The Soul Stealer

by Alex Archer

  “I hate beets,” he said. “A leftover from my childhood when my mother made me eat the things at a small orange table in the corner of my kitchen.”

  Annja cocked an eyebrow. “You may want to have an extended talk with your therapist about that one, Bob.”

  “I already have. It’s taking me a while longer to work through it.”

  The old woman cleared the soup bowls and cast a disapproving glance at Bob. She brought out another tray and Annja took a whiff.

  “Wow,” she said, her mouth watering.

  Gregor nodded at the plates. “Mashed potatoes and goulash.”

  “What’s in the goulash?” Bob asked.

  “Green peppers and roasted lamb, it would appear.”

  Annja helped herself to a heaping spoonful. “This is delicious.”

  Gregor translated and the old woman beamed at her. Then she cast another glance at Bob, who seemed to be picking his way through the green peppers. He saw the old woman’s gaze and immediately took a big spoonful, chewing and smiling at the same time.

  Her gaze softened, but only just. She left and Gregor leaned close to Bob. “I don’t think she likes you.”

  “How is it,” Annja said, “that a globe-trotting guy like you doesn’t seem to like vegetables that much?”

  “I like vegetables fine,” Bob said. “Just not cooked ones.”

  “You must be putting your therapist’s kids through school,” Annja said. She dug back into her dish and washed down the spoonfuls with more thick coffee.

  Gregor tore through his plate and leaned back. “This place is still run by the same woman who ran it when I was with the military. We came through here on exercise and she served my entire platoon. Her food, it is still as good as it ever was.”

  “She remembers you?” Annja asked.

  Gregor nodded. “Yes.”

  The old woman returned and rested a hand on Gregor’s shoulder. She spoke, her Russian thick around the false teeth she wore. Gregor smiled and seemed to almost blush. Annja smiled at the thought of such a big, tough guy blushing.

  “What is she saying?” Annja asked.

  Bob was smiling, too. “She says he is like her son. That when he came through many years ago, he helped her rescue her kitten from the roof when it got stuck. She says a man like Gregor is tough and gentle at the same time.”

  Gregor said something else to the old woman, who kissed him on the forehead and then gathered up the dishes.

  “What did you say to her?” Annja asked.

  “I told her that if this ever reached my friends, they would never let me live it down. I would be embarrassed.”

  “You’re a big softie after all,” Annja said.

  Gregor shrugged. “Only when I have to be.”

  The old woman returned and this time served them a dark tea and plates of what looked like fruit slices.

  “Kissel,” Gregor said. “It is stewed fruit.”

  Annja popped a slice into her mouth and chewed, relishing the sweetness of the apricot slice she’d eaten. The tea reminded her of a dark black leaf tea she’d had once in China. “This was some lunch,” she said.

  Gregor smiled. “She loves to cook.”

  “But back to Khosadam,” Annja said. “They really are taking this seriously, huh?”

  “Yes,” Bob said. He looked at Gregor. “What do they think will happen next?”

  “They are concerned that she will hunt.”

  “But we didn’t pass any cemeteries around here on the way in,” Annja said. “Doesn’t that kind of rule out the whole supernatural angle?”

  “Just because you did not see the cemetery does not mean there is not one,” Gregor said. “The last time I was here, the villagers buried their dead behind the church.”

  Annja nodded. “Down at the end of the street. Father Jakob, you mentioned.”

  “Yes. He is Eastern Orthodox.”

  “You think he’s still here?”

  Gregor spoke to the old woman, who had come out with the bill. She handed it immediately to Bob, who started fumbling around with his wallet.

  When Gregor had finished speaking, the old woman nodded. Gregor looked back at Annja.

  “She says he is still here and that he will be here until the wind sweeps his dust away.”

  “Colorful,” Annja said, laughing.

  Bob fished out a wad of money and handed it to the old woman. She grabbed the bundle of cash and leafed through it. Her eyes softened and she kissed Bob on the forehead before trundling off.

  Annja shook her head. “Looks like you won her over.”

  “Money is the greatest facilitator of all,” Bob said. “A little extra green makes everyone all lovey-dovey.”

  “I guess we should go and see Father Jakob,” Annja said. “Maybe he’ll be able to shed a little light on this whole situation.”

  Walking out of the café, Annja felt a funny sensation and turned back to see the old woman peering through the torn lace curtain framing the windows. Gregor didn’t look back but steered Annja away.

  “As I said, they are distrustful of strangers. Give them time and they will warm up to you.”

  “This business of the Khosadam has them spooked,” Bob said. “Everyone is suspect.”

  Annja nodded. “Quite a place we’ve come to, Bob.”

  “It’s about to get even weirder if that sky carries through on the promise of a blizzard,” he said.

  Annja looked up, and the thick, bloated clouds seemed as if they might fall out of the sky. “How long?”

  “Soon,” Bob said. “Another hour perhaps.”

  Annja looked at Gregor. “Is there a place we can stay here in town?”

  Gregor pointed at a decrepit building that towered over the other buildings. “Yakutsk hotel. The only place in town.”

  It looked quite run-down, but any place would serve as long as it kept them warm and safe from the blizzard outside. Annja turned to Gregor again. “Has anyone in town died recently?”

  “No.”

  “So, if no one has died lately, how is this Khosadam supposed to eat?”

  Gregor frowned. “That is what has the villagers scared the most. It is said that when Khosadam cannot find a fresh grave, she will hunt the living.”

  “She’ll kill?” Annja asked in disbelief.

  “Yes. And when she kills, she will then wait for the dead person’s soul to lift from the body.”

  “And then she eats it?”

  Gregor nodded. “Yes.”

  The first flakes fell from the sky as they hurried toward the church. Already, the Siberian sky had darkened.

  Annja wondered what the night might hold in store for them all.

  9

  By the time they reached the church, the air had grown thick with snow. A driving wind lashed snow at them almost sideways. The steps of the church were slippery, but Annja, Bob and Gregor crested them and stood in front of the thick wooden door.

  Gregor pounded on it. The thunderous knocking seemed to vanish amid the howling wind and darkening skies.

  Annja could see the faint glow of yellow through one of the glass windows facing the front of the church. It grew in size until at last they heard the latch sliding back.

  The door opened and a withered, ancient face peered out at them. Gregor spoke loudly, trying to make himself heard over the coming storm.

  The old priest squinted and then his eyes seemed to light up as he recognized Gregor. He waved them in and Annja gratefully followed Bob inside.

  The air inside the church was still, but warmer than it was outside. Annja caught a vague scent of incense in the air. She closed her eyes and welcomed the air of holiness that surrounded the church. She always made a point to be thankful for her blessings whenever she ventured into any church or holy place, regardless of faith.

  Father Jakob led them to a small room beyond the altar. The tiny kitchen had a coal-burning oven that radiated immense heat. Annja slid her coat off and rested it on the back of her cha
ir.

  Father Jakob busied himself preparing a pot of coffee while he and Gregor engaged in conversation.

  Gregor looked at them. “Father Jakob has asked me if I have been good about going to confession since he last heard my sordid tales of debauchery.”

  “What did you tell him?” Annja asked.

  Gregor smiled. “I told him I have been a saint and don’t need to confess anything.”

  “Wow,” Bob said. “He didn’t believe you, did he?”

  Father Jakob whacked Gregor on the back of his head. Then he looked at Bob and Annja. “No. I most certainly do not believe him.”

  “You speak English?” Annja said.

  Father Jakob eyed her. “Of course. I speak it quite well. I haven’t always lived in Yakutsk, after all. And there is a much bigger world out there.” He set down four mugs and then removed the bubbling pot of coffee from the stove top. He poured them each a cup, replaced the pot on the stove and then sat down with them.

  “So, what is it that brings you to this village?” the priest asked.

  Bob took a sip of his coffee. “I’m researching dig sites in the area. I’m an archaeologist.”

  “And you think there are places around here that would be of interest to you?” Father Jakob shook his head. “I do not know what you hoped to find, but I don’t think there would be much here worth exploring.”

  “This whole area is steeped in history. Siberia itself is awash in legends and folklore. But recent history might even be more fascinating. What with Magadan being so close by, relatively speaking,” Bob said.

  Father Jakob frowned. “We should not speak of that place. What Magadan was the gateway for, and how many people died as a result of those mines, it is a wound that should not be opened up again.”

  “But surely you’d agree that by understanding the past we can avoid the same mistakes in the future?” Annja asked.

  Father Jakob looked at her. “You do not strike me as a naive woman. Surely you do not think that just because we look at the past that we learn all the lessons it contains?”

  “It’s a hope,” Annja said.

  Father Jakob frowned. “And we have so many examples of fools who have shown a complete disregard for history. They are more than happy to repeat the mistakes of the past time and time again. Why should this be any different?”

  “There’s no guarantee,” Bob said. “But the history of Magadan and the mines is a story that more people need to know about. Three million deaths should never be covered up or left to fade away in the footnotes of history.”

  “Perhaps,” Father Jakob said. “But perhaps my concern does not even matter much right now.”

  “What do you mean?” Bob asked.

  “Yakutsk has other things to worry about.”

  Gregor nodded. “You have heard, then?”

  “Certainly,” the priest said.

  “We didn’t see you out in the field,” Bob said. “We thought perhaps you had missed the hysteria.”

  Father Jakob smiled. “I live in a small village. I see and hear everything.” He took a sip of his coffee and then set the mug down. “I was out there much earlier today. With the coming storm, however, I busied myself with preparations. As such, I was absent while you were there.”

  “What do you think of it?” Annja asked.

  “There is much the world at large does not know,” the old priest said. “There are still many remote regions. Many legends that do not have an easy way of dismissing them.”

  “You believe it?” Annja asked.

  “I believe there is something out there. Yes.”

  “But the legend of Khosadam?” Annja shook her head. “It just doesn’t seem possible to me.”

  “And you’ve never had anything in your life that seemed impossible?” Father Jakob peered closer at her. “I would have thought you would be more accepting of such things, my child.”

  Bob perked up. “Why so?”

  Annja swallowed. Could the priest see that Annja had her own secrets to keep hidden away?

  Father Jakob swallowed more coffee. “Just a thought.”

  Bob glanced at Annja, but she turned away. Gregor cleared his throat. “The villagers are quite worried.”

  “As they should be,” Father Jakob said. “If the legends are true, then the beast will hunt one of them.”

  “Not you?” Annja asked.

  “I am a holy man. I tend to think that perhaps my soul is not to the beast’s liking.”

  “You sound pretty sure,” Bob said.

  Father Jakob spread his arms. “I do not have much material wealth being a lonely priest. But I do like to think that the wealth of God is with me. He will look after a kindly old servant long forgotten by the rest of the world. Perhaps I am presumptuous, but then perhaps I am allowed to be.”

  “You’ll stay here tonight?” Gregor asked.

  Father Jakob nodded. “It is my home.”

  Gregor finished his coffee. “We must go before the snow worsens.”

  Annja slid her coat back on. “Thank you for the coffee, Father.”

  Father Jakob bowed. “It was my pleasure to meet you. We get very few visitors in these parts.”

  Bob shook his hand and Father Jakob led them back to the church entrance. At the door, he stopped and turned to face them, the light from his candle illuminating the folds of skin under his eyes. “Do not go out after dark. That is when the beast will hunt,” he said.

  “I don’t think anyone would venture outside in this weather,” Annja said. “If they do, Khosadam is not the only thing they’d have to worry about.”

  Bob zipped up his jacket. “Everyone ready?”

  Father Jakob pulled the door open, and a blast of cold, snowy air slammed into them. Annja leaned forward into the howling wind, following Gregor down the steps. Bob brought up the rear. Behind them, they heard the dull thud as the church door slammed shut. Darkness, punctured only by a few lights in the windows of nearby homes, seemed ready to swallow the town.

  Bob leaned closer to Annja. “What did you think?”

  “About what?”

  “The priest.”

  “He seemed very willing to believe in the legend. His English was also quite good.”

  “Strange town,” Bob said.

  Annja looked at him, blinking away the snowflakes hitting her face. “You picked this place, pal. Not me.”

  “True enough. Father Jakob didn’t seem too keen on me researching Magadan and the mines, though, did he?”

  “No.”

  “I wonder why?”

  Gregor’s face materialized out of the blizzard.

  “Because what the mines represent is too painful for most. Now, if you two are done holding a conversation in the midst of blizzard, then we should get to the hotel before the owner decides to lock it up and not let us in. That would be bad, I think.”

  Bob hurried on and Annja followed. Already the snow was up to their shins, and wading through the drifts made Annja realize how tired she was from the day of pedaling.

  She stopped then, aware of someone watching her.

  She turned and saw the glow of a candle in the church window.

  10

  It took five minutes of banging on the front door of the hotel to get the innkeeper to open the door. As they did so, the snow and wind increased to gale force. Annja thought she might be standing in the midst of a hurricane, only with snow.

  Gregor muttered and cursed while they waited, but at last the door cracked open and a terrified face peered out from within.

  Gregor leaned in close and said three words. The innkeeper seemed to pale even more and then moved away from the door, letting it swing open. Bob, Annja and Gregor all rushed inside.

  As soon as they had cleared the doorway, the innkeeper slammed the door shut behind them. From off to the side, he slid a giant plank into place that effectively barred the door. Annja noticed a sprig of herbs wrapped around the center of the thick plank and nodded at it.

>   “What is that?” she asked.

  “A bundle of local herbs supposed to ward off evil spirits, I’d wager,” Bob said.

  “Yes,” Gregor said. “People are obviously concerned about Khosadam walking around at night.”

  Annja glanced at the herbs and then at the plank. If there really was something supernatural stalking the area, she didn’t know how effective some wood and plants were going to be at stopping it.

  The temperature inside the hotel was warm, and they all shed their coats. The innkeeper seemed a little more friendly now that he had, at least in his own mind, protected his establishment and himself from whatever horrors lurked outside.

  Bob removed some cash from one of the inner pockets of his parka and handed it to the innkeeper. The money disappeared faster than Annja could see, and the innkeeper grabbed their bags, leading them to a flight of old wooden stairs.

  At the top of the steps, a long, narrow hallway flanked by doors on both sides showed that the inn was larger than Annja had first expected it to be. The innkeeper dutifully stopped at each door, ushering first Bob and then Gregor into their rooms.

  Annja’s room was in the middle of the corridor, and when he opened the door, Annja saw that the room was very small, but seemed pleasant enough. The fireplace was cold and dark, but sprang to life as soon as the innkeeper stuck a lit match into the pile of wood resting on the hearth. With the yellow-red flames licking their way through the dried logs, the room took on a nice glow and Annja thanked the innkeeper.

  He stepped out of the room and closed the door, leaving Annja alone. She sat down on the bed for a moment, resting her legs, which by now were feeling exhausted. Annja could hear the wind lashing at the building outside, trying to sneak in under the eaves. But as seemingly decrepit as the building was from the outside, Annja sensed it would stand solid during the blizzard.

  The pane of her lone window had frosted over with snow and ice. Annja peered out, trying to see anything outside, but the visibility was so limited, she could only see the flakes that seemed to shoot straight at the window. She let the curtain fall back and sighed. At least they weren’t on the ground level.