A Darkness in My Soul

by Dean Koontz

  There were worlds where trees grew ugly sores and bled on the ground.

  There were worlds where the sky shattered around us, was resurrected a hundred times every hour.

  We saw walking plants that had built civilization within the darkness of an alien jungle.

  We saw stones that spoke and stars that felt real pain.

  For ten thousand years, we roamed the corners of existence, learning what sort of kingdom we had inherited.

  And one day, Melinda said, "I'm bored. I've seen it all."

  "I agree," I agreed.

  "Let's revive religion," she said. "Let's at least let the people know we exist. We can come to them in burning bushes and in talking doves, and at least that will be amusing."

  "Sounds fine," I said.

  And though we had ended the rivalries of religions, we went down to the earth and revived them. We brought forth temples and synagogues, churches and altars, and garish robes and bejeweled priests. We created hierarchies of worthless prelates, and we spoke our words to the masses through the mouths of men of less value than most other men.

  And for a time, that was fine, rather like camp culture.

  But soon the novelty of it wore off-like camp culture too.

  "I'm bored," she said.

  "Me too."

  "But what is left?" she asked.

  "We could stir things up a bit," I said.

  "Stir things?"

  "A war or two. Some killings. We could take sides. You could command the Southern Hemisphere, and I the North. And the winner-yes, I've got it! The winner will be permitted to expend enough energy to create a new race of beings on some far-flung world!"

  "Marvelous!" she said, clasping her perfect hands across the full, rounded breasts I had come to know so well.

  We had long ago learned that the energy required to create a race of beings or to form a new planet was too much of a drain on us. We required five centuries of recuperation from such a task, and recuperation meant boredom-which we could not afford.

  It was a grand prize, then.

  And the wars began. They still rage, for she is a formidable opponent, though I do believe I will eventually whip her Hemisphere with a contingent of laser-weaponed soldiers I have been concealing in a state of suspended animation beneath the North Pole. They are members of the Canadian army, well-trained and deadly. She does not know of them.

  We have a fine time.

  We play our games, battling for the grand prize, both of us already imagining what interesting and grotesque race we could create if permitted the use of the power.

  We have a fine time.

  On earth, men die, thrown at each other by our machinations. Some fleeting moments, when I am waiting for her to make her move, I consider my origins: made of men. I consider my life and Harry Kelly and Morsfagen and the lot of them. And then I consider what I am doing, and the old darkness in my soul returns. But not for long, of course. I am no fool. Morsfagen is dead. The society we knew has fallen to newer ones. Harry is long ago gone. I barely remember what he looked like. So we play our games and forget our doubts. Gods can have no doubts, as I said once before.

  We play our games.

  We have a fine time.