Dark Places of the Soul: Dark Soul Trilogy - Book 1

by Paul Donaldson

  Dark Places of the Soul: Dark Soul Trilogy - Book 1

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Dark Places

  of the Soul

  (Dark Soul Trilogy – Book 1)

  Paul J Donaldson

  Dark Places of the Soul

  Copyright © 2005 by Paul J Donaldson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter 1

  February 1946

  “Do ya hear any more of ‘em awful screams?” The question reverberated into the silence of the dark February night.

  The query went unanswered.

  “Was horrid,” another voice plainly stated with a cloud of breath being released into the cold air.

  “Abner,” a third voice spoke harshly, “do ya think it’s dead?”

  Abner Hollis, six foot three and so thin his sports coat hung from his shoulders as if it hung from a clothes hanger, stooped down to peer into the deep hole in the earth, his jet-black hair in disarray from the recent struggle. “It was an awful sound wasn’t it?” The question didn’t really need asking. All four of the men standing by the open wound in the earth heard the inhuman cry, the voice of something ungodly, an injured, crying animal, cast to the deep darkness looming at the bottom of the pit.

  “I don’t hear nothin’ no more,” Caleb Hawkins said. He’d been the first voice to speak once silence had re-conquered the moment of screams, as they would come to think of the instant prior to the quiet they now conversed in.

  “The true nature of the dark soul has been shown to you,” Abner said, standing up straight to let his tall frame tower over the other men. He ran a long fingered hand through his hair in an attempt to comb it back into place. “Had it been a man it would not have uttered such an unearthly cry.”

  “We should close the earth.” The suggestion came from the youngest of the group, Randall Hawkins, Caleb’s younger brother. Randall had recently returned from Europe with a Purple Heart for having taken a bullet in his right leg and being lucky enough not to lose the limb. He learned all about explosives during his tour overseas, thanks to the Federal Government, and this expertise was the main reason Abner suggested to Caleb they bring the war hero along.

  Randall knew his task, closing the earthen tomb on something so hideous it couldn’t be described.

  A man, but not a man.

  A demon, but not a demon.

  “The earth was opened from below,” Abner responded, “we must seal the way up from the world of the damned.” Abner Hollis picked up what remained of the solid gold crucifix he’d stolen from Saint Augustine’s Roman Catholic Church. It, the thing they’d last heard screaming in the depths of the pit, had broken it in half, laughing at the four men in audience with a voice possessing very little human quality. Abner used the upper half of the cross like a stake, driving the body of the murdered savior into the thing’s heart. He nearly joined the demon in the pit, were it not for Caleb grabbing hold of him and keeping him in the world of the living.

  “I sure hope we did the right thing.” This voice belonged to Lonnie Wilkerson. At thirty-eight he was two years older than Abner, but Lonnie had never been much of a leader, just the follower who continually asked questions of those in authority. Lonnie Wilkerson was also the town’s most infamous drunkard, beaten out of life by a bottle.

  “You saw what it was capable of doin’. You all bore witness to its unholy crimes.” Abner Hollis threw a large stone into the hole before him.

  “Nothin’ we do is gonna bring Lilly back,” Caleb said quietly to the man who had become the groups leader.

  “It wasn’t human,” Abner insisted, “it took not only the flesh that was Lilly Carpenter, but also her soul. The Lord has said it must be destroyed and only through its destruction can Lilly find peace. You, of all people must place some value on her eternal peace.”

  Caleb bowed his head, unable to look Abner Hollis in the eye. Lilly, sweet Lilly, only twenty the day the thing, which now lay dead in the earth, came for her. Her love belonged to Caleb and had for nearly two years. He had hoped to soon ask old man Carpenter for Lilly’s hand in Holy Matrimony.

  Abner Hollis had arrived in town three days after Lilly’s body had been placed in the grave. The self-proclaimed minister drew Caleb (who still doubted Lilly’s virtue), Randall (a reluctant hero) and Lonnie (a lost abusive soul) to him, like a messiah calling his apostles. He sought to make the town see the demon, not the man who had raped and murdered Lilly Carpenter, but the evil spirit drawn into their small village to steer its inhabitants from righteousness. The town-folk claimed Lilly had been quite willing to except the advances of the stranger. The same stranger Abner insisted was in league with Satan. The naïve community showed an eagerness to hear the tall tale of an accidental death after a willing moment of passionate lust.

  Lonnie pulled a bottle from the side pocket of his pants and took a long swig of the addictive contents.

  “Put that away,” Abner demanded of a man struggling with his weakness.

  Don’t cha wanna take the second chance we bin offered?” Caleb said as he joined in confronting the man known as the town’s lush. “We all bin given a new opportunity t’ change what we are. Yours needs to begin here.” Caleb grabbed the bottle from the startled hand of Lonnie Wilkerson and proceeded to pour the liquid contents on the ground.

  “Don’t you have any doubts about what we did?” A defeated alcoholic asked. “I know you doubted Lilly.”

  Caleb’s fist squarely caught the jaw of Lonnie Wilkerson and if Randall hadn’t moved quickly the older of the two Hawkins brothers would have pinned his fallen victim to the frozen earth.

  “You have no idea ‘bout what I feel when it comes t’ Lilly,” Caleb blurted out as he shook off his brother. “Don’t cha dare judge me ya worthless drunk.”

  “None of this is important now.” The voice of Abner Hollis sharply cut through the disagreement.

  Randall kicked the empty bottle of whiskey to one side. He offered an extended arm to help the older man up from the ground as his brother turned away from the altercation. Accepting Randall’s gesture, Lonnie got to his feet, brushing imaginary dirt from his clothing and attempted to restore his pitiful pride.

  A sharp breath of the winter’s night slipped through the somber group. Abner rubbed the palms of his hands together trying to generate warmth. He turned away from the yawning mouth of stone, now the tomb of a demon. “Now we must close this gateway to hell and make certain it is never opened again.”

  Chapter 2

  July 19
84

  Three days had passed since a razor last touched his face. A wrinkled sports shirt and a pair of faded jeans looked as if they might have been slept in the previous night. He leaned against the coarse brick on the alley side of the small town pharmacy. The establishment’s name failed to register in his mind. It was ten minutes after seven and the morning offered barely any life on the main street. Those few who passed by the shadow he inhabited failed to glance upon his face.

  Colonial Street, like a black river dancing in the heat of a new day, lying between his position and the tiny diner he’d been led to. A blue Ford Fairmont moved up the road, heading south, out of town. Two young girls occupied the auto’s interior; the brunette in the passenger’s seat looked toward the alley, into the mouth of ungodliness, seeing only what she believed to be a vagrant, a homeless soul. He watched the vehicle until three blocks of concrete and brick structures filled the void between him and them. He was inclined to leave, to go back to the life lost somewhere in the past, a time before the repetitious dream began to control his life.

  Five feet, eight inches, he registered her approximate height. Shoulder length blond hair with a tight spiraling curl. Her mane framed a tired face, worn out by a life she struggled to survive. She was on time, just as she was in last night’s dream and all the dreams before. The same garments adorned her willowy form; tight jeans with well worn holes on both knees and a light blue blouse unbuttoned one button below what might be considered conservative.

  She entered the diner and he chose to wait a few moments before proceeding down the course he knew he must follow. He pushed his tired body from against the brick, stone which would soon be broken, but for now it had allowed him the luxury of leaning against its strength. He stepped into the street going unnoticed by a motorist in a white Toyota pickup. Another patron entered the tiny restaurant before him, a balding man in his sixties. This individual had never been a part of the dream and so he knew the balding man was unimportant.

  She sat at the counter. He noticed that her jeans appeared to have been tumbled dried without previously finding their way into a washer. Her blouse was clean, as always. He took a seat on a stool, leaving a vacant seat between them. Quickly she glanced toward him and offered a smile, mass-produced for men. Her eyes were blue; a strange sort of paleness tinted them. He had been able to piece together a complete description of her from the repetitious dream, the shade of her eyes, the texture of her skin around her neck, the fact that she had chosen to ban her bra. All this he could never have gathered from one brief encounter, but this particular moment had been a dwelling of his many times in nightmares.

  She ordered a glass of Orange Juice and an English muffin from a waitress who wore a name tag displaying her name as Joyce. The waitress was robust, in her forties with short black hair which resembled a curly mass of twisted barbed wire. Joyce poured the juice and set it in front of the girl before asking him what he would like to order. He would decide on two eggs scrambled with home fries, wheat toast, and of course a coffee. Why change a good thing since this had sat on his plate every night in his world of sleepless sleep.

  A newspaper rested on the counter between him and the girl. A brown coffee ring decorated the front page, it was folded in quarters. When he reached for it, interested only in the sports section, he knew they’d make eye contact. This time the meeting between her blue eyes and his would be longer lasting. The smile would be more real. She would want the front section of the paper and he gladly shared.

  He made his move in synch with his coffee being set in front of him. His fingers raked the newsprint as he looked away. Her fingers gently touched his. A moment of embarrassment hung lightly in the air between them and as in the dream his blues were drawn to hers.

  “Cream and sugar,” the waitress interrupted. He was expecting her intrusion, she never failed, but still he was startled by the effort to pull him away from that which he had chosen to cast his gaze upon.

  “Both,” he responded. “And thank you.” He was always polite.

  “I was going to just take a glance at the front section.” The feminine voice touched the morning like a soft whispery veil.

  He acted out the role of being embarrassed like a skilled performer on stage. “I’m sorry… go ahead… I don’t mind.”

  She pulled the front section free from the other three sections of the paper. Two of the sections fell to the floor. They both reached for it and he braced for the collision of foreheads which always followed.

  She sat back on the stool and rubbed the front of her head, laughing. He had taken the sports section of the daily news and left the balance of the paper on the seat dividing her realm from his.

  “My name is James,” he offered as she finished wiping a few tears of laughter away from her eyes.

  “Keri,” she stated in a voice with breezy edges.

  “You do breakfast here often?”

  “No… job huntin’ t’day… gonna try an see what’s up at the drug store across the street.”

  “Could apply t’ work here.”

  “Never waited tables… but it would be a possibility… tips are normally pretty good.”

  “See there Joyce,” he said to the waitress, “got you some counter help in training.”

  “Sorry, not lookin’ t’ bring in any new help right now hon, but ya leave yer name and number where ya c’n be reached and I’ll put ya on th’ list.” Joyce placed a small saucer with a buttered English muffin in front of Keri. The plate with eggs, home fries and toast was for James.

  He opened the section of paper he’d taken. Glancing over to Keri he caught her sneaking a quick look in his direction. She giggled, giving him the impression he was living through a sort of teen aged ritual performed by a girl in her early twenties. His vision turned back to the paper before him, Baseball standings. Detroit was holding their lead in the American League East. It didn’t seem as if anyone could catch them after their 35-5 start. He neatly folded the paper back as he had found it, minus the section Keri was still buried in.

  “It doesn’t look like you’re spendin’ your time in the classifieds,” he commented.

  She took a bite of her muffin and wrinkled her nose at him. “Priorities… ya know… the worldly news ‘n stuff like that.”

  “Me… I’m totally into sports and the funnies section. That stuff about the Middle East drives me absolutely nuts.”

  “Can I ask you somethin’?” She took another bite of muffin as she asked.

  He simply nodded his approval at her efforts to pry into his personal life.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I teach,” he offered as an answer to her query, “and nothing t’ do with current events.”

  Her returned expression was laced with multiple layers of doubt.

  “Seriously,” he said over the rim of his coffee cup, “I teach a course in creative writing at a local high school and a couple plain old English courses just for good measure.”

  “I guess you could pass for an English teacher… although every male teacher I ever had was much older than you and either bald or completely gray.”

  “I’ll take all that as a compliment… that I’m not bald or gray.” He took another sip of his hot coffee before continuing. “Guess I could use a shave and a clean shirt. I’m kinda takin’ the summer hiatus bit a little far.”

  “You also seem a little… youthful t’ have me absolutely convinced.”

  “Four years at a state college… four more taking evening classes for my masters, mind you of course that is after spending the day trying to control some very unruly high schoolers and here I am, twenty-seven and half way t’ tenure.”

  He took a final swallow of his coffee and nodded when the waitress offered a refill. Keri looked over her shoulder at the front door of the drug store, checking to see if the closed sign was flipped over to reveal the store’s opening.

  “When did you know what you wanted t’ do with your life?” The question was
tossed out into the bacon aroma air.

  “Still not certain,” he paused for a moment to think over his next few words. “I love what I do, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes I wonder if it’s what I’m suppose t’ be doing… in the grand order of things.”

  “Told you ya don’t look like a teacher… philosopher maybe… High School English… I don’t think so.”

  “You still in school?”

  “Not for me… barely made it through high school.”

  “Did you ever have anything that you really wanted to do? A dream… a special dream… the kind of thing you always knew was far fetched, but it still filled your mind?”

  She looked over her shoulder again, through the front window of the restaurant, while finishing what remained of her Orange Juice. “When I was younger I was intrigued with painting. I wanted t’ sit at my easel all day and paint beautiful mountains and sunsets. I use t’ go and set up in a field and paint flowers, water color or oil, it didn’t matter. I wasted a lot of time.”

  “Wasted?”

  “My mother didn’t see the value of any type of art. She was always tryin’ to protect me from becoming just like her… lazy, a dreamer lookin’ for a man to pull her through life. If I had danced she would have told me I was wasting my time. If I sang she’d have said the same. Lucky me, I liked t’ paint and so she told me… right to my face that I was wasting my time.”

  “What about your father? Did he think your painting was worthwhile?”

  “Don’t know,” she answered as she did the over her shoulder thing again. “Don’t know who he is… never met him.”

  “Sorry… I didn’t mean to pry into something that’s obviously none of my business.”

  “It’s alright. My mother use t’ say I was better off not knowing him.”

  The waitress placed a check in front of both customers. He laid a twenty on top of the green and white slip.