Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

“Interesting. I guess that makes sense. I can remember having dreams when I was young that were of people and situations that I have never before encountered. I guess that those kind of dreams are triggered from past memories of the previous soul owner?”

“Quite possibly, but most dreams are delusions fabricated by your own personal experiences. I’m no dream specialist, but think of it like this: you can dream about a black cat without ever seeing one in person. If you’ve seen a white cat, and you know what the color black looks like, your mind can fabricate a black cat in a dream. That’s the simplistic explanation, obviously.”

I nodded as I processed Hauser’s information. What he was saying did make sense, and who was I to question its full meaning?

“All right. I think I understand the reasoning and the outcome, but what about the process?”

“Take your newest box. Do you notice anything peculiar about it?” Hauser asked.

I looked at the box and turned it over multiple times, examining each of the surfaces for something—anything—peculiar.

“Can I have a hint? This one looks the same as all the other ones,” I said as I held out the box for him to look at.

Hauser didn’t even glance at the box. “Look closely along the front edge, where it meets the top. You see that?”

I looked where he indicated, and sure enough, I saw an oval-shaped hole right along the leading edge.

“Huh. How’d I miss that?”

“That, my friend, is the extrication portal.”

I opened the box, looked at the inside surface behind the portal, and found a dozen smaller holes around that same area.

“Do all of these smaller ones lead to the larger one?” I asked.

“You’re very astute, Jack. I’ve had to practically draw a picture for the last three students in your position.”

Feeling somewhat proud of my inquisitive nature, I asked, “But what’s it for?”

“Oh, come now, Jack. You’re so close. Care to take a guess?

I closed the box and again looked at the orifice on the outside corner. The hole was about a quarter inch diameter and almost certainly had something to do with the smoke associated with the soul.

“Does the wisp of smoke have to go through it?” I asked. “It looks pretty small to make it through, though.”

“Oh, you’re so close,” Hauser chuckled. “Get ready for your mind to be blown.”

Hauser’s timing was uncanny. Within seconds of his statement, a full-on brawl erupted in front of us. At first the fight consisted of kicks and punches, but before long knives and clubs were brought out. One unfortunate gang member took a bat across the side of his head, the force jerking his neck sideways with an audible crack.

“There’s one,” Hauser said, holding all four of his open boxes in his hands. I quickly fumbled with my box, opened it, and waited for the familiar soul cloud to exit the body. As it began to seep from the lips of the dead kid, a loud pop-pop-pop echoed through the arena. Two more gang members dropped to the ground, and the fight stopped almost instantly.

“Is it over?” I asked. “Didn’t you get four boxes?”

Before Hauser could answer, tinted vapors left the latest fallen victims and found their way into two of Hauser’s boxes. As I watched this, I noticed that the first victim’s soul had entered my box, which closed on its own.

Once Hauser’s boxes closed, he took one of them, placed the hole to his lips, and inhaled sharply. Seconds later, the box disappeared and was replaced with another. He looked at me, nodding at the box in my own hand.

Nervously, I brought the box up to my mouth and placed my lips around the hole, just as Hauser had. I inhaled deeply. An acrid taste filled my mouth and I began to cough uncontrollably, similar to the first time I’d smoked pot.

“Slow down, sport. Take smaller breaths if it helps,” he said as he patted me on the back.

“That… is absolutely disgusting,” I said. “I have to do this with every soul?”

Before Hauser could answer, my box disappeared and was replaced with another.

“Yep. Doesn’t get any better than this,” Hauser said with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“But the taste, do you get used to it?” I asked.

“Well, it’s interesting. Each soul that we cleanse really has a different flavor. As far as I can tell, the more sorrowful or disturbing the soul’s memories are, the more acidic the flavor. The more pure or innocent the memories are, the sweeter the taste. Sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.”

I sat next to Hauser, the rank taste still lingering in my mouth, and hoped that it would not last.

As I contemplated the unpleasant flavor, the fight resumed—a melee of swinging knives and clubs, along with more gunfire. The fight continued for another ten minutes, filling a total of nine boxes—three of my own and six for Hauser. With each cleanse, the flavor did in fact vary. The last soul collected and cleansed was practically tasteless. I noticed it came from a teen so young that I doubted he was even old enough to drive.

After some time, the surviving gang members fled in opposite directions, leaving the dead bodies lying haphazardly around the open alleyway. In the end I was left with only Abigail’s soul box. Even though the whole ordeal had lasted less than thirty minutes, I felt thoroughly exhausted. I slumped back against the wall, thankful that it was over.

“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.

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.