Famous (The Soul of the World Book 1)

by David Skato

  Famous

  The Soul of the World: Book I

  David Skato

  Croatoan Publishing LLC,

  Copyright © 2021 David Skato

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: David Skato/Sarah Joy

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Omarion, Sarah, and Helena. Always believe in what you do wholeheartedly. If your heart is not in it, then stay out of it. Stay true to what you do, and the world is yours.

  "The shadow followed him on a moonless night.

  The dark that couldn't be seen by light

  A man of men who's soul is lost

  The choices to rise above at cost

  Regret, hurt, anger, was the trade

  So many choices, non good, non bad, just choices made"

  Choice moon - By David Skato

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  END

  Afterword

  About The Author

  Books In This Series

  Preface

  Creating something that the world will view is never easy. It is as if a child sculpted by you will go forth and be judged. No one wants to be told their child is no good or less than par. But as a creator, we throw our children in the wind and hope they find a home in the hearts of many. This book starts a story of many characters that live within me. These stories must be told for me to find peace. Each word that lands on the page represent freedom for my overpacked mind. If you ever wonder why I write, that is the reason. I want people to enjoy the stories that I hold deep, but most of all, it's for freedom.

  I will never pretend to be the greatest, prominent, or most prolific, but I know that what I write means everything to me. These are worlds from beyond that exist in some time and space. I was blessed to have the privilege to view these other dimensions. Make no mistake, these stories are fiction in this universe but an absolute fact in another. With that, my family and new-found friends, I present to you, Famous. Book 1 of 5 in "The soul of the world" universe.

  CHAPTER I

  A single drop of rain pierces the night sky, free falling before landing on a carbon-grey hat perched atop an older woman's head as she walks up the stairs of a mid-city church in downtown Atlanta. The neo-gothic architecture provides heavenly high steeples, dark lancet windows, giving the church an eerie, sinister feeling. Aged grey, stone Gargoyles, perch on the corners of the church, fixed in a forever squatting position, looking down on all who entered. Leaving the question; Is their presence welcome or warning? Lightning slices across the sky, revealing menacing dark clouds, startling the woman and causing her to look up suddenly. Thunder rumbles loudly above, giving off the impression that the angry, swirling thunderclouds above were clinching its stomach, waiting until the pain becomes too unbearable before letting go a monstrous downpour.

  Shaking off a brief moment of weakness, the woman ignores the thunder and continues into the cathedral, pushing the heavy doors open with both hands. The inside of the church was dark, with the exceptions of a little light filtering through the lancet windows illuminating the unusual interior. The pews were in line, but half of them were missing or broken. What looked like years of dust laced the entire floor with one clearly walked path in which the woman, not needing any light, walked. This walk was one all too familiar as she navigated the turns without erroring a single step. She arrived at the back of the building, where she descends a short spiral staircase that leads to another hallway hosting a small room with a small closet. The room was made of grey stone except for the wooden doors. The beautiful masonry of this place looks as if it was made by the hands of a true artist, though a quite unusual artist.

  The woman opens the closet and pulls out a white gown, rattling the remaining hangers from the now empty closet. She lays it across the arm of a chair and starts to take off her clothes. The woman's ribs pressed against her wrinkly, liver-spotted skin gave her the look of a malnourished chicken without feathers. Her breast, though tiny, sagged and looked as if they'd served no purpose motherly nor sexually for decades.

  After draping the dress over her ghastly body, she heads down the hall until she reaches a third wooden door and pushes it open.

  In the room, three ladies in matching white gowns stand around what looks to be a sixteenth-century bathtub. Candlelight flickers to illuminate symbols that appear to be gibberish aligning the stone walls. This place is old. The kind of old that makes you wonder how it is still standing, and in the middle of the city. Flickering light from an open door on the far side of the room displays a sensual woman's silhouette. The old woman finally speaks, "Is she ready?" Another one of the ladies nod.

  A completely naked young woman holds a folded blood-red garment as she exits the small room and slowly walks towards the old women. Her perfectly manicured feet press firmly against the marble floor as her tightly sculptured body holds firm with each step. The beautiful woman places the garment in the hands of one of the women and puts one foot into the tub, grimacing as her ankle submerges into the steaming hot water. She continues to slowly insert the rest of her body until she is seated. The three old ladies take sponges and start to bathe her. The lavender scent of the bathing oils fills the underground dungeon of the old abandoned church. The young woman’s pretty face stares blankly as a single tear falls, displaying tremendous sadness through beautiful but dead eyes. All too eager, the old women rub the sponges on the woman in an almost perverted manner, finally finishing and placing the sponges into a woven basket next to the tub.

  “Stand,” one of them demands.

  Complying, she stands and steps out of the tub, dripping a pool of now warm water on the cold floor. She raises her hands and tilts her head forward, allowing one of the women to place the elegant red gown through her arms and over her long silky black hair. The dress flows like a river as it drapes every curve on her body. Rochelle is now clean and dressed, awaiting the next stage of her sacrifice.

  The old women walk her down the dark hall of the church’s catacomb, leading to a large open room with strange demonic statues lined against the walls. In the room only lit by candles, several doorways that seem to lead into a black abyss give the feeling of being trapped rather than being open and filled with exits. Rochelle, clearly shaken by these figures, tries to stop but is forced forward by one of the women. She is directed to a small bench in the back of the room as one of the women appears from the dark, holding a podium that she places in front of Rochelle. Another woman then brings an old book, which she slams onto the podium, startling Rochelle and drawing a gasp from her slightly chapped lips. The old woman opens the book to a bookmarked page and places her fingers on the first line.

  “Read this,” she spews.

  Rochelle looks down at the passage. She shakenly starts to read the unknown language.

  “Lan... Lancelet... Laosainte so eh bkii
ls sysbkill minonite kills…”

  As she reads, the old ladies’ eyes roll in the back of their heads, and they start to shake and chant.

  Rochelle begins reading faster and faster, her heart pounding with every syllable. “Asrsk blopmllck mock tallearson maviviv ashioitess plyinetteies woaven.”

  As she continues to read, her voice begins to change to a more masculine one.

  “bloam jusiinkin ABLCKI WISLETLL MAKILIL BARASTIC MARISTIC MARISTIC MARISTIC BARASTIC BARASTIC MARISTIC MARISTIC!”

  She can’t stop herself, faster, faster, faster. Her eyes roll to the back of her head. Who’s reading the verses? Faster, faster, FASTER!

  Finally, she raises her head as she finishes the last verse.

  A shadowy figure starts to rise from the floor. Even though it was in the shape of a man, this was clearly not one. It grows slowly threefold and hovers just below the ceiling. The room goes quiet as the shadow floats slowly towards Rochelle. Suddenly, with a swift movement, the shadow impels Rochelle causing her body to jerk violently upwards before falling back to the ground. The candles blow out, and the room goes black.

  Rochelle awakens to the sight of horrible brown teeth belonging to a group of old, now giddy, ladies.

  “You did it my dear,” one of them says with a disgusting grin.

  “I did?” she whispers to herself.

  “What’s wrong?” the old lady questions.

  Rochelle looks at her. “So now that he’s inside me, what happens?”

  The old woman's grin grows ten times as big. “On the day of the coming, you and he will become one.”

  Rochelle thinks out loud, “He’s inside me. This is it.”

  The old lady looks confused. “That is what?”

  Suddenly, Rochelle throws one hell of a punch, landing it square on the old lady’s face causing her to fall backward unconscious. The remaining old ladies rush her. She throws one of them into the other and dashes down the hall going for the small room from where she originated. Frantically looking around the room, she spots her purse and rushes to retrieve it. She digs around until she finds an ID reading “Adonis Sterling” with a picture of a nerdy-looking hipster. She grasps it tightly and runs out of the room. The old ladies who are now back to their feet, grab at her but are no match for the much younger and stronger woman. She escapes up the stairs, through the church sanctuary, and out the door. The ladies halt the chase and start to laugh.

  One of the women rubs the back of her neck, trying to soothe the pain of the fall, “Don’t worry. She won’t get far. He knows where she is.”

  As the storm grows ever closer, a terrified Rochelle runs down the empty street, the sound of her bare feet striking the payment echoes in the distance. She continually looks back. Her heart races as she holds the ID close to her chest. The blood-red gown swishes in the whipping wind as it sparkles in the reflection on store windows. Directly in front of her, just a few more yards, she can see her goal.

  The large logo that filled the city with a light blue hue could not be missed. “Quest Inc.” was a spectacle of a building and stood out on purpose.

  Rochelle breathes heavily as she plants her hands on the glass front doors. She presses numbers on a keypad until the green light illuminates and then pulls the door open. She immediately runs to an iPad sitting at the front desk, where she quickly types, making sure to look back as much as possible.

  A shadow swooshes past the front door. Rochelle looks towards a sound only to realize there’s nothing there. She finishes with the iPad, and she runs for the elevator, where she franticly presses the “up” button. Her fear grows every second it takes the elevator to arrive.

  Floor 13…12…10…

  She looks back as she presses the button gain and again.

  Floor 4…3…2…

  Finally, the doors slide open, she rushes in, swipes the I.D, and presses “18”. As the door slowly starts to close, she is startled by a dark figure lurking just outside of the glass doors. The elevator doors finally shut, and it starts to move. Visibly shaken as the lights flicker with each thunderclap, Rochelle clutches tightly to the ID. The elevator finally arrives at floor “18,” and the doors open. Rochelle runs out and down the hall to another door labeled “social engineering,” where she runs in and closes it behind her.

  A line of computer screensavers dimly lights the room in an assortment of flashing colors. The large window gives way to a great view of the downtown skyline. The sun's light is now visible on the horizon, but the darkness is not quite ready to subside.

  She quickly runs to the first desk and flips it over, sending a computer and various other contents crashing to the floor. She pushes it against the door dropping the ID in the process. She reaches for the ID, but her foot mistakenly kicks it under another desk. She drops to all fours and reaches for it stretching as far as she possibly can but only tapping it with her middle finger causing it to go further under the desk.

  “BANG!”

  A loud sound from the door startles Rochelle sending her retreating backward, still on all fours. She quickly jumps up, flips over another desk, and pushes it to the door, flipping it once more on top of the previous desk. She then grabs another, and another, and another, repeating the process until she is exhausted. She breathes with her eyes closed for a moment, opening them to a mountain of desks, completely blocking the door. She feels achieved and relieved, but only for a short time.

  “BANG!”

  She runs to the back of the room, takes a sheet of paper from one of the desks, and starts writing.

  “BANG!”

  She looks at the door, terrified. The banging continues now louder, more aggressive, and more frequent.

  Rochelle rushes across the room, pushes a chair towards the window, and peers down at the street below.

  She takes a few steps back, takes a breath, picks up the chair, and slams it into the window. To her dismay, the chair bounces off. She picks the chair up once more and bangs it against the window again. It leaves only a scratch. She tries it again and again, and again until the window shatters. Wind rushes in, whipping her hair and dress as well as causing the paper to fly towards the door. She reaches to grab it, but she’s just a hair too late.

  The sky finally breaks, and the rain starts to pour inside of the broken window soaking Rochelle to the point that her hair and red dress stick to her body as if it was a second skin.

  A smoke-like substance starts to seep under the door and through the blockade. This thick substance inks its way towards the middle of the room, leaving a nasty black residue in its trail. What looks like the last of it finally makes it to the now pool of nasty, inky, blob-like puddle, and the substance begins to rise and take shape. Rochelle backs to the window so frightened that even screaming is impossible. She starts to cry; the pouring rain blends perfectly with her tears, but nothing could hide the sadness on her face. Slowly the fear begins to dissipate, and her face normalizes. Until now, this had just been a plan. She dreamt of how she would do it and why but never imagined what she would feel. This was hard. She had so much to live for but a better reason to die.

  She looks down eighteen stories below, then looks up at the sky above. The rain pours into her eyes as she takes another breath and closes them. She turns towards the substance that is now in the shape of a man. She opens her eyes to get a last look at the being.

  “You’re too late,” she whispers.

  Spreading her arms wide, as if to catch the wind, she let her body fall backward out of the window. As she fell, she hoped her family forgave her, she hoped the world forgave her, she hoped - Her body slammed into a brand-new red Camaro, sending glass and debris in all directions and setting off the alarms of multiple surrounding cars.

  The shadowy figure stood in the window and peered down at the lifeless body. Her eyes open in death, stared back at it as to say, “fuck you.”

  CHAPTER II

  The city was alive more than ever with the bustling of early morning commuters hur
rying off to work or school, and some just merely getting their coffee fix before a long day of doing absolutely nothing. Though not “The Square,” bright billboards lined the buildings advertising everything from teeth whitening to an app that pays you to breathe. The sun was brilliant even though just barely rising from the east and the smell of wet garbage gave the city what the natives call “culture.” Small puddles remained, reminding those who cared of the storm that raged through the early morning. Most people didn’t and chalked it up as a simple inconvenience that delayed their night of partying.

  Rochelle's body was still embedded in the smashed Camaro's top but now covered by a white sheet to protect her from bystanders wanting to snap pictures for their Quest feed. The Camaro’s owner, a Gen-Z with almost milk-white hair, combat boots, and a button-up shirt that was only buttoned to his navel, was now on the scene making a fuss about who was going to pay for the damages of his car.

  Police officers milled about engaging in inside conversations. No one seemed overly concerned with the deceased young lady. There was a little chatter that the woman might be Rochelle, but no one knew for sure. Besides those trying to be instafamous and snap selfies, most pedestrians didn’t seem bothered by the body under the white sheet, the police tape, or glass and debris scattered throughout the scene. They just sipped their ten-dollar coffees and clicked away on their phones. This was the city; people died every day. Plus, this didn’t appear to be a murder, just another jumper.

  Just outside the yellow police tape, multiple officers’ attention was directed at the roar of a perfect engine. An all-black customized 1979 Dodge Charger pulled to a stop.

  Detective Dontae’ Wade and his partner, detective Jessi Mason, stepped out. They look more like a social media couple than a pair of detectives. Dontae’s black shirt squeezed his well-maintained chest while highlighting the silver detective’s badge dangling from his neck. A long black trench coat swished into place as he took in the scene pulling off his sunglasses, squinting as the sun-kissed his brown eyes. Dontae always made sure that he looked decent. This was his city and his people.