The Demon Collector

by Erik Lynd

  "Shit," Christopher muttered.

  Once he saw he had been spotted, he immediately lowered the phone.

  "You're him, aren't you? The hero from the Bronx?" The young man asked.

  Hellcat growled louder and the young man took a step back. "I didn't...I mean I thought... I'm sorry I didn't mean to bother you."

  "I’m no hero," Christopher said, letting the full might of his power shine through. "I am the Hunter of Lost Souls. I condemn dark ones back to Hell. I am no hero." He pulled the shadows closer about him letting his power radiate from him. Hellcat padded to his side. The blade flared with a last surge of power and then transformed back into a Swiss army knife.

  The young man turned pale. "Please don't kill me. I’m so sorry."

  Christopher could see and smell the young man's soul. It was the dirty gray of your average mortal. He hid no great evil. The young man was actually a breath of fresh air after dealing with the dark soul, the stench of which still burned in his nostrils.

  "I only take the deserving. You are not corrupt enough. For now." Christopher added that last part because it wasn't a long journey from dirty gray to black spots.

  "Come," said Christopher to Hellcat. The large black panther growled one last time at the man on the fire escape before leaping into the shadows surrounding Christopher and dissolving into their depths. Christopher leapt straight into the air at least fifty feet up to the roof. Once there, he leapt off the edge of the building to the next roof.

  From rooftop to rooftop he traveled, his shadows reaching out to propel him along whenever needed. This was his preferred way of traveling. And tonight, it took him home quickly.

  2

  "Oh, look at that, another YouTube video," Dark Eris said as Christopher came through the office window. He banished his shadow uniform as soon as he was safely inside. The home office used to be his dad's and was traditional looking: masculine dark wood, leather couches and chairs, and floor to ceiling bookcases that held old leather books. Christopher had always like the smell of the place, leather and old books with just a hint of burned wood from the large fireplace. Hellcat curled up by the fireplace. There wasn't even a fire. A large flat screen had been installed over it, used mostly for video games.

  A large desk dominated the room, also dark wood, with a decidedly untraditional computer monitor sitting on top of it. Eris sat at the computer now. She was small and looked almost fragile, but Christopher knew she was anything but. Her jet-black hair fell about her shoulders, partially obscuring the tattoos that covered her neck and, Christopher presumed, more of her body. She had tattoo sleeves as well, but he hadn't seen much beyond that, unfortunately. Christopher had to admit she was hot despite the whole split personality thing.

  Christopher decided the cat had the right idea and fell into the soft chair next to her. With his shadow coat gone he could see the damage to his clothes. His jeans and hoodie were almost in shreds and covered in dark stains of blood. Through the multitude of holes pink, freshly healed skin covered in rust red blood could be seen. The bleeding had stopped, but he looked like he had been in a slaughterhouse explosion.

  "It happened what, ten minutes ago, and it’s already posted with thousands of views," Dark Eris said. "You really need to check your surroundings before going into hero mode. Or at the very least take the goddamn phone away..." she finally looked at him and abruptly stopped. He saw the subtle shift in her that meant Dark Eris had faded and now Eris was in control. He had learned to tell who she was from her body language. And then there were her eyes. They darkened to almost black when Dark Eris was piloting. It could be tricky being friends with a demon and a girl sharing a single body. "Holy shit! Are you okay?"

  "I'm no hero," Christopher said.

  She got up from the desk and came over to the chair. She started poking at the almost healed wounds. There wasn't really anything she could do, but he didn't mind her concern. "Did it do this to you?" she asked.

  "Yeah. It’s nothing really, just a lot of shallow cuts. Painful, but no real damage."

  "This is only the second one since you fought the werehellhound. The last one was much easier," Eris said.

  "The last one had assumed the shape of a child. Thank god nobody recorded that. The whole world would hate me."

  "My point is, you need some sort of training. I mean, what if these things get harder to kill? You're fast and powerful, but if you don't know how to use your weapon, what happens when you run into somebody that does and is also fast and powerful?"

  "I've got Hellcat to save me. Don't I, girl?" Christopher reached down and stroked the cat's massive head. She stretched out her neck and raised her head to give him better access. She made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a purr. He thought he had read somewhere that big cats like panthers can't purr. Ironically, it seemed the ones from Hell didn't know that.

  "You know what I mean. She got you out of this one, but what if she hadn't been there or was hurt herself? You didn't stand a chance against this guy's knives. I saw the video, remember, so you can't talk your way out of this one. You need someone to teach you how to use that thing."

  "I could join a local kendo class, but I don't think anyone is gonna want to spar with a sword that will rip your soul out and send it directly to hell. Besides, what do I do when it decides to be an ax or a spear or any of a hundred other weapons? That would be an awful lot of martial arts classes."

  "Don't be an asshole. You know I wasn't suggesting going to a strip mall and joining the local martial arts club."

  "Sorry, rough day," Christopher said and picked at his shredded clothes.

  "Well don't take it out on me. What about your Library friend? Didn't you say you were going to ask if he had a solution? I mean for a guy with access to all the knowledge in the world, you seem very reluctant to use it," Eris said.

  "Fine, I'll ask the Librarian. But I bet he’s just going to give me some annoying sarcastic remark. That's what he does."

  "Didn’t you tell us that he was created from your subconscious or something? Something about how he was created out of part of you?" At some point during the conversation she had switched from Eris to Dark Eris again.

  "Something like that, I guess." Christopher said.

  "Then I guess you have only one person to blame."

  "Alright I get it; I'll ask him the next time I'm in the Library." Christopher said.

  The Library was a sort of extra-dimensional space Christopher found himself transported to whenever he opened the Book, which was a portal to the repository of all the knowledge that exists in the world. The problem is it is so vast and complex it makes it next to impossible for Christopher to utilize it properly. The Librarian had told him it takes on a different metaphor depending on who possesses the Book. There had been only one other owner, his predecessor—the Beast, as he was called—a being that had existed from the beginning of time. The Library, he was told, was never made for a mortal mind, and that was why it had such an inefficient design for him. Christopher found it hard not to take that as an insult.

  "You look like shit, and I suspect you're getting dried blood all over the chair. You need a shower,” Dark Eris said.

  Their switching had become more common place it seemed, changing control positions more often. But he was too tired to think of what that might mean right now. A shower sounded perfect and... "A drink. A shower and a drink. That's what I need."

  "That does sound good," Eris said. "Make me one too. After your shower." She wrinkled her nose a little as though he smelled bad and then turned back to the computer.

  Realizing there was no sympathy to be had here, Christopher left for the shower. Forty-five minutes later he was back in the chair freshly washed—the blood had been a pain to scrape off— and not nearly as sore as when he had come through the window.

  His ability to heal was incredibly useful, but it still felt different. Weaker in some way that was hard to describe. It seemed that every time he hunted he found new strengths
and abilities with his power, but through it all he felt something was missing. It was hard to describe or even point to where exactly it was affecting him, and that is why it was hard to talk to Hamlin, Eris, or Dark Eris about it. It had started when he fought the werehellhound. The only way to describe it was that something was missing, and it seemed like something important.

  3

  The air inside the old church was hot, thick and filled with moans and wailing. Like some kind of sauna for the damned. Late evening sunlight trickled in through the spaces between the boards covering the windows. It had been hastily done, the boarding of the windows, using all the spare wood they could find, even breaking apart one of the pews. Still, there was no glass so the screams got out; the children of the village could hear.

  Antonio knew that some of the children, the braver ones, would climb on top of each other to try and get a peek inside. It had become a game to some of them, daring each other to peek in the demon house, as they called it. It had once been a church, the center of the community, a place of worship and peace. A place of comfort. Now Antonio thought it would be forever known as the demon house, earth's own little corner of hell. A place of death and rot.

  And it did stink. Death, decay, the smell of sick and sweat. Incense burned, but there was not enough to cover the disturbing smells. Antonio didn't think there was enough incense in the world for that.

  Candles burned throughout the church, struggling to illuminate the dark corners left behind by the thin beams of light. Dust motes, like swarms of insects, danced through the weak beams of light. This place, once cleaned so regularly, had never been so dirty. Pews had been moved back from the front of the church haphazardly as though they had been pushed back by some wild force. Despite that, several of the pews had people in them.

  Antonio's mother was there, the tears on her face streaming past her wailing mouth. His father was dead, which was a mercy. His father would not have to see this, not have to be disgusted. His sister was there, her arms around their mother, holding her as though at any moment she would spring forward toward the front of the church. His sister was beautiful; the man that marries her will be lucky, he thought, because she is the beauty that is hidden. She looked at him now with hatred in her eyes. That hurt, but he understood it.

  Other people, many family, and of course it was all family in a town this small, sat at other pews. They all looked to varying degrees tired, stressed, weak. But it had been a long battle. Hopefully soon to be over.

  There was a lot of blood here, splattered throughout the church. Most of it human, although at least one chicken had been slaughtered. They were getting desperate and turning toward the old ways. Most of the blood surrounded the bed at the front of the church. The bodies of the priest and his assistant had been removed by Antonio's uncles and a cousin.

  Antonio wanted to tell them all to forget it, it was over; he was no more. They should leave, abandon the village and let him rot here in his own little hell. But they never would. This wasn't just about him; this was a battle testing their faith and they would not give up. Besides, he couldn't speak, the demon had taken over. Antonio was now simply a passenger in his own body.

  He could feel though; he could feel his pain-soaked body. It felt as though it was giving out, but he knew that was just him losing control to the demon inside. He hoped he would not remain conscious for much longer, he hoped it was death that awaited him as the demon took more and more of him. Hoped is the word, it was all he had left.

  He was chained to an iron-framed bed, which was in turn chained to the floor. He had only been brought here in the last few days. He didn't know exactly how long it had been. Time flows differently when you are not who you should be, when wickedness hijacks your body. It was a last-ditch effort, as was the priest who had flown in all the way from the Vatican. They had been here as a formality it seems, to investigate the need for an official exorcism. The priest had not believed, not until the demon in Antonio had torn the good father apart with Antonio's bare hands when he had leaned just a little too close.

  He was thirsty, so thirsty, but none would approach him with water. Again, he didn't blame them. They would pray, but they would not touch. It was death to touch him.

  Alicia was there. That was probably the worst part. She was there watching as the thing took over his body. A body that he had been planning to commit to her just next year. He was eighteen and they would have been married. They were so young and it would have been so grand. He was healthy and would be off to the university next year, and she would have been by his side.

  Then he had caught this sickness of the soul. Dreams ended, nightmares began.

  Why did she have to watch? He wanted to scream at her to leave, tell her that he was ashamed and that if she had ever loved him she would run away now and forget he ever existed. He had loved her innocence, but now she had been exposed to such evil, such twisted things the demon had done through his voice and his body. He screamed silently inside.

  And the demon just laughed.

  The wailing, the crying, the praying had reached another peak. It went in cycles as the friends and family ran out of energy and had to rest or try to eat outside the building; the stench in the desecrated church held too much death to eat inside.

  The screaming, the praying at full volume, the futile cries for the demon to get out filled the room with frustrated energy. Now Antonio wanted it to stop; all of it was too much, just too much. He wanted them all to leave, leave him to his slow death. And Antonio knew the demon could feel his suffering, and that’s why it did nothing to stop his family’s display of desperate frustration. He could feel the tears running down his cheek, but it was all the demon would allow him. It had placed the crazed Cheshire grin on his face. So now he had a mad, grinning, crying face to display to his family.

  Just as he felt his ears would start to bleed from the constant praying and wailing of his family, the door to the little shack of a church flew open with a crack and a bang. It was as though a gun had gone off. There was sudden silence as everybody took a startled look back at the door. Antonio even felt surprise coming from the demon inside, and then a sort of amused curiosity.

  A man stepped in from the startlingly bright outside. The dull interior of the church had made his eyes sensitive to the light, although Antonio thought dimness might just come from the demon. On TV monsters always hated the light. The transition from bright to murky made it hard to see the man at first. He was not a tall man, short in fact. Slightly pudgy, maybe a bit of a gut, but not fat.

  "Oh, pardon me," he said and turned to close the door. Much gentler than he had opened it.

  Antonio's eyes adjusted back to the dark interior illumination almost instantly. The man's face was pale, to the point that Antonio thought he was albino. He thought the man was not old, maybe in his forties, but the pale skin, dark rings around the eyes, making them deep-set like a skull, made him look ancient. Antonio had the impression that the man was bald although he wore a wide-brimmed black hat on his head. It looked like a flat cowboy hat.

  Perfectly round wire frame glasses sat on the edge of those sunken eye sockets, making his eyes appear much larger than they were. This was all the more disconcerting because of the depth of his eyes. But what jumped out most to Antonio, and probably everyone else in the room, was that he was wearing the black clothes and white collar of a priest. He carried a bag, similar to an old doctor's bag, the kind used to make house calls.

  Despite what happened to the last priest, hope once again rose in Antonio. Was this a backup? The actual exorcist? Would this new priest be able to rid him of the demon?

  The demon snorted in derision through Antonio's nose as though he had been listening to his thoughts. Which it probably was.

  "No hope, just another toy," spoke the demon through Antonio. It was a quiet rasping sound, not Antonio's voice at all.

  The priest gazed around the room. "Well, this is a turn out," he said. "I suppose there is little else to
entertain in this god-forsaken village."

  The villagers bristled at that, but Antonio knew the priest was right. It was a god-forsaken type of place. He would have laughed ironically if he could.

  "Father, we are a god-fearing people, please do not speak so," Antonio's grandmother spoke. "Have you come to help our poor boy, Antonio?"

  Saying his name released a new torrent of sobs and wailing from her and then the rest of his family. The man raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips as though considering the request. And that is when Antonio knew this was no priest. Hope sunk out of him.

  "Yes," the man said. "Yes, I have come to help you, so to speak." As he spoke he seemed to grow in confidence as though he was deciding it was a good idea on the spot.

  "You will drive the demon from my baby?" Antonio's mother asked. "Please, we are lost. We need to see the way out."

  "I promise, I will remove the demon from this body," the priest said.

  "Come here priest, I am hungry," the demon said. "I have tasted the blood of a thousand priests, I have ruled nations, I have..."

  "Nope, 'fraid not" said the priest as he came toward the bed. "You have done none of those things. You are nothing more than a jumped-up imp."

  Antonio could feel the demon's surprise. The amusement was gone. "How dare you, weak human, mortal slave."

  "You see the problem with you low level annoyances is that you give all demons a bad name. I mean look at this shit. Looks like a scene right out of The Exorcist. Do they use it as some sort of training video in Hell for you bottom dwellers?"

  The priest had stopped just out of the reach, as though he knew exactly how far the demon in Antonio could move. He set his bag on a small table nearby.

  The demon sat up and strained against the chain around its neck. "You forget your place, mortal."