“Not bad, kid,” Hauser said. “The tiredness that you’re experiencing is directly associated with the soul cleansing that you just performed. It’s normally not this bad, but seeing as you did in fact just cleanse three souls, the effects are much stronger.”
“Do you . . . ever get used to it?”
“Heavens no. And you don’t want to. It’s like a necessary evil of the job, you know?”
I did, associating it with the dreaded paperwork that accompanied many of the tasks of my former job before I . . . left.
“Why don’t you take it easy for a while? I’ve got some things to do, and I’ll pop in on Abigail from time to time to check on her progression. If something comes up before you see her again, I’ll come find you.”
I nodded, and before I could say anything, Hauser vanished.
I sat, languishing on the dilapidated wooden crates for another ten minutes before I thought of my park bench and vanished myself.
Chapter 7
As I sat on my familiar park bench, my mind reeled from the horrific butchery that I’d just witnessed. Granted, they were a bunch of drug-dealing gang thugs, but still, they were lives lost, foolishly. I was also somewhat disturbed by Hauser’s eagerness for the carnage to take place. I suppose that after witnessing so much death in the span of his life, he must have somehow desensitized his emotions.
Fully aware of the level of exhaustion I was experiencing, I twisted my body to the side and leaned back on the park bench. Gazing up at the stars, I tried to remember the last time I’d actually slept. I mentally walked through my previous several weeks and realized that I hadn’t slept a wink since the morning of Cyndi’s death.
“How can that be?” I asked aloud.
Somehow, since that fateful moment on this very bench all those weeks ago, I hadn’t experienced tiredness. Come to think of it, I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything either. Did I need to eat or drink? Or sleep? I didn’t seem to have any ill effects from not doing any of it.
As I lay there, my mind hashing through the last hour of my life, my vision began to cloud over. I was drifting off to sleep, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
A loud explosion nearly jarred my wisdom teeth loose. I opened my eyes and saw that I was lying on my bed, my skin drenched with sweat. I looked to Cyndi’s side of the bed, which was eerily vacant.
Swinging my feet to the floor, I stood and quickly donned a pair of shorts before walking out into the hallway. It was the middle of the night, and everything was dark except for a glow emanating from my study. Ever so quietly, I tiptoed to the open door and peered inside. There, on top of my desk, sat Cyndi with her back toward me. She was naked. Facing her was a tall, dark-haired man, thrusting his naked body into the loins of my wife. Rage overtook me, and I charged into the room.
“What the hell is going on?” I screamed. When Cyndi turned to look at me, her face was covered in black soot. She smiled, baring her polished white teeth at me. She laughed wildly as her canines dripped red droplets of blood to the ground. Repulsed by her grotesque appearance, I darted from the room.
As I stepped into the hallway, light began to shine from all directions. I walked down the hall, and as I stepped into what I expected to be my living room, it turned into the aisle of the Church of Heavenly Rest. The interior of the church was lit only by candlelight, and every pew was full of parishioners. At the front of the church, a bright source of light began to shine down on an open casket. I was drawn toward it as if by a tractor beam. The closer I got, the deeper the fear settled in my soul. I knew it would be Cyndi. I prayed that it would be the old Cyndi and not the one the one with horrific, demon-like face that I had just seen.
As I neared the casket, Cyndi’s face came into view. It was, thankfully, her old, beautiful self. She wore a cream-toned blouse with a lilac-colored ribbon pinned to her chest. Her complexion was as clear as ever, and she wore light-pink lipstick, her favorite. Wanting to hold her one last time, I reached down and gently stroked the back of her hand. The instant my flesh touched hers, her eyes opened, her eyeballs solid black. She smiled and hissed before gripping me with such force that I felt a bone crack in my hand. She pulled herself upright and stared out at the crowd behind me. She nodded her head and then cackled like a witch on Halloween. From behind, I heard the parishioners begin to chant, “Burn, burn, burn.”
I yanked my hand from her grip and recoiled away from her. As I neared the edge of the pulpit, her casket burst into flames. Staring out at the parishioners, I finally recognized them as the gang members who had just fought in the ghetto. Before I could react, the entire front row pulled out various sized pistols and shotguns and pointed them at me. In unison, each of them pulled the hammers back and fired them.
I lurched, falling off the park bench.
“So, Jack. Was it a frightening dream?” Hauser asked, sitting on the bench.
“Uh, how’d you know?”
“Lucky guess,” he said, winking at me.
I rolled onto my knees and pulled myself up off the ground before sitting next to Hauser.
“The dream was . . . surreal, I guess,” I admitted.
“Well, buddy, all I can say is that you’ll learn. Like I did so many years ago.”
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and noticed that the sun had come up. “What? I’ll learn?”
“Yep. The moment you became a soul collector, your ability to have fluffy, feel-good dreams ceased to exist. Almost every collector that I’ve known stopped sleeping completely just to avoid the wicked nightmares. It’s just not worth it,” Hauser explained. “And to answer your other question, no, you don’t really have to sleep.”
“How’d you—”
“I just know. Jack, you are my twenty-fourth trainee. Trust me, I’ve heard every question imaginable. The question of whether we have to sleep, to drink, to eat—they’ve all come up dozens of times.”
“If we don’t have to sleep, then why was I so tired after—”
“Because, Jack, you just ingested the memories of three vigilante gang members, and that certainly takes it out of a person. Don’t get me wrong, Jack. You can sleep, but you will no doubt experience some of the most horrific dreams you could ever imagine. Do you want to talk about what you dreamed just now?”
The image of Cyndi’s horrific demon face came to mind, and I knew that I wanted to forget it ever existed. “No, I think I’ll keep it to myself.”
“Suit yourself. Just remember, I’m a good listener too,” Hauser offered.
“You say I don’t have to sleep anymore, but how do I get any rest? I really felt totally and completely exhausted earlier.”
“Did Wilson explain how we live, us soul collectors?”
“Sort of. Do you mean living eight times as long?”
“Yeah. That’s it. Sleep is kind of the same. If you rest yourself completely for an hour, you will feel like you’ve slept for eight.”
“Seriously?”
“As serious as taking half a bottle of Percocet,” Hauser said with a wry grin.
“Ouch. That hurts.”
“Sorry. Too soon? My bad.”
Somehow I sensed Hauser wasn’t trying to be mean but was in fact trying to lighten the mood. I was almost certain that he knew just how ugly of a dream I’d had and wanted to soothe my soul as best he could.
“What about eating and drinking?” I asked. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I ate a thing.”
“What goes in must come out, remember that.”
I chuckled. “So what you’re saying is I can eat, but then I’d have to . . . relieve myself sometime down the road?”
“Yep. And just remember, not all restrooms will be vacant,” Hauser said. “Kind of makes it hard to take care of business that way.”
“Yeah, but it would be worth it for just one more slice of New York pizza, or the occasional snifter of brandy.”
“Whoa, now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? The effects of alcohol on our type is
quite a bit different. Use your imagination, but the same eight-to-one ratio comes into play.”
“So, projectile vomiting after a half a beer?”
“Something like that. Listen, Jack. Without going into too much detail about my past, I’ve had to make some severe lifestyle changes. For starters, I haven’t slept in almost a century; the horrific nightmares of my past were just too much. I gave up booze shortly after I became a collector; it just wasn’t worth it for me. The hangovers were immensely worse.” Hauser paused and fished a stick of gum out of his pocket, slipped it past his lips, and began to chew. “Let me ask you, Jack, did you smoke? Cigarettes or cigars?”
“Nah, not really. I had an occasional cigar while out with the guys, but as for cigarettes, I never got the attraction. Why?”
“That’s good, kid. Smoking was one of the hardest habits to break. I’ve been a soul collector for more than two centuries, and I gave up smoking about the same time I gave up drinking, but I still have the craving for a cigarette.”
As I began to put things together, the chewing gum began to make sense.
“Wow, I had no idea. More than two centuries?”
“Yep. I go way back.”
“Tell me, how did you become a collector, if you don’t mind sharing.”
Hauser pulled his pocket watch out, looked at the face, and returned it to his pocket before answering. “Perhaps another time, sport. I think it’s about time we made a visit to Abigail, wouldn’t you say?”
Despite my mind being on overload, I had to agree. As much as I wanted to hear more about Hauser and his past, I needed to get Abigail out of her misery. I reflected on my sudden care for the old woman in the hospital. Just a few hours ago I couldn’t have cared less about her and her life. I attributed the deeper sense of caring to recent events.
“Yep,” I said, mocking Hauser’s standard reply. “Lead the way.” A moment later we both vanished from the park bench.
Chapter 8
Hauser and I appeared in Abigail’s hospital room at nearly the same moment. As I looked around the room, I noticed that we were not alone. There was an elderly gentleman sitting in a wheelchair alongside Abigail’s bed. I assumed that it was her husband, as he was dressed in a hospital gown and had one of those plastic patient ID bracelets strapped around his wrist. I looked at Hauser for guidance, but he just shrugged his shoulders.
“Really?” I asked.
“Jack, my friend, I believe you are going to be in for quite an experience. A rare occurrence indeed,” Hauser said.
I glanced at the elderly couple to see if I could tell what Hauser was talking about, but nothing stood out. When I turned to Hauser for an explanation, he was gone. He’d just disappeared.
“Shit,” I exclaimed aloud. Thankfully the husband was unable to hear me, and Abigail was unconscious.
As I stepped up to the side of Abigail’s bed, I wondered if I could collect a soul while another living person was in the room. I slipped my hand into my pocket and touched Abigail’s box. But before I could withdraw it, Abigail’s husband began to speak.
“Hello, my darling. Can you hear me?” he said. “It’s me. It’s me, Raymond, your husband. The doctors tell me that you’re in some rough shape, and they’re not sure if you’ll wake up again. I told them, my dear, that you are a tough woman, and that if there’s any way possible, you will make it back to me. You see, you have to. Make it back to me, that is, because I haven’t told you that I love you today. Abby, darling, I love you. And I’m sorry I haven’t made it to you sooner. Between my own injuries and your condition here in the ICU, they haven’t allowed me in until just now.”
At that point, Raymond pulled himself up from his wheelchair and gently kissed Abigail on her forehead. Slumping back into his seat, he continued to speak.
“Abby, my sweet, I hope you can hear my words, because I need you to hear them. I need you to know just how much you mean to me and how much of a pleasure it has been to be married to you for sixty-three years. I want you to know that I’ve been proud to have called you my wife every single day.” Raymond paused briefly to wipe the tears from his eyes and adjust his posture.
“Do you remember, darling, the day we met? I do. I’ve relived that day hundreds of times in my mind through the years. I was so thankful that you agreed to dance with me. Do you remember? I had just transferred from Osborne and I think it was maybe my second week at Madison. I had no friends, just a few people that agreed to tolerate me hanging around with them. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but each and every one of those boys had something of a crush on you. And let me tell you, they were fit to be tied when I up and asked you to dance. I can’t imagine what my life would be like today if you hadn’t said yes all those years ago.”
Raymond inched his wheelchair closer to Abigail’s bedside and adjusted her bedsheet enough so that he could touch her. With her hand free from under the covers, he slipped his own hand into hers. As I stood right next to the bed, I could see her hand close tightly in his.
“Oh, darling. My God, you can hear me. Abby, I love you with all my heart. You are an angel sent from heaven. My angel,” Raymond said, sobbing freely.
As I stood next to the couple, I fought back tears of my own. Suddenly I noticed Abigail’s eyes slide open. She glanced first at Raymond, smiling gently, then she turned her gaze toward me. With a movement so barely distinguishable, she bobbed her head up and down as she looked into my eyes. Her gaze told me that she was ready. A moment later her stare drifted up and to the right, and her mouth fell open.
Despite the intubation tube between her lips, her soul gently slipped past it and into the air. I was prepared, and slipped the box from my pocket, opening it in one swift motion. Abigail’s soul did not hesitate long before it entered the box completely. As the box closed, I brought it to my lips and inhaled slowly. The taste of Abigail’s soul was sweet, so sweet I swear that I have never tasted anything sweeter.
I pulled the box from my lips and then it vanished. In its place, a new box appeared in my hand. Without thinking, I read the name aloud.
“Raymond Whitaker.”
Chapter 9
“NO!” Raymond cried as the device at the side of Abigail’s bed began to blare warning sounds intermixed with a flat, dull tone.
I reached over and silenced the machine. When I returned my gaze to Raymond, I found his flooded eyes staring back at me.
“Oh my God, is that it?” he asked.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Whitaker, but I’m afraid so. I assure you, your wife did not suffer long.”
“Oh, God. Oh, God, no. No. Please, no. Please, isn’t there anything you can do?” he begged.
All I knew was that it was her time to go. I wasn’t sure what I could tell him that would ease his pain. In addition to having no real knowledge of her medical condition, I was hesitant to say much of anything at this point.
“I . . . apologize. But her age was quite a factor in her condition,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like a complete idiot. “The doctors here are the best in the region, and I assure you that if there was anything—”
“Wait, you’re not a doctor?” Raymond asked, drying his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “Come to think of it, I didn’t even hear you enter. When did you come in?”
Oh shit, I thought. Neither Wilson nor Hauser had told me what to do in a situation like this. Do I lie? Do I tell that I am a doctor after all? Or do I tell him I’m, what? A nurse? A priest? Think!
“No, I am not a doctor. I’m a . . . a counselor here, to lend an ear to those who have lost a loved one. And I apologize for not announcing my entrance. I am sometimes too quiet for my own good.”
“So that’s it? The doctors won’t try to bring her back?” Raymond asked.
Being somewhat familiar with how hospitals operate, I quickly recognized the red medical tag around Abigail’s wrist.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitaker, but your wife must have authorized a DNR. I’m sure that there was a v
alid reason for her to do so.”
Raymond slouched back in his wheelchair, looking defeated. “I . . . guess I remember them talking to me about something . . .” he mumbled.
“It’s okay, Mr. Whitaker. You may have been unaware of the situation, due to your own condition.”
“Abby and I talked about this just a few months ago. At our age we both agreed that we would not be a burden on one another, if something . . . happened. But never in my worst nightmare would I have imagined that it would be her going first.” Raymond began to cry again as he held her hand tightly. “Oh, Abby. What will I do now? How can I go on without you?”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how long were you and Mrs. Whitaker married?” I asked. Even though I had just heard his loving declaration, I figured a little extra coaxing for his soul couldn’t hurt.
“Abby and I were high school sweethearts. We met in our junior year, 1950, I think, and were married the year after we graduated. That was sixty-three years ago. Sixty-three wonderful years.”
“Abigail sounds like a wonderful woman. How was it that you two met?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Raymond sat up in his chair and beamed. “Back in the day, Abigail was quite a stunner. All the boys in school constantly fell over themselves after her. I remember the day we met like it was yesterday.”
“I’d love to experience that day with you, if you would allow me to?” I asked.
“I . . . I don’t understand. How can you experience it with me? It was so long ago,” Raymond said.
I slid a chair up beside him and sat down. “Well, Mr. Whitaker, I have this coin, you see, that is mildly hypnotic. If you would allow me, I could take you back and relive that day one more time before—”
“Oh, yes! Please, yes. I would love to see her again, the way I saw her for the first time,” Raymond said eagerly.
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