Vicarious

by Jon F. Merz

  She saw a small flagstone path running down one side of the house and took it. It led her to the back door. Lauren tried to door handle and found that locked as well.

  From her bag, she took out a roll of duct tape and penknife. She drew out a long strip of the silver sticky tape and then cut it. She pressed it diagonally across the pane of glass. Then she repeated the process, this time pressing the line of tape in the other direction so there appeared a gossamer ‘X’ on the back door.

  She paused, glanced around, and shook her head. Lauren Fields, she thought, nun and burglar.

  She slammed her left elbow at the intersection of tape and heard the glass give. The tape held it fast though, keeping it from shattering and making an awful noise. Lauren kept breaking the glass until she could reach her hand through and unlatch the bolt.

  Two minutes after she’d started, she entered the back hall of Sister Donovan’s home.

  She closed the door behind her and shivered. Inside the house it felt like a glacier had settled there. Her breath came in small wisps of heated air that warmed her face as she walked.

  In the kitchen she looked around. Some dishes still littered the sink. An empty box of spaghetti stood as testament to the dinner Sister Mary had never finished.

  Her last meal, thought Lauren. All because of me.

  She pushed through the wooden swing door separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. It felt warmer in the dining room. Lauren peered into the china cabinet and saw an old set of dishes. Bone china? She thought it looked so, but she wasn’t there to appraise Sister Donovan’s estate.

  She moved beyond the dining room and into the living room. A small television set and VCR sat on a low shelf at one corner of the room. A couch and armchair, both in a blue gingham pattern, occupied the majority of the room. She could see a stack of magazines in a small tray between the two pieces of furniture.

  She must have had an office somewhere.

  Lauren veered toward the hallway and found herself retracing the steps she’d taken the other night. A weird sense of dreadful déjà vu sprung up over her. She felt her heartbeat increase. Her breathing came in short rapid gasps.

  Calm down, she told herself. That was then. This was now.

  Find the journals.

  Find the journals.

  Her breathing slowed. Steeled now, she pressed on into the bedroom. The oxygen tank sat close to the bed. Pictures on the walls showed Sister Donovan in a wide array of locales. Most of the pictures she stood smiling with what looked like native peoples. None of the framed photos had captions, but Lauren guessed some showed regions in Africa, South America, and Southeast Asia.

  Quite the traveler.

  The other night, Sister Donovan had started to say something when she’d been killed. Had she been alluding to some reservoir of information that would help Lauren now?

  She looked around the bedroom. Aside from the bed, there was a bureau with a big mirror. A stack of religious texts sat on top. A few more magazines lay by the bed.

  But otherwise…nothing.

  Lauren got down on her hands and knees. She lifted the skirt of the bed and glanced under. It seemed even darker under there.

  Should she turn on a light?

  Someone might see it and wonder who was inside. Lauren doubted news of Sister Donovan’s death had reached many people in the neighborhood, but she didn’t want to chance someone calling the police.

  Her eyes had adjusted pretty well anyway. And the streetlight in front of the house sent some of its light into the house. Not much, but enough to make out things.

  Lauren went back to the kitchen and found a flashlight in one of the drawers. She headed back to the bedroom and opened the closet door.

  She switched the flashlight on and instantly a beam of yellow cut into the swath of dark. Mounds of books met Lauren’s eyes. Clothes on hangers draped over the stacks.

  It must be here, she thought.

  Again she got down on her knees and began going through the piles. Most of it was a substantial collection of science fiction novels. Apparently, Sister Donovan had been quite a fan. Lauren smiled. It made her feel closer to the old nun knowing that she’d been human as well as divine.

  Behind her, at the entrance of the closet, a pile of books began to form a mound. Lauren kept passing the books out over her shoulder. The closet seemed much deeper than she’d originally estimated. The more books she got through, the more stacks appeared before her.

  Until at last, she saw wall.

  How many books did she have time to read, thought Lauren. There must be at least two thousand here.

  Her hands touched cool plaster. The back of the closet. She shone the flashlight at the side walls and pressed into them trying to find some sort of cubbyhole or secret panel.

  Nothing.

  She leaned back on her haunches and sighed. Where would it be?

  She shivered, feeling the cold of the house. She hoped Steve and Dr. Kwon had their eyes on that Darius fellow. The last thing she wanted to think about was him showing up here right now.

  Put it out of your mind!

  A creak from somewhere else in the house startled her. She jumped and the flashlight dropped, hitting the floor of the closet with a bang. The light vanished.

  Darkness swallowed the closet again.

  Lauren sat very still. Her ears strained against the heavy silence, probing, trying to find another sound.

  Was someone there with her?

  Steve?

  She frowned. No. He’d be busy with Kwon.

  Lauren drew the small gun he’d given her earlier. Ever so quietly, she pulled back on the top of the gun, chambering a round. Each tiny click and clack made her hold her breath.

  Off came the safety.

  She aimed the gun at the closet opening.

  Listening.

  Maybe it was him.

  Maybe he’d eluded Steve and Kwon.

  Gotten away.

  And had only one thing on his mind.

  Lauren.

  Her thighs burned from squatting. The gun, small though it was, began to feel heavy in her hands. She wanted to put it down. She wanted to slump against the cool wall and rest for a moment.

  But fear wouldn’t let her.

  The closet grew colder.

  Lauren began praying. In her head she began reciting every prayer she’d ever known. Over and over again.

  The silence hung heavy.

  Suffocating.

  She wanted to draw a deep breath. She wanted to stand. To move. Adrenaline had flooded her system and she felt jumpy.

  Stay still!

  A thought occurred to her then. The sound the flashlight had made when it struck the wooden floor.

  Bang.

  Not a dull thud.

  Not the sound she would have expected.

  Bang.

  Almost as if –

  Her eyebrows jumped. Maybe?

  There seemed to be no noise coming from the house. Maybe the old home was settling. Noises in old homes were common, even if for no real reason.

  She smiled. No one was there.

  She lowered the gun.

  Slid the safety back on.

  And set it down to her left.

  Lauren turned back around to face the rear of the closet. Her fingers found the flashlight. She tried the switch.

  Yellow light bit back into the dark. She sighed. Good, the bulb hadn’t broken at all. The switch must have simply gotten hit when it fell.

  Lauren shone the light on the floor.

  There!

  She saw a cut in the floorboards. It made a square almost a foot and a half long by a foot wide. She took out her penknife and opened the blade.

  It fit into the tiny opening and Lauren pried it back.

  The floorboard came up.

  And she saw them.

  A series of black leather journals shrouded in plastic wrap to prot
ect them. She removed the package; there must have been ten of them in total.

  There were no marks on the cover. Lauren carefully slid them out of the plastic and then unfolded her legs, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the closet.

  For some reason, she felt better about reading them in there than out in the open.

  Did she feel safer there with the clothes tickling her head? Almost like being a little kid and hiding in the clothes racks at the department store again, she decided.

  She took up the flashlight and opened the first journal. The light showed old yellowed paper, crinkling at the edges. On the pages, deep black ink flowed in cursive writing.

  On the first page, she read:

  A study of the minions of evil by Graham Westerly.

  August 1939

  Lauren flipped through the pages. His writing was tough to read until she’d accustomed her eyes to its massive loops and swirls. She could tell he’d been artistic as well judging from how he wrote.

  But the first journal failed to produce anything interesting with regards to the Soul Eater. There was no mention of him at all. And it wasn’t until Lauren had pored through nine of the journals that she finally found it.

  There on the final pages of the tenth journal that had been started in 1947, she found what she’d been seeking.

  Few of the Devil’s children are as fearful as the Soul Eater.

  For years, I could not fathom its purpose. I was only able to

  trace its nefarious deeds back through the annals of history.

  It seemed its existence was rumored only in whispered legends,

  and yet, I somehow knew it was much more. Little did I realize

  the truly awesome power with which its Dark Lord bequeathed it.

  In truth, the Soul Eater is a more a demon than man – and yet it

  may assume the guise of a man as easily as we draw a breath.

  Indeed, it is by this form that the Soul Eater accomplishes his

  task. For as a man he can walk among the peoples of earth

  with no fear of discovery.

  He is the Devil's emissary - the primary instrument for his

  resurrection.

  Lauren looked up from the journal and felt cold fear wash over her. My God, she thought, how will we be able to stop this? She took a breath and kept reading.

  The Soul Eater is responsible for collecting evil, for it is through

  the evil of others that he, the Devil, lives and lives best.

  The words echoed inside her head. Sister Donovan’s last words. Here they were, in Graham Westerly’s own hand.

  The Soul Eater steals the souls of those who are most evil

  within our society. For years I felt confounded by this theory.

  It was only after much research that I learned that the Devil’s

  power was scattered on Earth by God as a way of keeping the

  Dark Lord from ever coming onto this plane. Unable to

  manifest himself here, the Devil languished long in the

  netherworld, constantly trying but finding no suitable portal of

  evil through which he could enter our world.

  So he created the Soul Eater. He sent this demon to our plane

  with the purpose of harvesting the souls of the most evil. The Soul Eater gathers these souls. And if he is able to gather enough of them,

  he will be able to open a portal to Hell and enable Satan to enter a physical body here on Earth.

  I know not how the resurrection would occur. Nor do I know

  how many evil souls must be gathered for the resurrection to

  occur. I know the Soul Eater has wandered our plane for

  millennia. Always at work. Always gathering. Perhaps he

  keeps these evil souls within him, but I think not. I think he

  must have some means to contain them – be it natural or not.

  In the guise of a man, the Soul Eater may be reasonably assumed

  to be vulnerable to those things that all men are. In his true form,

  however, the Soul Eater would be almost impossible to vanquish.

  Of all that I have encountered, none has disturbed me as much as

  The revelation that Satan is actively trying to gain access to our

  World. I believe that if the Soul Eater were successful, his

  Master would be impossible to banish again.

  Lauren slumped back against the wall. Her breathing came in fast gulps. This is it, she thought. He’s trying to bring the Devil here.

  To Boston.

  I’ve got to tell Steve.

  She glanced back at the journal. The next few entries scared her even more.

  Chapter Twenty

  19 March 1947

  Few die without leaving some indication of how they have shuffled off this mortal coil. And yet, the victims of the Soul Eater bear no indication of the manner of their death. It was by this means and this means alone that I was able to first pick up the trail of the demon.

  I heard of a mysterious rash of deaths in Rio de Janeiro in early March. Four victims, all died without any signs of their death. They simply ceased to live. I’d studied the Soul Eater – scant though the information was – long enough to know his peculiar calling card.

  I flew to Rio on two days previous, determined to find and kill the demon if I could.

  21 March

  Another body has turned up bearing no signs of death. The victim was well known to the police – suspected in over two dozen murders. Evil apparently found a home within him and thus he drew the demon without even knowing it.

  This latest body was discovered roughly twenty miles to the north of Rio.

  He is moving.

  And I am on his trail.

  29 March

  Is there any time in our lives when we forsake logic in favor of intuition? I know not what draws me out of Brazil now. But I feel it deep in my soul that my quarry has left the country – his work here most likely done. But where will he go next? If he is wandering South America looking for evil, I must make certain assumptions and pray they are right.

  My gut tells me he will head for either French Guyana or Venezuela next. One of my guides has secured a small plane and we fly today into a small town named Curanya to see if I am right.

  4 April

  Curanya turned out to be wrong. As soon as we touched down, I knew he would not be there. I would have thought such a port city would certainly hold some allure with its bands of rogues wandering the docks.

  I was wrong.

  We fly to Caracas.

  12 April

  Two bodies have turned up. A rapist I am told and a suspected child molester. Both of them have ceased their evil in this world, but is that evil gone now, or merely pooling in some unholy reservoir of hatred?

  And where does he keep it? How does he transport these evil souls? He must have some extraordinary means to convey them, but I’m at a loss to determine how.

  Sent a letter home to Margaret. I miss her so. But I would not wish her here. The danger is too great. Hunting demons is better left to those of us too foolish to know any better.

  21 April

  No news for days and then a corpse outside the city this morning. I got a chance to examine the body myself, granted by the county examiner who allowed me a few seconds with the dead man in exchange for some much needed supplemental income.

  Touching the corpse, I half expected him to wake up and speak to me, such was the state of health he radiated. And yet, dead. Surely if the pilot is removed, the vessel will no longer function. Such is the case for those who meet this demon.

  Is he moving again? I fear it so.

  I have spoken to the locals who tell me of a place one hundred miles outside of the capital. It is a place they say reeks of evil. An old temple dedicated to the gods of the dead. A place of sacrifice and slaughter so many years back.

  I fee
l a pull to this place and fear I must follow it. The journey is hard, through miles of uncharted jungle. Still, we have managed to find a guide who says he knows the way. Whether he does or not remains to be seen. There are many in this part of the world who would simply say so and then rob or kill you at first chance.

  And to think, I used to fear the demon only.

  25 April

  The journey has been truly horrendous. If this be the route to hell it is paved with peril at every instance. Pervez, my loyal companion, took ill with dysentery on the first night of our journey, forcing us to pitch camp at half the distance we had wished to cover. Our guide, however, proved useful in procuring certain medicinal plants which have enabled Pervez to regain his strength in the days since the initial onslaught.

  We walked ten miles the next day, each of us hacking through tube vines, reeds, and Savannah grasses with our machetes. I’m sure the chink chink chink sounds carried further than we could have known. I dislike the idea of the jungle knowing we are coming.

  27 April

  We met a small band of Puchito Indians who live in the jungle and do quite well of it apparently. They stand a good foot shorter than a normal man, their brown skin painted with white stripes. Their heads are shaved save for the shaman who wears a mop top of black coarse hair. We enjoyed a meal at their village, whereupon the shaman appeared before me and squatted at my feet. Without a word, he simply looked at me and then cast a pile of chicken bones on the ground. His spindly fingers probed each one, clucking off a succession of strange noises. He then spoke quickly to our guide who told me he saw death in my future. Furthermore, we were then asked to leave the village immediately for fear that the death would come for them as well.

  Such a forecast does not sit altogether well with me. I must be honest. We are in a part of the world where the line between superstition and reality is hard to discern. And given that I am tracking a demon in the employ of Satan himself, the prognosis has left me concerned.