Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

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.

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.