The Limpet Syndrome

by Tony Moyle

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Brimstone. “Anyway, the deal we agreed was not something that was in my power to offer. Maybe he will be more sympathetic?”

  “Who’s he?” asked John as they reached the top of the lift shaft. Again there was no answer.

  The rusty door swung open to reveal level twelve. The first thing that struck John was the lack of edges around him, atypical of all the other areas that he had seen. From one to ten the levels sat on a cliffside that ran in a huge oval teetering over a central chasm that revealed each of the levels above and below. There were no cliffs towering around the edges of the highest level. On level twelve only the great desolation of space stretched out infinitely above them. The stars and constellations lighting up the sky like an immense Christmas tree, the very last window on John’s Universe.

  Amongst the stars, suspended in zero gravity, were hundreds of metal boxes fixed to the ground by thick, wrought-iron chains. Each box appeared to be the size of a small car but was the shape of a cube. They floated hundreds of feet up in the air, yet the screams from the inhabitants were as clear as if they were parked on the ground. Below these strange prisons was a vast, round table built of smooth, black rock. Positioned around it stood dozens of beautifully constructed jewelled thrones. Each of these massive chairs would make John look like a toddler if he’d sat in one. Each throne had a different gemstone motif, branding the owner that would sit there. Of those waiting for their masters, only one was occupied.

  As John was ushered towards the table the figure of a man sitting perfectly still watched them approach. This was not the type of demon that John had come to expect. There was no predominant element that made up his anatomy. The man’s blond hair nestled neatly just above his shoulders, and there was an uneasy but friendly feel to the electric-blue irises that peered towards them. He projected the essence of purity, a white gown accentuating his tanned, smooth skin and the very sight of this exceptional man lifted John’s mood, pacified by the pull of his gaze.

  “You have been very busy, John.” The figure got to his feet and moved around the table towards him.

  “Who are you?” asked John politely, expecting the same level of non-responsiveness that he’d been getting from Brimstone.

  “I am Asmodeus, keeper of Hell and the Devil’s will,” he replied in a soft, captivating voice.

  “Oh,” replied John, still unclear quite who he was, but certain that he was someone serious.

  “And you are John Hewson. The seemingly ordinary man with an extraordinary desire to meddle in the affairs of others. I have sent for you because I sense that you want something from me, John?”

  “I only ever wanted what was promised.”

  “Do you deserve it?”

  “I did what was asked of me.”

  “You cannot lie to me, John.” Asmodeus’s voice hardened and again fear reappeared in John’s mind. “You were told to send Sandy’s soul back to us. But instead you attempted to send it somewhere else. Somewhere it did not belong. We cannot have a mortal playing with immortality, can we? Maybe there are a few others that you wish to save while you’re at it?”

  Asmodeus strutted over to an elegant silver platform where two clear-glass decanters stood filled with faint blue gas clumped together in a cloud-like form. The gases were less lively and duller in colour than the other souls that John had witnessed.

  “Do you know what these are, John?”

  “Souls.”

  “Almost,” replied Asmodeus. “They are pieces of souls. They have been splintered from their host before their time. They wait for the remnants to join them. They wait impatiently for their shadow.”

  “The shadow? I’ve heard that phrase all too often,” replied John, considering his conversations with Herb and Faith.

  “These represent the other side of Emorfed,” replied Asmodeus. “These part-souls must wait for their Judgement Day, idle and untouched. They will attempt to rip apart anything that they come into contact with. They know no rational thought and will consume themselves and their surroundings unless they are reunited. They are no good to us. I hate their very presence in my kingdom. They’re a plague with no known cure.”

  Spontaneously he opened one of the jars and poured the contents into his mouth, which prompted his features to distort. The hair on his head descended down his back and curves appeared on his chest. As his body shrank by a good foot, his face now displayed a feminine quality. In a smooth, fluid motion the man who had stood before him was now a much more familiar figure.

  “Faith,” John shouted in hope.

  “No, not quite. Still Asmodeus, but you clearly recognise the soul within,” he replied in Faith’s hypnotic tone. “I will let you see her in a minute, if you can deal with it.”

  “What is this? Is this just part of your cruel game?”

  “We will never again receive these hideous creatures, these half-souls, and for that I have you to thank. Emorfed would have made a human race devoid of spirit, and if that had happened, what would become of us? We would diminish, no part to play in the laundering of sin. There would be no souls for us to feed upon, no pain to mete out. The purification of the damned would be unnecessary.”

  John never considered that his actions had actually kept Hell in business. It was an unfortunate side effect. Mankind had kept its humanity and with it kept the vile cruelty of their end after death.

  “I’ve helped you after all, then,” replied John, growing in confidence. “Surely I deserve some recognition.”

  “I’m scared,” came the voice from Asmodeus. “Help me, I can’t deal with it anymore. They are tearing at my mind. I can’t get away from them.”

  Influencing the reaction of the physical form where the soul lay, the female figure was sobbing uncontrollably. Although John knew that this was some sick joke, he was unable to separate his fear of Asmodeus and his love for Faith.

  “I’m here, Faith. It’s John.”

  “Who are you? You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re just here to hurt me!” she screamed, retracting as he got closer.

  “No. I’m here to help you. I will comfort you. I must save your soul, or I cannot live with mine!” he shouted.

  “Your soul is not worth saving!” she screamed. “The heat from your shadow burns me. Go away, foul and hollow beast.”

  “You cruel bastard,” John shouted. “You’re just playing games with my mind. This is just part of my punishment. I don’t care what you do to my soul anymore, I’ve already won. I beat you. Sandy escaped this foul place. Do what you want with me, but you’ve lost.” His anger burst at the seams of his vessol, and sparks of electricity whipped forward from the valve in his throat, trying to physically attack Asmodeus.

  Asmodeus vomited Faith’s soul back into the glass bottle and replaced the stopper. As he did so his body convulsed violently, morphing from the slender Faith into an altogether different creature. The demon’s body rapidly expanded into the air as both legs welded together as one. Where his kneecaps had once been something was desperately trying to escape the confines of his flesh. With a ferocious roar the head of a lion surged out. As it gnashed the air in front of it, more of the lion was revealed. Wings forced their way out of the body and legs that followed. Whilst the legs were developing their own safari exhibit, Asmodeus’s body was also changing. Thick, black, matted hair, that ripped through his white gown, was sprouting from his torso.

  Then as a final act of terror the centre of his face split open like a snake shedding its skin. The head of a bull was first to hatch out of his severed face. The heads of a goat and a man quickly followed it. John cowered on the floor from the three-headed demon that sat regally upon a winged lion, belching out fire that blackened all that it touched. The twenty-foot-high monster loomed above its victim, wielding a blazing staff sharply pronged at one end. The three heads were covered in bleeding wounds that dripped down into a disgusting pool on the floor.

  “You have shown your true colours, John, so
I will show you mine,” boomed Asmodeus, prowling ominously in a circle around him. “Why do you lie to yourself? You haven’t won. You worked out the truth long ago. It’s time you faced up to it. You can’t avoid it forever. How many lives do you need to live before you accept it?”

  “What do you mean, lives?”

  “This cycle will just continue until you accept what you already know,” taunted Asmodeus.

  “What am I supposed to know? I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Yes you do. It’s called truth, John. Why do you think you felt such hope from the other souls that you encountered inside the Soul Catcher?”

  John suspected he knew why he had felt souls around him that appeared to hold emotions out of step with that dark place. The problem was accepting the only explanation that seemed likely to him. Perhaps the Soul Catcher didn’t just attract negative souls? It would explain why there were souls with positive emotions congruous to their surroundings. The real question in John’s mind was why?

  “Let me give you the truth that you are so keen to avoid,” growled Asmodeus, reading John’s mind.

  Asmodeus raised each muscly arm in the air and brandished the razor-sharp claws that extended from each finger. The claws sliced away at his hairy chest, ripping through the flesh of his abdomen. John recoiled in disgust as blood and guts splattered to the floor and a vile odour of death and disease seeped from the open cavity. When he finally turned back to look at the disturbing sight he wished he hadn’t. Inside Asmodeus’s chest where most veterinary scientists would have hoped to find vital organs, hung the blackened bones of his ribcage. Holding the ribs like the bars of a prison stood the blue and grey plastic figure of a pigeon.

  “You see, John, there is no sanctuary for man!” bellowed Asmodeus. “No escape from fate.”

  “You said you would save me, John,” echoed Sandy’s voice from his hideous cage, before the body resealed itself, silencing him forever.

  “It’s not possible. It’s another one of your tricks. I sent him back as a positive soul. He should never have come here.”

  “That all depends on where you think positive souls go, doesn’t it?”

  John didn’t reply. Everything that he knew about the afterlife was based on what others had told him, not on what he knew to be true. Just like every seemingly convincing politician, scientist or preacher, Brimstone had made a passionate and compelling case and, as he had done countless times in his life, he’d believed it. When you’re scared or tired maybe you lack the motivation to challenge or test the evidence for yourself? It appears truth is what you believe it to be.

  “You knew the truth the first time you arrived here, you just decided to reject your own instincts,” declared Asmodeus. “You could not believe that your precious father was evil. You were right. So, why is he here, John?”

  “How can you detain him if he does not belong here?”

  “Every soul belongs here,” laughed Asmodeus, a noise as terrifying as anything that John had heard before.

  “How is that possible?” John stuttered in response.

  Asmodeus ignored the question, grabbing John by the head with a powerful arm and lifting him off the ground. The lion padded off in the direction of one of the metal cubes that stood on the floor, its door swung open in anticipation. There was nothing inside it. The only contents would be what you brought in with you.

  “You destroyed everyone you tried to help? Let me show you your reward for doing what you thought was right.” All three of Asmodeus’s heads spoke in unison. “Byron is dead. Faith and Herb broken. Sandy damned for eternity. That’s your legacy and you will have to die with the consequences. Guilt that will last until the end of time itself. That’s the only punishment that you will need.”

  John landed in the empty metal cask like a discarded piece of meat. A thick, black windowless metal grave, empty other than for his own torment. The door slammed shut and the light in John’s world went out. As the sound of heavy chains dragged across the stone floor to winch him into place, he made one final desperate plea.

  “Where is Satan?” screamed John as loud as possible.

  There was no reply.

  “Is he too cowardly to deal out justice for himself? I demand to see him!” John continued, hoping for one final answer. A reply echoed through the box, as if Asmodeus’s mouth was pressed up against the outer wall.

  “You’ve already seen him,” boomed Asmodeus.

  “What?” shouted John.

  “More than that, John, you’ve made him stronger.”

  “When?”

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO -

  THE THIRD LAW

  The only thing in the darkness was fear. It didn’t come from the darkness. It bled from John. There is nothing to fear from darkness, it’s one’s own psychology that produces panic. After all, there is nowhere to run from yourself. There’s always a way of overcoming solitude, if you can find something within yourself for comfort. Most people can find a reason to ease their loneliness. John found nothing of comfort anymore, his hope had been completely drained from him.

  Even his positive memories were turning against him. They were lies built on false beliefs to trick him into a pseudo-happiness. Even the ultimate escape route of giving up had been removed. He would stew with his guilt and despair until the end of time, a moment that might never even exist. He envied those that had been in such agony on level one. They relied on stimulus, however awful it might be.

  The ghosts of his memories screamed at him in the darkness. Although he was unaware of it, the screams echoed from his own mouth. An uncontrolled psychosomatic reaction to a blood-curdling nightmare from which he would never wake. The ghosts called to John in the nothingness, screaming their accusations and judgements. Occasionally it would feel so real he’d reach out to feel who was behind him.

  “John, you have cursed your family, they are all destined to suffer in life and beyond.”

  “John, there is no sanctuary for man. No sanctuary for man.”

  “All hope is lost, only pain remains.”

  “Faith will suffer the most. She will never wake from the shadow.”

  “How does it feel to suffer like me, John?”

  “All of your lives have been a failure.”

  “Humanity is lost, you have cursed them all.”

  Then one voice wrestled his attention from all the others. A voice that he’d only heard once before.

  “John, there is always a way out. Remember, when you are at your very lowest point, a place where even desperation or despair would be welcomed alternatives, when any glimmer of hope has been utterly extinguished, then you will have one, and only one, more chance to enact the Limpet Syndrome again. You’ll know when that time comes.”

  *****

  Brimstone was tinkering with the Soul Catcher when the call came from level twelve. Something wasn’t right with the massive machine that towered above him. It wasn’t the first time that the machine had been quiet, but this was ridiculous. When time was no barrier, waiting just wasn’t something that happened. It wasn’t as if there was a day when less people died and Brimstone got a well-earned break. That was what it was like now, though. There just weren’t any souls that wanted to be caught.

  The space on the other side of the wormhole, that separated Hell from the Universe, teemed with blue specks of energy. The souls were out there, they just weren’t coming in. Brimstone looked again at the two lists on the screen. The one on the right was jam-packed with names, all related to one of the bright spots that glistened up above him. The one on the left showed only one entry. Brimstone stared at the list in absolute confusion.

  One entry sat there, incommunicado. Existing but in the same way not. Something living namelessly inside the bulb. How was that possible? There was always a name. This entry simply read, ‘unknown’. Age and sex showed as blanks, too. There was none of the information that normally told Brimstone how they were to be suited. It wasn’t even a reincarnated soul, that would
still have given some information. This was something new.

  He tried several times to coax it from the Soul Catcher, but it just wasn’t going to budge. In the end he was forced to turn the machine off hoping, although unconvincingly so, that the machine might reset itself when he turned it back on. He sent the other demons to different parts of the complex to carry on some other pressing tasks and turned to answer the call that had summoned him up to level twelve. When you were called there, you went, no questions asked. As soon as Brimstone had moved out of sight, a thin, blue, silvery leak of gas seeped from the end of the exit valve of the dormant Soul Catcher.

  *****

  “What’s going on?” asked Brimstone as he joined a small group of demons who were standing staring up at one of the metal boxes that levitated in the air.

  “The screaming has stopped,” replied one, without moving his eyes from the box.

  “So?” huffed Brimstone. “It’s not my domain, what do I know about it?”

  “It’s John Hewson’s box,” came the reply from another.

  “SO,” hissed Brimstone, annoyed that he’d been summoned away from a rather more important matter down below.

  “It means he has…passed on,” came a growling voice, that joined the group from the shadows. Brimstone didn’t need to look around to see who it was that had spoken. Only one creature growled like that.

  “It didn’t take long for him to diminish,” added Asmodeus. “It’s extremely disappointing.”

  The demons seemed to instinctively know what was now required of them. They grabbed the thick metal chain like a tug-of-war team and slowly pulled the metal box from its position in situ in space.

  “Why do you need me here?” Brimstone asked Asmodeus.

  “I thought you would be interested to know,” he replied. “Having spent the most time with him, I thought you might be able to offer some explanation, why it was all so quick.”