lost interest and scampered back into its hole. Perhaps rats regard miracles as the world regards its elitist pedants.

  If only to appease them –– the pedants, not the rats –– it would admittedly be more accurate to state that the event happened atop the door to one of the apartments, the middle of the three on one side, to be precise: Carl Vellman’s apartment door. To say that explaining who Mr. Vellman is –– and how he actually caused everything that happened –– would be unimportant at this juncture is grossly inaccurate, a serious misrepresentation of the truth, but regardless of his role in it all, suffice it to say that now is just not the time; no pun intended. He will reveal everything when need be, but for the moment, it is the event at this vaguely precise location that should be discussed first.

  Seven or eight seconds past midnight on some date in autumn or spring –– during a calendar year very much like the current one –– a faint glow began to emanate from underneath Carl Vellman’s door; a hazy, pale blue light, which suddenly darkened into a deep, vibrant violet, then condensed as it gained physical matter and began rapidly liquidizing. At the same time, another glow began to radiate from the door’s center, matching the fluid in hue and viscosity, and then all at once the liquid was surrounding the door, covering and concealing it entirely as the matter formed into an oval. All the while, the light and subsequent liquid softly hummed and vibrated, briefly rattling the door on its hinges before masking it from sight. The blue glowing oval hummed in its place.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Then, after another second or two, a man stepped out of it.

  He was indisputably quite handsome –– if perhaps only when one squinted just so, in the glow of a low-wattage lamp –– wore a cheap, tacky suit over a wrinkled, stained button-up shirt adorned with a limp tie, and on his head was a lumpy, felt fedora, misshapen and asymmetrical in every detail, all of which was a lackluster gray that had long since become faded with time and, presumably, disappointment. In his right hand, he held a black, imitation-leather briefcase. His overall appearance had the impression of someone who had tried for “Dashing ‘50s Businessman,” but was unable to do any better than “Depression Era Stockbroker.” Fittingly, the confusion on his face as he looked up and down the hallway, his nose scrunching as the odor of rodent feces and sadness stuck his nostrils, most likely resembled the dumbfounded gawks of those brokers watching the inflated arrows fall.

  “Oh, shit,” the man suddenly hissed, gritting his teeth as realization dawned upon him. “You dumb– Put the wrong address in, dammit.”

  His flimsy hat rustled from side to side and nearly fell off as he shook his head with annoyance, then hastily turned around and stepped back into the oval, muttering criticisms to himself. The words of self-scorn were lost as he disappeared into the blue light; the oval shuddered and glowed brighter for another second, then instantly vanished, leaving behind only a loud POP! when it blinked away as proof that it was ever –– the entire incident lasted perhaps thirty seconds in total, if that. Nine more seconds passed, and then the rats scurried out of their holes and continued their desperate quests in search of whatever it is for which rats quest; it seemed everything had returned to normal.

  It’s quite possible –– and one should think it most likely –– that other events led to this particular one; the “miracle” of an ostensible Heavenly gateway suddenly materializing in the hallway, complete with a befuddled angel stepping foot onto this plane (the fact that he seemed disgusted by what he saw would most likely be ignored by fanatical zealots). Additionally, classifying said events as more “important” or “significant,” or even “remotely interesting” and “not at all confusing,” would certainly not be remiss –– surely, at least one of them is more deserving of being labeled as miraculous. But like Carl Vellman, although the other events do bear their own merit, and are equally worthy of divulging, dissecting and understanding, it must be stated again, with the utmost emphasis, that now simply isn’t the time. In fact, it’s ultimately that exact detail which provides the very reason for this inconvenience: “Now” isn’t the time. Not any more. And it won’t be again for quite a while.

  But this is the closest one can get to it at the moment.

  Which means it’s the only rational place to begin.