[ WP ] When you die , you do n't go to the afterlife of you 're religion , you go to the afterlife of the religion whose tenets you followed most closely , knowingly or not .

It was a simple room. White, clean, at least, though there were specks of dust trailing lazily in the air, congregated particularly around the single fluorescent light. I was sat in a simple, slightly uncomfortable metal chair at a plastic and metal table. Across from me sat a young man in a finely tailored suit, a tie in the red and black alternating pattern of a checkerboard. He wore a winning smile as finely crafted as his suit. 
 
 `` Well then,'' I grumbled drily, `` Heaven or Hell?'' My death had not been quick, or easy: deadly car accidents are such a forgotten part of life until they are experienced. Here, with no pain, I realized that I had pretty definitely been wrong about the presence ( or lack ) of an afterlife. 
 
 The man simply barked out one laugh. It was n't a pleasant sound. I winced. This was going to be... awful. 
 
 `` Oh, neither,'' he said. 
 
 I raised an eyebrow. `` Purgatory?'' 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 `` Well out with it then,'' I said in a combination of an angry roar and a squeal. My carefully held together cool was completely crumpling. I suppose that was fair, what with apparently being held in some sort of nether dimension. And being dead and all. 
 
 `` Well, you've correctly surmised you're dead.'' 
 
 I nodded and bit my lip. That removed several half-formed theories involving aliens. A shame... or perhaps not, I thought, with a sudden shudder. 
 
 `` And I am not related in any way to Roko's basilisk.'' 
 
 I sighed audibly in relief. 
 
 `` I'm just a... construct. A... greeter. The bell that rings when you open a door to a business.'' 
 
 I nodded. There were about twenty seconds of silence. When no more seemed forthcoming I scowled bitterly. My patience had long since crumbled. If this was a test, I realized dimly, I failed horribly. `` Well out with it then, damn it, what are you a greeter of!? Where am I, what am I doing here, why am I here, what am I meant to be doing here?'' 
 
 The damnable bastard simply smiled at my outburst. `` Well, I'm a greeter of here,'' he said, gesturing with his arms at the small white room. I paled. `` And this is all there is?'' I asked in a whisper, as if speaking it aloud would make it true. He nodded and I found myself incapable of holding back a wail of anguish. Immortality, in a box. It may not be hell but it was n't far off. 
 
 `` Well,'' he said with a wink. `` There is one other thing.'' 
 
 `` What!?'' I begged, practically lunging across the table. 
 
 He waved a hand. `` I'll get to that.'' It took great effort to resist the urge to strangle him. 
 
 `` You're in the afterlife, you're asking me questions...'' 
 
 I clenched my teeth but bit my tongue. 
 
 `` You're here because this is your afterlife, the one your actions most fit,'' he leaned in, his eyes twinkling with evil glee, `` and you're doing **exactly** what is expected of you.'' 
 
 I quailed slightly, but curiosity overcame me. `` The afterlife my actions most fit...?'' I asked. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 `` But that's nonsense!'' I protested. `` Surely there are many afterlives where the only requirement for inclusion is existence!'' 
 
 He nodded again. 
 
 `` I've written of such things, many times,'' I protested again. He smiled wider. It looked like he was baring his teeth. 
 
 `` Indeed, you have. Of course, there are many ways of... breaking ties. Being the creator of an afterlife could almost certainly be said to be a strong tiebreaker.'' 
 
 I frowned, racking my memory for the many stories of such things that I had written. None, at least none I could recall, resembled this. 
 
 He leaned in and his teeth seemed to grow longer and his mouth unnaturally wide to accommodate them. `` You've written many times of terrible things. The yawning, tearing, tumultuous void. The ravening dark. You've written of hunger, and madness, and despair.'' I blanched and stammered. 
 
 `` You've written adventure, but never without suffering. You've written of salvation, but never without first terrible mistakes from which one must be saved.'' 
 
 The wall behind him crumpled, revealing a shrieking darkness, pulling at the room and everything in it. The light flickered madly as with an ungodly whine the table and chairs on which we sat slid inexorably towards it. `` Of course,'' he shouted over it even as it pulled us closer, `` you've not often written yourself in such situations. Too afraid, perhaps, of what might be?'' he cackled. I threw up my arms as a meaningless defense. 
 
 `` No, you've been immune to the rules you wrote for others,'' he said, and I thought I detected genuine anger as he vanished into that shrieking, hungry maw of night. 
 
 When I touched it, I found myself seated back at the table. There was a typewriter in front of me, but I registered it only barely between my sobbing and a sudden break to vomit. 
 
 When I had collected myself, at last curiosity overcame me again-tinged with boredom, and I wrote. I wrote of beauty and its reverse. I wrote of victory and defeat. Of horror and hope. But I also wrote of a final perfection, for all, a reward paid for enduring what was necessary. 
 
 The floor beneath me turned to glass, and at last I gazed at what I had made. Rolling hills, deep forests, sprawling cities. A perfectly imperfect place. I smiled. `` Think I'll have a visit.''
